Remy LeBeau stood on the street corner, wrapped up in thought. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, his first one in eight months. It didn't satisfy him as much as he thought it would.
He thought that maybe he might feel some smug satisfaction, seeing as she hated the smell of cigarettes. He wanted her to appear before him, for the sole purpose of sticking out his tongue like a child and saying: I'm smokin', chere. See? Not that she cared about his health or well-being anymore. She'd probably urge him to continue on his road to destruction, she'd probably cheer on the demons of death surrounding him every god damned minute of every god damned day.
He cursed, and dropped the cancer stick to the ground. He couldn't do it, he couldn't hate her, even though she'd broken his heart like he always knew she would, even though she'd sent him away and no woman, no woman, had ever sent him away before.
His bitterness toward her was more than just petty anger or bruised ego, though she'd caused him both, it was heartbreak, it was loss.
He felt her absence like a loose tooth, and he just kept playing with it and playing with it, thinking about her, talking about her, wanting her, and sooner than later, he knew his memories of her would become worn and used and that he'd lose all he had left of her.
And, like most things in his four decades of living, it was all his fault. He couldn't leave well enough alone, he couldn't accept the friendly love she'd given him. He always wanted more, more, more, he was never satisfied. He knew damn well that she was too young, too innocent, to understand what she was getting herself into when she began loving Le Diable Blanc, and he'd been too selfish and too lonely to warn her. And because she was beautiful and tragic and her violet lips were so hypnotizing, he'd kissed her and in one day- twenty-four hours, everything changed.
From the beginning, he'd known he should stay away from her. She was too mysterious and riveting than what was safe, everything in him screamed to run and run far away. And yet, there'd been something, some pesky little sense that would not let him be. Three weeks into his stay at the mansion, he dreamt of her, fantasized about her and her porcelain skin, and before the fourth week commenced, he knew he had to at least speak with her.
She'd found him first.
He'd been on the basketball court, shooting free throws in a t-shirt and sweats. The morning sun hadn't even come up yet, he'd assumed he would be spending his dawn alone. He wasn't an early riser, but he could stay up for days at a time. (Insomnia got too bad, the cocaine kept him up.)
She appeared from the trees, startling him.
Her jeans and long-sleeved shirt were black, as usual, her waves of straight, two-toned hair cascaded to her waist. His eyes were instantly drawn to her lips. They'd always reminded him of angel wings, and their color made him crave pomegranates.
She took a deep drag from the joint in her gloved fingers, and observed him carefully. She pulled the smoke deep in her lungs, held it, and blew it out in a fluid motion so graceful, he felt his hair stand on end.
She approached him, he couldn't swallow.
"Why ya up so early?" She passed him the joint and he accepted. She noticed the trembling of his fingers, a constant thing, but made no mention of it.
He took a few drags, then passed it back. "Didn't feel much like sleepin' I 'spose." He took another shot, and it went swoosh through the net.
He couldn't help but feel on edge, not uncomfortably exactly, but ready for anything that might occur. And with her, anything occurring was a very real possibility.
"Ah feel ya watchin' me, every where ah go."
His next shot missed the goal completely. Of course she'd noticed, he'd wanted her to. He was sneaky and secretive when he wanted to be, but he somehow knew a girl like her wouldn't appreciate such behavior.
She stepped in front of him, so close their chests touched, and handed him the joint.
"Ah like it." She smiled and he followed suit, and they spent the morning in pleasant silence.
They became friends of sorts. He did most of the talking and she would only smile her soft, violet smile, and watch him ever so intently through her endless gaze.
She was only seventeen, but her eyes- they held the pain and wisdom and tolerance of a woman decades older than she. He supposed it was because of her skin, her poisonous skin that allowed her to delve into the most dark, gruesome thoughts of those she touched.
He hadn't been afraid of her, though. Somehow he knew his bloody past would not change her opinion of him. Of course, exactly what her opinion of him was he had not the slightest clue.
He'd asked her one day, while they were on the roof getting high, what she thought of him, what the time they'd been spending together meant.
She'd only frowned and looked below, toward Ororo's garden. "Don't complicate things, Remy. We don't need a label. What we have is just what it is, leave it alone."
And he knew, like she knew, that when those words were spoken he'd do the exact opposite and do everything in his power to complicate things.
It took thirty seconds for her to enrapture him with her mysterious ways and a week to own him body, soul, and heart.
He was constantly terrified that she would know, that she would take one look at him with her wide eyes and see right through him, like glass. They liked hurting each other, whether it was physical or emotional pain did not matter.
They were engrossed in a constant game. He called her a name and she called him a worse one. He yelled and she bellowed. He glared and she glowered. They were constantly one-upping the other, watching the other, waiting for the other to slip and show the tiniest bit of weakness-
And that was why she could never know how he truly felt. If she knew she would hold it over his head, she would tear his heart in two and laugh while doing it. He could imagine the scarlet drips of his blood splattered across her velvety cheek bones.
He hated her, loathed her more than he loathed himself, and god, dear god, he loved her, loved her like he loved the moon. She repelled him, he felt sick in her presence. She beckoned him with her dark magic, he felt sick when he wasn't in her presence.
He should have listened to her words and left well enough alone. But he'd never been one to accept what was given to him, he couldn't settle.
It had been a warning, in it's own way. It said: stay away from me, don't get to close. I'll hurt you and you'll hurt me and we'll both break each other down until there is nothing left.
He'd also never been one to shy away from danger, anguish seemed to be his calling. And though he was old and knew all there was to know about torture, Rogue's torture left a different taste in his mouth, an addictive taste that he couldn't, wouldn't rinse away.
And on that day, he ignored the screaming in his brain and decided he'd like very much to taste different parts of her.
And because she was beautiful and tragic and her violet lips were so hypnotizing, he'd kissed her and in one day- twenty-four hours, everything changed.
He didn't register bursting through the door of his bedroom, but they ended up there anyway. He kicked behind him and the door slammed shut, she kissed him harshly and though the cure hadn't completely faded, she knew the slow drain agonized him and she reveled in it.
Violet smears of lipstick were around his mouth, across his chin, down his neck. She was marking his as her own, and for some reason, he didn't mind it.
He threw her on the bed and ripped away her black clothing. He tasted her sex like he'd yearned to for so long and her nails cut through her gloves and left bloody, crescent marks on his shoulders.
He let her remove his shirt before pinning her wrists behind her head, he hoped bruises would form.
Her breathing was heavy and his was heavier, and his eyes burned and her cheeks flushed and her legs wrapped around his waist impatiently.
Silence, and then: "I don' love y'."
He was always doing that, throwing harsh truths in her face and watching with a smirk as pain flickered across her face.
"Ah'm not a kid." Her voice was thick, stubborn. "Ah know what this is."
He finished undressing her but left his pants on. He wore a condom, not willing to allow her to absorb him from that particular place.
They became one, their breathing synchronized. Her hair floated around them both like a black halo. He was in her and she was around him and he felt her pulsate and she felt him throb and they both felt each other's racing climb to the top.
And then it was over, and Remy knew he'd never had better and Rogue knew she'd never have better and they both knew that they didn't want to separate, and it scared them.
And when they were scared, they lashed out.
There was blood on the base of his cock and a crimson stain on the white sheets. A virgin, he'd had a virgin in his bed, when, years ago, he'd promised himself he'd never see red smeared against white ever, ever again. Not after Belladonna, not after Genevieve-
"Y' should have told me." He sat up and reached for his pack.
She snorted, the milky tone of her skin blended with the ivory sheet across her chest. "Don't play at bein' noble, sugar. We both know one more virgin doesn't make any difference to you."
She was always doing that, throwing harsh truths in his face and watching with a smirk as pain flickered across his face.
"Innocents got no place 'round Gambit, chere," he murmured, staring off into some far away place she could not see.
And with a sweetness she rarely showed him, Rogue placed her hand over his, knocking the cigarettes away from his grasp(she hated the smell) and kissed his shoulder. "Then make me not innocent. Ah want your ghosts, your secrets, ah want all of ya."
And he wept while making love to her.
Perhaps the most exquisite aspect of their relationship was the breaking down and building up.
They shattered each other beyond the point of recognition. They dug their hands into each other's flesh and peeled it away, until their raw, bleeding insides were exposed to the world. They ripped and bit and pulled and destroyed. They drug each other to hell.
But then, just before they died, something changed.
They repaired each other better than they'd been before. They held each other in warm embraces and kissed softly, until their glowing, heated insides were healed and in working order. They praised and whispered and held and restored. They elevated each other to heaven.
He let her fix him and she let him fix her.
One night, the last night, she sat him down and crushed both of their hearts. She told him she couldn't continue living the way they were, she told him she loved him but not enough to put herself through so much hurt, she told him she didn't regret what they'd shared, but only because her heart was numb and she knew she'd never have to feel such agony ever again.
She used to let him fix her, but on that night she fixed herself and let him go.
And through his sobbing and her weeping and his ranting and her placating, he knew she'd saved them both.
Only, he would have liked to die in her arms rather than live without her.
Remy LeBeau turned from the street corner, feeling a gaze boring itself in his back.
And there she was. Eight months older, beautiful, mysterious, dark. And he knew in that moment that he wanted her, every part of her. The fearful witch with the scarlet drips of his blood splattered across her cheeks, the tempting seductress with supple curves and gleaming eyes, the quiet, introverted dreamer, with soft smiles and wistful sighs.
"I felt y' starin' at me," he murmered.
And she stepped up to him, close, just like that first day, and he knew that she would like to die in his arms rather than live without him, too.
"I liked it."
So I'm not sure where this came from, but it's been on my mind for days and I decided to give it a try. Another angsty piece, but it has a happy ending so you guys can't get too frustrated with me ;)