Lovers & Friends
by kazoo
Your lover's laughter reaches you a few moments before he steps into the dining room. Like many at the table, you look up and smile. The smile dims slightly as you see her standing next to him, too close. But you stifle the flare of jealousy as he takes his seat next to you.
Your gaze strays over the table--you know they're still throwing looks at you, at him, at the two of you even weeks after you told them.
You see the eyes of one of your best friends turned your way and sigh. You'd hoped he, at least, would have stopped by now. Then you really look.
His eyes are not on you. They are on your lover. And the expression.
Your appetite vanishes, shock freezing you for a moment as the whole world seems to slow. It can't be.
But it is. You know that look in your best friend's eyes. You know what it means.
A plate of food materializes in front of you and you're abruptly dropped back to the here and now, where you're having dinner with your friends and teammates. You take the plate Jean passes to you and set it down, staring at it as if you've never seen food before.
Your lover's ember gaze is as palpable as a touch and it helps ground you, aided by the long, elegant fingers that reach out to you in inquiry and instinctive reassurance.
Your own eyes flicker his way. Does he know?
Stupid question. Of course he knows. He's an empath.
Once again you scan the table. Who else knows? Were you the last?
No. Scott has no idea. Never has for this kind of thing, Jean always has to tell him. She undoubtedly knows. You watch the others throughout the meal.
Hank definitely. Probably the first unless Jean beat him to it. Wolverine, too. Ororo. Rogue. Cable. Betsy. Even Jubilee. Bishop. perhaps not. So maybe you're not the last to know, but close enough.
You catch Hank's exceedingly bland eyes and swallow heavily. You are now a part of the conspiracy of silence. No word of this has been spoken and none will be. You will never say anything to Bobby, you will never apologize awkwardly, never express regret at having inadvertently caused this particular pain. In fact, you will never indicate by word or deed that you know.
That you know that Bobby Drake, one of your oldest and dearest friends, is in love with your lover.
You could step aside. The thought can't be helped, any more than the brutally honest truth--you won't. You have fought too long to be where you are, have battled your own demons as well as his. You will not quietly step away from that, from him. Not even for Bobby.
And Bobby cannot take him from you.
Once, the thought would have been smug. Arrogance has always been a part of you, has always colored even the friendships dearest to your heart. Though many things have changed over the years, within yourself and without (many for the better, you hope) that arrogance is not gone. But now you can look past it, refuse its refuge. And you know that the reasons Remy won't leave you for Bobby have nothing to do with supposed superiority. This is not a contest that you've won.
You can even acknowledge that in many respects, Bobby is the better man. He and Remy don't have nearly as much baggage for one thing. And Bobby's just. kinder. Nicer. More giving. He's a hundred other things that you're not and you abruptly realize that Bobby would have been better for Remy. You're not so sure the reverse is true, but it's disconcerting to know any of it is true at all.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter. Moot point. Fact is, you're with him and he's with you. You don't regret that, you can't. Can't forget it. Not for Bobby, not for anyone.
Remy turns to you again, no doubt having caught most of the turmoil in your emotions. His expression tells you he knows you've settled something. Your hand reaches for his and the surge of feelings you cannot help--guilt, joy, possessiveness, love--tells him that turmoil had to do with him. His eyes never once flicker Bobby's way. He is too skilled for that.
But the tenderness of his fingers on yours, the flash of sorrow in those devil eyes, tells you he understands. He sends a wordless pulse of love to you, softly rubs the inside of your wrist with the tip of his thumb.
You know your lovemaking will be gentle tonight. You also know it will not be at the mansion.
*********************************************
"Why did it have to be him?!"
The question explodes out of Bobby and it's upon you. The conversation you never wanted to have. You only have yourself to blame, however. Despite your lover's tutoring, your poker face just isn't that good and when you saw him looking at Remy after the basketball game, something showed. Your possessive streak has always been. prominent.
Bobby's still waiting for an answer, ready to launch another attack. 'Best defense is a good offense' is obviously something he's taken to heart. His face is flushed, his anger palpable, and fueled, no doubt, by a healthy dose of humiliation. He'd never intended for anyone to know, and he must realize that it's all over the mansion by now. You had never intended that either.
You close your eyes for a moment, stifle a sigh. "You make it sound like he's a car or something. Like I just woke up one morning and figured, hey, I want to have a relationship with a guy. Who's conveniently close? Oh, I know. Gambit. Sure I've hated him for years and accused him of being a traitor, even tried to kill him once or twice but damn he's pretty. I can ignore all that stuff, and I'm so pretty, so can he. We'll have a great time!" You realize you're angry. How dare he demand you justify this to him again. "Goddamn it, Bobby, almost anyone would have been easier. For both of us."
"Then why did you? If almost anyone would've been easier why--"
So much anger tied up with so much hurt and he's your best friend, it hurts you to hear it, hurts you to see and maybe you do owe him something.
"Because--because--" You break off. There really isn't anything to say. "Because."
"That's not--"
You're shaking your head and he falls silent. Your anger drains away completely, and you're left with the same bemusement that's been with you ever since this started. At this point, it's almost comforting in its familiarity. "Why do people fall in love?"
There's no rhyme or reason to any of it, but it works. It feels. right. Remy feels right, in your life, in your heart. That's both the most fucked up and the truest thing you know.
Bobby is staring at you, mouth open slightly. "You really love him?"
You stare at him. Why else would you be doing this?
"But you can't!"
His disbelief hits you like a slap in the face. What the hell does Bobby think you were doing? Doesn't he know how hard this was? How much this past year, and this thing that's grown between you and Remy has twisted both you almost beyond recognition?
You turn away from him, hurt and weary and wanting Remy so bad you're bleeding from it. "Maybe I shouldn't, I'll give you that. But I can. I do. And he loves me." God knows why. God, and 'Ro. You stare at the ground for a moment, then look back at him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you were hurt by this." A pause, "But we're not having this conversation again, Bobby."
You leave him standing there, and wonder if you're still friends. Tears cloud your eyes as you take flight, but comfort is close by.
You feel him before you see him, standing by the edge of the lake. You're in his arms almost before you've completely landed, willfully drowning in the smoky, spicy scent of him, in the hard reality of his body, in the warmth of the love he feels for you.
Bourbon-softened words cascade over you and you focus on the sound, not the meaning. But some words repeat in a sorrowful chorus and you can't help but listen. "Je suis desole, cher. so sorry."
You shake your head, burying your face deeper into his neck, concentrating on the feel of very gentle fingers over your wings. "I'm not."
And you hold on tighter.
Your lover's laughter reaches you a few moments before he steps into the dining room. Like many at the table, you look up and smile. The smile dims slightly as you see her standing next to him, too close. But you stifle the flare of jealousy as he takes his seat next to you.
Your gaze strays over the table--you know they're still throwing looks at you, at him, at the two of you even weeks after you told them.
You see the eyes of one of your best friends turned your way and sigh. You'd hoped he, at least, would have stopped by now. Then you really look.
His eyes are not on you. They are on your lover. And the expression.
Your appetite vanishes, shock freezing you for a moment as the whole world seems to slow. It can't be.
But it is. You know that look in your best friend's eyes. You know what it means.
A plate of food materializes in front of you and you're abruptly dropped back to the here and now, where you're having dinner with your friends and teammates. You take the plate Jean passes to you and set it down, staring at it as if you've never seen food before.
Your lover's ember gaze is as palpable as a touch and it helps ground you, aided by the long, elegant fingers that reach out to you in inquiry and instinctive reassurance.
Your own eyes flicker his way. Does he know?
Stupid question. Of course he knows. He's an empath.
Once again you scan the table. Who else knows? Were you the last?
No. Scott has no idea. Never has for this kind of thing, Jean always has to tell him. She undoubtedly knows. You watch the others throughout the meal.
Hank definitely. Probably the first unless Jean beat him to it. Wolverine, too. Ororo. Rogue. Cable. Betsy. Even Jubilee. Bishop. perhaps not. So maybe you're not the last to know, but close enough.
You catch Hank's exceedingly bland eyes and swallow heavily. You are now a part of the conspiracy of silence. No word of this has been spoken and none will be. You will never say anything to Bobby, you will never apologize awkwardly, never express regret at having inadvertently caused this particular pain. In fact, you will never indicate by word or deed that you know.
That you know that Bobby Drake, one of your oldest and dearest friends, is in love with your lover.
You could step aside. The thought can't be helped, any more than the brutally honest truth--you won't. You have fought too long to be where you are, have battled your own demons as well as his. You will not quietly step away from that, from him. Not even for Bobby.
And Bobby cannot take him from you.
Once, the thought would have been smug. Arrogance has always been a part of you, has always colored even the friendships dearest to your heart. Though many things have changed over the years, within yourself and without (many for the better, you hope) that arrogance is not gone. But now you can look past it, refuse its refuge. And you know that the reasons Remy won't leave you for Bobby have nothing to do with supposed superiority. This is not a contest that you've won.
You can even acknowledge that in many respects, Bobby is the better man. He and Remy don't have nearly as much baggage for one thing. And Bobby's just. kinder. Nicer. More giving. He's a hundred other things that you're not and you abruptly realize that Bobby would have been better for Remy. You're not so sure the reverse is true, but it's disconcerting to know any of it is true at all.
You tell yourself it doesn't matter. Moot point. Fact is, you're with him and he's with you. You don't regret that, you can't. Can't forget it. Not for Bobby, not for anyone.
Remy turns to you again, no doubt having caught most of the turmoil in your emotions. His expression tells you he knows you've settled something. Your hand reaches for his and the surge of feelings you cannot help--guilt, joy, possessiveness, love--tells him that turmoil had to do with him. His eyes never once flicker Bobby's way. He is too skilled for that.
But the tenderness of his fingers on yours, the flash of sorrow in those devil eyes, tells you he understands. He sends a wordless pulse of love to you, softly rubs the inside of your wrist with the tip of his thumb.
You know your lovemaking will be gentle tonight. You also know it will not be at the mansion.
*********************************************
"Why did it have to be him?!"
The question explodes out of Bobby and it's upon you. The conversation you never wanted to have. You only have yourself to blame, however. Despite your lover's tutoring, your poker face just isn't that good and when you saw him looking at Remy after the basketball game, something showed. Your possessive streak has always been. prominent.
Bobby's still waiting for an answer, ready to launch another attack. 'Best defense is a good offense' is obviously something he's taken to heart. His face is flushed, his anger palpable, and fueled, no doubt, by a healthy dose of humiliation. He'd never intended for anyone to know, and he must realize that it's all over the mansion by now. You had never intended that either.
You close your eyes for a moment, stifle a sigh. "You make it sound like he's a car or something. Like I just woke up one morning and figured, hey, I want to have a relationship with a guy. Who's conveniently close? Oh, I know. Gambit. Sure I've hated him for years and accused him of being a traitor, even tried to kill him once or twice but damn he's pretty. I can ignore all that stuff, and I'm so pretty, so can he. We'll have a great time!" You realize you're angry. How dare he demand you justify this to him again. "Goddamn it, Bobby, almost anyone would have been easier. For both of us."
"Then why did you? If almost anyone would've been easier why--"
So much anger tied up with so much hurt and he's your best friend, it hurts you to hear it, hurts you to see and maybe you do owe him something.
"Because--because--" You break off. There really isn't anything to say. "Because."
"That's not--"
You're shaking your head and he falls silent. Your anger drains away completely, and you're left with the same bemusement that's been with you ever since this started. At this point, it's almost comforting in its familiarity. "Why do people fall in love?"
There's no rhyme or reason to any of it, but it works. It feels. right. Remy feels right, in your life, in your heart. That's both the most fucked up and the truest thing you know.
Bobby is staring at you, mouth open slightly. "You really love him?"
You stare at him. Why else would you be doing this?
"But you can't!"
His disbelief hits you like a slap in the face. What the hell does Bobby think you were doing? Doesn't he know how hard this was? How much this past year, and this thing that's grown between you and Remy has twisted both you almost beyond recognition?
You turn away from him, hurt and weary and wanting Remy so bad you're bleeding from it. "Maybe I shouldn't, I'll give you that. But I can. I do. And he loves me." God knows why. God, and 'Ro. You stare at the ground for a moment, then look back at him. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry you were hurt by this." A pause, "But we're not having this conversation again, Bobby."
You leave him standing there, and wonder if you're still friends. Tears cloud your eyes as you take flight, but comfort is close by.
You feel him before you see him, standing by the edge of the lake. You're in his arms almost before you've completely landed, willfully drowning in the smoky, spicy scent of him, in the hard reality of his body, in the warmth of the love he feels for you.
Bourbon-softened words cascade over you and you focus on the sound, not the meaning. But some words repeat in a sorrowful chorus and you can't help but listen. "Je suis desole, cher. so sorry."
You shake your head, burying your face deeper into his neck, concentrating on the feel of very gentle fingers over your wings. "I'm not."
And you hold on tighter.