"Looks like you beat me here," Curtis said as he approached the bar.

Remy swiveled in the wooden stool, his posture languid as he leaned back into the spindled backrest. "Best seats in the house," he told the librarian and pointed to the television screen poised overhead. Curtis assumed the seat beside Remy.

"I promised drinks on me," Remy told him. "What'll you have?"

"Whatever is on draft," Curtis told him. "Thanks." He indicated the pre-game show. "Are you ready for this massacre?"

Remy grinned at him and signaled for the barkeeper to bring two beers. "You seem a lot less surly away from your desk, Curt. Tell me, you like your job?"

Curtis appeared to be taken aback. "Well, yes, I do. I did. I still do. It's just the new technology brings...stress. But the public needs computers."

"Yeah, Lara told me what they use them for," Remy said drolly. The beers arrived and he raised his glass. "I suppose I have to admit, it looks like your team is bound for the playoffs. It's as inevitable as watching the sun set in de West."

"I'll toast to that," Curtis replied and they tapped their pint glasses together.

"Can you tell me what passes for fun around here?" Remy asked.

"Well, what are you into?"

Remy shrugged. "Why don't you tell me what you do for fun?"

"Okay, but I think you'll think I'm quite boring. I like bicycling, riding around on my boat, hiking with my dog."

"You got a dog? What kind?"

"I don't know," Curtis shrugged. "I got him from a shelter. I think he's part black bear. A black bear that went through a carwash."

Remy laughed at that. "What's his name?"

Curtis grimaced a bit, as if he were embarrassed to say. "Marcel."

"Is that Marcel as in: Marcel DuChamp the artist, or Marcel: the monkey from Friends?"

Now Curtis laughed. "The artist, actually. How did you guess?"

Remy shrugged. "Sometimes I don't know where I come up with this stuff. I must learn through osmosis."

"I am not supposed to really be asking this," Curtis began. "So you can tell me to mind my own business. But can I ask what it is you're researching?"

Remy studied the man through his sunglasses for a moment, considering how much of the truth he could share. "Researching old homes," he finally answered. "It's a pet project of mine. And you thought you were boring."

"That's not boring. Have you checked in with Jean in genealogy?"

"Oh yes, me and her are like this," Remy said and crossed his fingers. "Jean-ealogist."

Curtis rolled his eyes. "I think she knew her calling from early on."

As they spoke, they had their barstools turned slightly to face one another. Remy had the tendency to gesticulate as he spoke, and had left his hand on the back of Curtis' stool. Remy had never met a person he couldn't have a conversation with, and had his full attention on the other man as they spoke. But the two men both sensed a presence lingering over their shoulders. As one, they turned to look. There were two other men, locals by Remy's estimation, standing uncomfortably close to them.

"I don't think this is your kind of bar," one of the men said to Remy.

Remy had no idea what the man meant by that, but Curtis seemed to. "I think that's our cue to leave," he said, moving to collect his coat.

Remy put a hand on his friend's arm to keep him in his seat. "It's still the first quarter," he said. "We're not going to leave, are we? I know it's very apparent Baltimore-."

"Hey, why don't you listen to your little boyfriend here, and get out?" interrupted the second man.

"No," Remy said simply and glared at the man through the lenses of his sunglasses. He turned away from them to stare resolutely at the television screen. One of the men pushed his shoulder and Remy's beer spilled.

"This is a family establishment," continued the man. "We don't need to see you people in here."

'You people,' Remy thought. Where's my stick? I got some bears to poke at.

"And what kind of people do you suppose we are?" Remy asked in a mock polite voice.

"John…" Curtis warned.

"No, Curt, let 'em speak. I want to hear what they have to say."

The man gestured at Remy, his hair, and the bright fleur-de-lys shirt he wore that came from a jumble bin and may or may not have been meant for a woman. "Perverts. You, some kind of half-man half-woman. And him," he gestured to Curtis. "He just has that kind of look."

Remy's smile was thin. "You're making me quite angry," he said in a soft voice.

"Like I give a shit. Get lost, fa-."

"Excuse me," said an enormous voice. Remy glanced to the end of the bar where a man who appeared to have been constructed from concrete stood at least seven feet tall. Though the man was gigantic in proportions, his face was quite young, maybe even Remy's age. When he spoke, it was with a thick Russian accent: "I think the two of you gentlemen should be taking your leave."

Remy sighed and looked at Curt. "Looks like this was a bust," he told the librarian. He moved to rise and collect his jacket, toss a few bills onto the bartop. There was no way he was going to get involved in a brawl with that giant.

"No," the large man said, and held out his hand as he approached Remy and Curtis. "I do not mean you. I am meaning these two others who are bothering you."

"You can stay out of this," one of the men hesitantly offered. He pointed at Remy. "We don't need to look at this."

The Russian glowered at the two locals: "I am seeing two men at a bar watching sports. And what is the difference between what they are doing and what you are doing? Other than you are both being...jerkheads."

Remy laughed at this. The two men looked incensed. But now the Russian was standing between Remy and Curtis at the bar and the two bigots. "I suggest you take your seats and concentrate on the game. And to not be bothering anyone."

The two men retreated to their table, took their coats and departed.

"Well that was a whole new experience," Curtis observed wryly.

The Russian turned to look at them. "I apologize if you were made to feel uncomfortable here. You are obviously welcome."

"Hey, oгромное спасибо," Remy told him.

"You are welcome, friend. You speak Russian?" the man looked surprised.

"Poorly."

The Russian appeared to consider Remy's pronunciation. "This is true. I hope you will stay. My friend and I would like to buy your meals. It is...on us." The man nodded to a corner booth where a young girl with curly brown hair was seated. She waved at them.

"That's really not necessary," Curtis said with a smile. Remy hoped he'd reconsider. He had very little in the way of cash left, and he wasn't about to pick the pockets of the locals. They were not his typical mark, he preferred to choose victims a lot more deserving of his attention. Remy knew his father had an open bank account for him in case of emergencies, but Remy didn't want his family to know where he was, and couldn't risk a withdrawal and be found out.

"I insist," said the Russian, and he dropped a heavy mitt on each of their shoulders. "Enjoy the game. I hear these Ravens are going to be..."

"Crushed? Destroyed?" Curtis suggested happily.

"Eaten alive?" Remy offered. "Made a league laughingstock?"

"Losing quite badly," the Russian finally said.

The man nodded and left for his booth. Remy and Curtis looked at one another, then turned to their beers in bemused silence.

"Well, that ended a lot better than I thought it would," Remy said.

"There's a first time for everything," Curtis said. He added: "I really hate that you're not queer. You're really very good looking."

"Hey, don't think I don't know that!" Remy gave a self-deprecating grin. "This area doesn't really seem to have much to offer the gay community."

Curtis half-shrugged. "No, but the city is only forty minutes away. If I'm in the mood for the scene, I head out. But I like it out here. I can have my dog and bicycle and not have to worry about being hit by a taxi."

"That is nice. You can have one foot in, one foot out. The best of both worlds."

"I think so. There's more stability that way."

Remy nodded at him. "You're a smart man, Curt. I think I will take your experience to heart." He nodded over at the table where the Russian sat with the much smaller girl. "Look at those two. The perfect example of opposites attract. He's got to be seven feet and she could fit in his pocket."

Curtis nodded. "They're an odd couple," he said. "But all of the kids at the school are. Odd. Not that I'm not odd myself."

Remy tried not to let himself react to that statement. "Those kids are from the school? Odd...odd in what way?" he asked.

Curtis turned to him and spoke in a much lower voice. "There's always something going on at the school. Explosions, strange lights. It's driving down property values, I think. And all the kids there are rumored to be...mutants."

"Oh?" Remy said lightly.

Curtis shrugged. "That's the rumor. But the big guy, he seems pretty nice. He didn't have to come over here and stick up for us."

"Yes, that was nice," Remy said, in a contemplative voice. Maybe he was wrong about what was going on at the school, he thought. He turned in his barstool to face Curtis directly. He put his fingers behind the stems of his shades and pressed them downwards, so his glasses rose to perch on his forehead. "Do I seem pretty nice?" he asked, looking directly into Curtis' gray-green eyes.

Curtis looked surprised for a moment, then looked away as Remy lowered his sunglasses. He smiled at his beer. "Linda was right."

"Come again?" Remy asked.

"Linda guessed why you always had shades on in the library," Curtis told him.

"You all been gossiping about me?"

"You've made the place a bit more interesting lately," Curtis said. "And not the kind of interesting where I'm having to hose out the study carrels."

"And why did you think I have to wear my specs?"

"I thought you had some horrible disfigurement."

Remy gestured to his face. "So this isn't a disfigurement?"

Curtis shook his head. "No, unfortunately for me, it only makes you more good looking."

"And what does Lara think?"

"That you're a big pothead."

Remy laughed. "She thinks I'm on drugs?" he exclaimed.

"No, she thinks you like to pass the Kutchie," he mimed smoking a joint. "But if you're out, I'm sure she could hook you up."

"Lara?"

"You're surprised? Don't tell anyone, because obviously she'd be fired. She firmly believes someday it will be legalized."

Remy considered this. "I certainly don't partake, not of that particular kind of cigarette anyway. Like I need another reason to be paranoid. And there's plenty of things that should be made legal, like who all you get to marry and live your life with. And plenty of people who get away with doing a lot worse than smoking a joint."

They watched the game, which turned out to be more exciting than one would have expected. "I have never seen scoring like this," Remy said. "Defense is asleep at the wheel."

"Both sides, it's a poor showing," Curtis agreed.

After the game, and enjoying their free meals, they stepped back outside into the mid-afternoon light. "Thanks, John," Curtis told him. "That was fun."

"Hey, yeah," Remy said. "Maybe we just watch somewhere else next Sunday?"

"Sure, come over to mine. You can play with Marcel. But what about that girl, the one you were so happy to get her number?"

"I gotta call her still," Remy said.

"Really?" Curtis said in a flat tone. "You're not playing that 'I'll keep you waiting' game are you? I really hate that."

Remy grimaced. "I know. I'll apologize profusely. Grovel, plead, cry if I have to."

"You'd better hope she forgives you. But if it falls through, you still haven't asked Linda out yet."

"Hey, that's true," Remy said considering. "But she's too good to be a fallback option."

"I got to get back to let Marcel out," Curtis said and extended his hand. Remy took it, and pulled the other man into a single armed hug.

"Next Sunday, yeah?"

They waved and departed in opposite directions. Remy sat on his bike and started the engine. He thought hard about calling the girl, Rogue. He could let her go, forget this whole escapade. Or, he could call her and ask if she could introduce him to the headmaster, Xavier. Though, from what Remy knew from Xavier's biography, he was an American, not a German. At most, Xavier might have an Oxford-bred accent. Maybe sound a bit like Sir Patrick Stewart, who was Remy's man-crush. Though he'd told Curtis he was straight, if Sir Stewart showed up at his door with a bottle of wine, Remy wouldn't say 'no.' He might not even need the wine. So then, who was the Wet Blanket who answered the phone?

Remy had another option. Call Rogue and ask her out. Use her to find out what was going on at the school. It didn't sit well with him, to get intel from the young woman and then break into her house with the information. Everyday was becoming more of a struggle to keep it in, his gut felt like Chernobyl. Even with his new mantra: a body at rest, stays at rest, his books, his seat at the library, the fishtank, he was getting more frenetic every day. He would call Rogue and try to learn something new. He didn't see what other choice he had.

Next: Save politics for the second date, Rogue.

I would like to get Chapter 8 up in the middle of the week. Chapters 9-10 up by next weekend, for reasons that will become clear during the upcoming holiday. You'll want to read on All Hallows Eve...mwahahah.