Title: Southern Comfort
Pairing: Logan/Kurt (implied), Remy+Kurt
Summary: Remy is the rock when Kurt's relationship stumbles.
The door slammed hard, shaking the windows across the hall. Heavy footsteps echoed, marching away from him. Remy looked down at the bottle of bourbon in his hand.
It was January, a cold, cruel month that lent an ominous impression to the dark night with its heavy fog and relentless rain. The weather fit squarely with the turbulence of the day. Oppressive and melancholy.
He looked out the window, knowing that the truck would be leaving soon, deep gouges in the too-soft soil left in its wake. He would not be able to make out the taillights through the fog. The crash of glass swiveled his attention. He turned back to the hall, headed for the door.
Without knocking, Remy eased the abused door open, noting the weary sigh the hinges gave, this treatment not too uncommon. He avoided the glass at the foot of the door, carefully closing it behind him. Bending down, he retrieved the picture frame from beneath the shards. Brushing it off, he took a moment to admire the two men embracing in the photograph it held. He tucked it under his arm. Walking into the room, he paused, observant.
The room was illuminated by a single lamp, dancing slowly in the air in the wake of such commotion. The pale walls, bare save for the occasional framed art, stood as silent surveyors of tangled relations. The bed lay across the room, so much empty space between it and he. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a lone figure, head and shoulders slumped, shook only occasionally by quick breaths.
The bed did not squeak as Remy sat, merely curved under him, dipping between the two bodies it supported. He silently handed the bottle to the other, gently setting the picture frame on his lap. He eased two glasses from the pocket of his robe, sporting them in one hand. He offered one before noticing the bottle up-ended, loosing its contents down an already raw throat.
A gentle hand eased the bottle from a body eager to forget. He poured two equal glasses, then capped the bottle and set it on the floor. He offered the drink, sipping from his own and tightening his lips at the harsh warmth it brought.
Silence settled comfortably around the pair as the other's hitching breaths calmed. The room sighed, emotions settled. He bent for the bottle, adding a little more to each glass. Reaching for the picture frame on his lap, he was stopped by a blue hand.
So exotic in the soft light on the overhead lamp. So other. It looked cold. He stilled the hand with his own, pressing warmth into the cool digits. He looked to yellow eyes, rimmed in flush purple from the previous emotion. A gentle smile spoke to the reassurance he offered.
"I gave you that picture frame," Remy's voice melded into the room, got lost in the cracks and crevices of old wooden flooring, hugged the ceiling. The hand under his slid away, taking the picture. A heavy sigh brushed away the warmth of his voice.
"He's leaving again," quiet, sad. Resigned. Kurt's voice took on the qualities of dying autumn, softly acquiescing to the coming winter frost. He looked away from Remy, into the amber liquid swirling in his own glass. "He just got back and…" He signed. "I don't understand it."
He shook his head, knowing there was nothing he could say. Standing, he moved to the dresser, sliding out the upper-most drawer and retrieving the sweet cigars there. He offered it as he sat, searching his pocket for the lighter. Lit his own first, dropped the lighter in Kurt's lap. He took a slow drag, the sweet smoke filling his mouth with a faint saccharine taste as he exhaled.
Kurt spoke around the cigar, it dangling from his lip almost as an afterthought. "He's mad this time. Said I was a fucking mother hen. Said he had to leave. Drives off in his verdammt truck, he's just…"
Remy held his cigar limply, watching the curling smoke and how it moved around Kurt's words. They had fallen into routine easily, after the first time. He was Kurt's comfort in the only capacity he was able. He knew when to be there, but he could not heal his soul. Tears fell every time, tumbling and tripping over the scars on Kurt's face.
"I wish… I wish I knew where he went." Kurt's words hung heavily in the air. Smoke soured by drink embraced them, slowly swirling them to the corner of the room. A warm arm settled about his shoulders. He turned to Remy, his face set to reflect the miserable feel of his heart. Remy reached for the ashy cigar between Kurt's lips, extinguishing it and his own in the remnants of his drink.
"He'll be back, Kurt." Before Kurt could offer a rejoinder, Remy continued. "He loves you."
He shook his head, Remy's soft words panging his heart with their hopeful sincerity. Remy smiled again for him, softly squeezing Kurt's shoulders. "When he comes to terms with himself, he'll know that."
They sat together for some time, until the lingering smell of sweetened smoke had faded and the warmth of the alcohol had left their blood. He rubbed Kurt's arm soothingly, offering silent reassurance in a simple, ancient way. Their breathing slowed, bordering the easy rhythms of sleep.
Softly glowing moonlight filtered into the room through the fog, the patter of water dripping from the sill only now audible after the rain. The harsh winter was relenting, the storm passed.
Remy stroked the picture on his lap before easing himself to a standing position. He smiled down at Kurt. "I'll get you new glass for that picture tomorrow." Kurt stood and drew Remy into a tight embrace. "He'll be back, you know." Released from the hug, Remy made his way to the door.
"Remy," Kurt's voice was soft, coasting gently to his ear. He cocked his head. "Thank you." He nodded, easing out of the door, the once turbulent room now settled, and its owner reassured.
Remy looked out a window. The fog that had clung to the glass had retreated, sinking slowly back and away from the walls as wind gently urged it on. Headlights rounded the driveway, slowly growing in their approach. He smiled.