Kinda Meteoric

by Alestar

And afterwards, they lay spent.

Listening to the rain, with the sheet pooled around their waists, and the gentle glide of a hand up and down his forearm. His thoughts wander, staring at the play of moonlight on the wall, and he thinks that this is probably the smell of rain-- the scent of their cooled ardor, and drying sweat, and his lover's shampoo. It's not like anybody else has ever been able to figure out the smell of rain-- if they had, there wouldn't be all those rain-scented candles that just smell like Zest. You know, the soap. Instead they would all smell like his. Lover.

He speaks into the dark.

"Remy?"

The hand on his arm lingers in one last caress and moves to rest soft against his stomach. "Yeah?"

Remy's bed voice. Or rain voice. Slow and lazy and affectionate and deliberate. Bobby's favorite voice.

"What do you call me?"

"What?"

Bobby clasps the hand against him as he turns, keeping it with him and pushing up onto his elbow to look down into Remy's half-lit face. He worries about being presumptious.

"Well, I mean, like-- if you ever talked about me. To other people. And maybe you don't. But if you do-- if you did-- what would you call me?"

Remy doesn't blink in confusion. Bobby does this when it rains. His mind falls in unpredicatable patterns like the water falling across the roof. Remy turns to face him, rolling into the shelter of Bobby's shadow across the bed, and murmurs sleepily, "I call you Bobby."

Bobby releases Remy's hand to softly ruffle his hair-- the auburn shining red in the moonlight-- and it falls down to rest at the dip of Bobby's waist. "And what if they say 'Bobby who?'"

"All de people I talk to know you, cher."

"All of them?"

"Oui. Besides-- wait. Do y'hear dat?"

Bobby rolls toward the window and listens into the dark. "Yeah. Kinda sounds like. Oh. Shit."

Remy's hand snakes urgently around Bobby's arm. He whispers, not because he is afraid of being overheard, but because it is the natural human reaction to the inevitable. "De meteor?"

One quick, sharp nod, and both men fall heavily back against the bed. When they say you never hear the one that gets you, it's bullshit. The strange whistling sounds-- growing steadily louder-- is the only noise between the two men. The dark room is packed to fill already with countless unsaid apologies and declarations of love, and there is no room for words.

Finally-- which is only seconds passed, but an eternity in the face of final endings-- Bobby speaks.

"This is all my fault. I should've been a crossdresser."

Remy turns suddenly, diving, wrapping himself around the other man. "S'not your fault, cher. It's mine. I been spendin' too much time wit' others . . Pete, an' Warren. If I could jus' focus . . "

Bobby shakes his head, his jaw rubbing against his lover's forehead. "Jesus, Remy, you can't help--"

Remy silences him with a kiss-- short, fevered. "Cher, love, Bobby. Neither of us is t'blame."

The quiet voice in the dark, loud whistle descending.

"Who then?"

"KJ."

"KJ?"

"Oui. She had a birthday, knowin' perfectly well dat Alestar was startin' a new job an' wasn't gonna have any time t'do anythin' decent."

Bobby sighs, deep in his throat, and presses a kiss into Remy's hair. "You're right. KJ's fault. Remy, I. I love you."

Remy raises his head, his eyes doomed and content.

"I-"

END

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