Inspired by Ale, given up as an offering to her for those dumb american games.
Marvel characters, I make no profit. This has nothing to do with the Kinda Mooks. This is a work of fiction -- my fiction.
Archiving: the usual blankets, anyone else, please ask.
Does anyone else not post everything to OTL?

The Sweet Taste of Wine
by Lise

A kiss that tastes like golden whiskey, alcohol, and a dank bar really isn't as beautiful as it sounds.

Neither are the few seconds where the lips, pressed together sloppily and belonging to two bodies, realize they don't care who's on the receiving end, who tastes like bar and who tastes like honey. It's a sour taste, and don't they care at all?

No.

These are the thoughts going through Bobby Drake's mind as he is kissing the body in front of him. Does it matter what the face looks like? Do the few freckles, the color of eyes, or the attraction that is rapidly waning, do they really matter to his lips or his hands?

His lips and hands are conducting this affair, not any other part of him. The beauty, he'll just forget about that necessary ingredient long enough to find a little happiness beyond the sheets.

He also won't remember that there's nothing beyond the sheets.

And later on, does it matter that the body cries out softly in French, but doesn't say his name? The darkness -- and would he ever be able to find himself where he is now in the daylight -- it's not romantic at all. It means he can't see his not-lover's face, and he can't see the door, and if he wanted to stand up and walk out, he'd probably trip over his shoes, or Remy's, and then where would they be?

Not in bed, not together, and wouldn't that be better? He could laugh about it, at least, and then they wouldn't be able to hear each breath, and wonder if they smell like alcohol or each other.

This is a temporary fix, and he knows it deep down. He is going to wake up tomorrow -- if he doesn't get the courage to get up now -- and smile at Remy sleepily, then hug him briefly ... and then they'll crawl off to the showers and try not to feel so hung over.

And it won't be the first time they'll have nothing to say to each other at the breakfast table, but no one will notice.

He kisses what he thinks is a shoulder in the dark fondly, and tries to get comfortable. He almost asks if Remy wants him to go, but it seems taboo like so many other things are.

Inertia fuels them. They are in bed now, so in bed they'll stay.

They don't talk, because they weren't before. There are no ground rules set out here except the ones set out by normal gravity, and the pull of two heavenly bodies. Ageless, sure, but hesitantly backing away, knowing the barriers working to keep their atmospheres apart.

He imagines Remy smirking at him, a little proud, and settles down to sleep.

Bobby has learned these lessons in physics and biology from a very good teacher, and he's just about ready to graduate now, ready to teach others. Remy has only made him what he wanted to be.

Which one of them wanted Bobby Drake to be like this again?

Remy cares, surely, in a casual way. And so Bobby cares, surely, in a casual way, and doesn't turn a light on, and doesn't get up, and doesn't speak out. He only wants to go to sleep. He thinks he'll take the day off tomorrow. The hangover is going to be hell.

And the drinking wasn't, his mind whispers?

These are the thoughts he has, as he drifts off to sleep.

And, as always, later Remy kicks him, and Bobby touches his shoulder timidly, and Remy's eyes fly open with fear, remembering the nightmare as if it happened -- and it did. He whispers an apology, so out of place for this time and place, and Bobby says, 'No problem,' and they go back to sleep.

In the morning, they don't kiss -- morning breath's a killer.

Who, again, wanted Bobby Drake to be this way?

He looks at himself in the mirror, and tries not to curse as the toothpaste dribbles out of his mouth. He's trying to avoid tilting his head because of the pounding headache in it, and has gotten toothpaste on himself. It's these small things, the things that he does for himself, that Remy never shares.

And he rinses his mouth, and spits again. There's no room for sentimentality here. They might not believe it, but he doesn't need it all the time. Remy might. Remy does. He feels bruised, whenever someone touches him and doesn't know he's in pain. But Bobby--

Bobby washes his face and goes in to get breakfast, not wondering if Remy's going to be there.

If he started thinking thoughts like that, he might go crazy. Remy would be there, then Remy wouldn't. He'd say a thousand things at once, and then he wouldn't.

Today, Remy is sitting with a bagel, scowling faintly. Bobby imagines all those scenarios that might have angered him, but discards each one as he puts his toast in. He doesn't know why Remy is upset. It certainly can't be because Bobby left because he woke up this morning.

Remy LeBeau isn't like other men, is he? That would be just far too much revelation for this morning and this life. The constant variable in each of their nightly equations is the unshakable faith that Remy is unshakable.

The bagel gone, Remy drinks his coffee. Jean is there, making eggs for 'Ro and Betsy. Remy doesn't like eggs, he remembers suddenly -- and why does he know that? They haven't shared more than a few one-night-stands.

And those weren't shared, even. Those were stolen. Remy's a thief, and you always do things halfway, don't you Drake?

These are the thoughts in Bobby's mind as he gets ready for another day, not speaking to the man he really doesn't love. And his hands, when he touches Remy briefly, don't feel any warmer, or any different.

Most of all, he doesn't notice in the morning when Remy leaves without looking back. What would be the point? It hasn't happened yet, but it will, and Bobby won't care.

See, the thing that Bobby's being taught, in all of this, is how much one has to actually pay to kiss someone when drunk. He's being handed the price tag on infidelity, should he actually find himself involved with anyone else whilst sleeping with Remy LeBeau.

But so far, this hasn't been a problem... mostly because, each time he says 'yes' to Remy is the last. They maintained a carefully constructed lattice of no rules, no truth, and tender moments. The whiskey was just a catalyst, and a chemical that did it's job well.

Inertia kept them stationary, and unable to speak, limbs in motion only when it's dark and drunk on--

It burned going down, but only for the first few swallows... kind of like Remy's semen. And he managed to convince you that you liked the taste of him, didn't you, Drake?

Bobby doesn't want to believe it, but it's true. Things always look better when one doesn't have them anymore, and Remy LeBeau's face looks a thousand times better at the breakfast table than it ever did in bed. Especially since Bobby is normally intent on making him moan, a full time job if the pun is pardonable, and rarely watches his face. Which is a shame, because Remy rarely watches Bobby's face either, and so both pairs of eyes are focused on things unrelated to sex in the extreme. And who wants to remember their first boyfriend like that?

It's a good thing they're not dating, isn't it?

And when Bobby sees him in the bathroom, later on, and gulps, it's just because he doesn't want to Embarrass the man he's never really seen naked. His eyes don't flicker down to that forbidden place, oh no, and his erection doesn't come.

His willie jumps a little, twitches, but then stays silent. If Bobby Drake doesn't talk, why would his cock talk for him?

That's something else he doesn't want to think about. Bobby goes back to his room, and makes his sheets sticky, then takes the laundry down to the giant washing machines. He'd offer to take Remy's as well, as a manly kindness, but since Remy's nowhere to be found, that's a little difficult.

He turns the machine on, not bothering with a pre-rinse or bleach. No one's going to wonder why or how or if, because they are his sheets. And it's not likely that anyone else is going to find time to get between them.

Except Remy, his mind whispers, against the grain.

Bobby Drake has a very certain kind of grain. His woody texture bends in a direction not common to most other people. It might just be a phase, but he's almost thirty fucking years old. Remy is just the first man he's had the courage -- or the inclination, but he wipes that thought away as unnecessary -- to get into bed for.

Because it's for Remy, and they both know it. Bobby might get off, and it's not that he's not grateful, but Remy gets free.

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