Chapter Text
"Knock, knock," a voice calls from outside the dim, smoke-filled room.
Remi Montmorency opens bleary red eyes. He'd almost drifted off for a moment. That itself was a testament to his exhaustion, because the walls were vibrating. The bonfire outside the back patio hadn't let up at the designated shut down time. If anything, it was instead in full force. Anything that wasn't nailed down had a chance of going up in flames. Especially the wicker porch furniture, which historically tended to be knicked first, even by younger pledges. So Remi had made the express choice to volunteer on keeping his eyes on the more flammable items inside the Gamma house. He'd just needed to close said eyes for a second and forgot to open them was all.
The man outside doesn't bother with the pleasantry of a second knock and instead uses a shoulder like a battering ram to force the door open. Smoke wafts out the door, sparkling in the warm glow of the bonfire. More smoke pours out from the patio than the bonfire could even spit out.
"You need to get this guy under control."
Remi's tail is curled around his leg, tightening once he recognizes the student stumbling with the support of the Beta Kap barging into the den he'd hidden away in.
The shorn redhead fighting to get away from and relying on his support in equal measure slurs through a response. "N' you need to gimma drink back, asshole-"
"He's not from my frat," Remi says softly. Standoffishly.
"You're a Gamma, aren't you? You guys promised to help host, and this kid's thrown up like three times. Annoying as hell, too," the Beta Kapp says, ignoring the refusal and walking further in. He immediately regrets that, because the thick haze blanketing the room is intent on wafting out the door whether he's in the way or not. He muffles a cough with a frown, the ginger slung on his shoulder sliding closer to the floor. "Who the hell hotboxes with cigarette? Smells like depression in here."
Remi's tongue feels the dry, sticking interior of his mouth. Everything tingles from numbness as he spits a forgotten cigarette butt off his lips and onto the patio floor. A Gamma. Maybe in another year he'll be that Gamma. Senior year he might finally be recognized by his name.
"You can set 'im on the couch."
When the Beta Kap stares him down, Remi realizes he's going to pretend not to have heard him.
"Fine. I got it." Remi says in a deadpan tone, wiping what might be leaf, might be ash off his chin as he gets up to take the inebriated freshman off the guy's hands. Or shoulder, rather. The name comes slow, but Remi had been privy to more than one of Bradley's obsessive ramblings before the recent 'incident.' It's Zimmeruski. He held the freshman up by his ankles at the former president's command on orientation day. Now, nearly a month after midterms, it was coming back to bite him in the ass.
"Kay, bye Ricky."
"That's not my-" He's already out the door before Remi can respond, the blare of the party returning to the annoying muffle in the background as the door swings shut.
"I'll walk ma damn self," Bobby says again, but his feet never find purchase. It's anything but graceful, but Remi manages to land him on the couch. Not before he yaks on the patio floor, though. Thank god for vinyl.
There's a protocol for this, one Remi has been versed on repeatedly this year and he likes to think he's getting good at it. Step one, air the room. Crack a window. Turn a fan on. He slides over a floor mat with his foot to mop up the mess for now before turning his attention to Bobby. Who is... out cold.
A loud snore asures him that the freshman is just sleeping it off. Remi turns Bobby the way tabloids always say to after a rock star dies in their sleep. He never knows if he's doing it right but nobody placed under his care has died yet. There's a dirt-crusted planter he shoves just under the edge of the sofa with his foot. Perfect for catching someone's sick.
The tube TV is airing Discovery Channel, some very mild blurb on fish migration. The perfect trip accompaniment for the potentially crossfaded. Bobby snorts before curling up and drifting off again.
Remi watches, now culpable and responsible for somebody else's well-being. He can't light up a cigarette now that he needs to ventilate the room. Sitting back down in his chair he switches his focus between the TV and Bobby.
The freshman's fur is mussed and dirty, like he'd gotten into a scrap or two tonight but came out relatively unscathed. Though that could also be the product of getting manhandled and dragged into the Gamma house.
After some interesting blurb on salmon jumping, Bobby snorts again, head craning to see where he's at.
His head flops back down, hand raising into the air. Neither move for a moment, both just staring at the hand.
"High five," Bobby says.
Remi doesn't move.
"High five," he says again, open palm swaying in the air.
With a sigh, Remi gets up and slaps the hand. It goes down for all of three seconds before popping up again, right as Remi has just gotten back into his chair.
"High five."
"I'm not making that a thing," Remi says in a flat tone.
"You a fuckin'... coat rack or not? Don't leave me hh—haaaaangin' buddy."
Unsure of what being a coat rack implies, Remi rolls his eyes and gives in. The high five is perfectly average, mediocre and leaving barely a tingle in his hand. It's enough to satisfy Bobby though, whose body limps back into snoring semi-sleep. Remi can't move from the spot, watching for any sign of injury or pain. The side of his face has a small stain of ruddy brown. Blood? Or mud?
"Somebody hit you?" Remi whispers under his breath, trying to get a better look.
"Hmm, asking about my homelife now? What, you gonna call CPS?" Bobby's eyes are still shut but he tilts his head in Remi's general direction.
Remi stumbles back, not anticipating Bobby being coherent or awake enough to notice him. The boldness of the statement befuddles him too. It's said accusingly but feels like a bad joke.
"Where the hell did the party go?" Bobby says, blinking as his hand trails up into the air again for a high five.
"Hold on," Remi asks, checking pupils for movement. They never seem to fully lock onto him but he's hesitant to get any closer. "Are you concussed?"
Bobby manages to roll his twitching eyes. "Nah man. I've just got shit vision. I can't help it."
"Oh. Okay."
At least Bobby was awake enough to answer some questions. The second step of sitting was ascertaining the gravity of the situation.
"You smoke?"
"I'm insulted," Bobby says with an exageratted gasp, hand thrown to his forehead. It misses its target, flopping beside his head, mouth still partway open. He's still pretty far gone. The question doesn't need answered, though. Remi can smell it now.
"Take anything tonight?" he asks, popping open a half-melted cooler beside the sofa side.
"What, are you a fucking cop? You don't look...Jump Street-y."
"What do I look like, Zimmeruski?" It's said with no malice, but Bobby squints at the retort. He usually does wear shades, doesn't he? Remi isn't 100% sure. It's possible that they're prescription. Bobby's squinting eyes never quite lock onto anything—Remi included—and not for lack of trying. It's also possible that he's seeing double. Maybe the glasses help with it.
"...do I know you?"
"Not really," Remi says, deciding to leave it at that. He doesn't need to bring up last month's drama with a guy who seems to have entirely moved on from it. So Remi moves on as well. The third step of Gamma-sitting protocol is sedation or sobering. "You wanna keep the party going?"
Invigorated enough to slouch forward, Bobby cracks a wide toothy smile. "Fuuuuck, whatchu got?"
Cans of O'Douls bob up and down in the water, alongside a litany of approved mixers for the belligerent and just those that need to sober up. Bobby hasn't picked a fight yet, so Remi forgoes the NyQuil for pickle juice. Remi snags a can and jar from the cooler.
"Haven't heard of... Oodles," Bobby says, trying to sound out the name on the can.
"Off the hook. Better than whatever shit they've got out there."
"Gimme," Bobby says, swaying like he's trying to stand.
A can of the non-alcoholic beer is held in one hand, a jar of pickle juice in the other. Forgoing the cup, Remi pours the can in the jar. "And I've got something here that'll knock your socks off proper, yeah?"
The whites of Bobby's eyes are barely visible as he tries to focus on the outstretched jar. "Hell yeah. Fuck those guys outside." Finally able to push himself at least upright, he takes the offered jar with two hands.
Step four is optional. It kills time. But it's by no means necessary. "They run outta hot dogs out there?"
"Uhhh...... I didn't see any."
Drinking heavy on an empty stomach—no wonder Zimmeruski had gotten sick. "Are you hungry?"
Jar pressed to his lips, Bobby pauses, but rejoices at the taste of salty dill-infused vinegar against his lips.
"Fuck... I could eat."
It takes no time at all to whip up a sandwich. Bread, butter, and cheese make sweet love to each other in a cast iron pan. Bobby invites himself into the house soon after and slowly treks towards the kitchen, bracing against the wall so he can clutch his drink in a death grip. It's taking him a while to stumble through the maze of wood-panelled walls left over from the 70s, calling after Remi as he does.
"Not a big party guy?"
"I got my fill of drunk teenagers about three months ago," the voice calls from the distant glow of a far room. There's pool tables in the way of Bobby's wobbly path that he keeps bumping into, sloshing his cocktail over gloved fingers.
"Ouch. Point taken."
"I didn't mean..." Remi tries to rephrase his sentence. Something less insulting about the guy he's harassed enough already. "I mean... I prefer intimate settings. Parties with people I care about."
"Still doesn't sound like I'm the exception," Bobby says, hand shading his eyes from the kitchen light.
"...fuck. Yeah, sorry."
"Then let's be friends," Bobby says, hand covering his eyes.
Holding a spatulla over the burner, Remi freezes, unsure if he heard Bobby correctly. He isn't sure if he even should respond. "....are you okay?" Remi instead asks, watching Bobby enter through the doorway from his spot in front of the stove. The freshman is feeling around blindly for an expanse of wall to lean against, but it's hard with drink in hand. He's lightly skidding his knuckle in circles to find a clear enough area.
"Resting my eyes," he says casually. Like this is a normal occurrence. It probably is. "Really bright in here. That smells... so good..."
Bobby leans too far forward, inhaling warm wafts of steam. Remi catches Bobby with one hand to his chest, propping him back up against the wall. Grilled cheese still browning on one side, Remi grabs a bottle of Perrier from the fridge.
"Good. I can get you another bottle if you want."
Bobby smacks his lips, realizing they are somewhat dry and the picklejuice isn't really helping. "Yeah, I could hold another drink." He throws back the rest of the juice like he's shotgunning a beer. The form is so practiced that it's likely not the first time tonight that he's done it. The pickle jar tumbles into the trash. "Do you tell the other blackout drunks that it's alcoholic too?" At Remi's stupefied silence, Bobby shrugs. "If pops only smacks you around when you're sober, O'Douls isn't a mistake you make twice."
Remi makes a stilted noise that should be a hum but sounds a bit too much like an awkward laugh despite his best effort to choke down any improper reaction. There isn't really an appropriate response, and he's unsure of where they stand now. Or if Bobby's upset. Remi feels horribly defensive and like he has no right to at the same time. "Hey, you got dropped off on me, compadre. If you'd rather hoof it outside with some frat kid who hates your guts enough to personally escort you to me of all people, by all means. This is just a safe space to sober up."
Bobby breaks the tense air with a smile. "Hey, I appreciate it, believe me. I mean, a fucking grilled cheese dude? You're so nice to me. Everyone here is so fucking lame. But you're nice to me."
Nice. It's not an adjective anyone has ever used for chronically-standoffish Remi Montmorency. Despite that, Remi feels his lip quirk. No chance Bobby would say that if he knew. Or maybe he didn't remember. Usually the thought stung, but this time it truly was for the better. Whatever. He's cooked a lot of bacon for drunk party guests in the past year, and it's always loudly appreciated. It's the best part of the gig. Even though-
"You're only saying that because you're drunk."
"Nah, man. I'll say it to your fuckin' face ss... sober." Bobby stumbles over the word, either hiccuping or holding back more vomit.
Remi flips the sandwich seamlessly onto a paper plate, Bobby's squinting eyes trained on crisp golden bread. Without a second's hesitation he snatches it.
"You're that happy about a sandwich?"
It doesn't have a chance to cool before Bobby takes a bite, teeth crunching through exterior crust then tearing away a sizeable bite. Cheese pulls in a delightful stretch from sandwich to mouth.
"Mmmph. Like from an angel. I would make love for this sandwich," Bobby says through mouthfuls of bread and cheese.
Turning off the stove, Remi laughs, caught by surprise. What a weird thing to say. Bobby has such a weird sense of humor. Although... there's no question about it, Bobby is gay.
Remi thinks.
At least, when the Gammas argued about it on move-in day, someone had passionately made the case that Bobby's single earing could only mean one thing. Probably Bradley, he had a weird knack for those details. So there was some plausible deniability to the thought.
Remi hazards a glance just to see if it was still there and instead Bobby is staring back at him, brow raised suggestively. A gold hoop does indeed dangle from his ear.
"So. What is your name, angel?"
Remi's brain short-circuits for a second. He's caught entirely unprepared. It could still be a drunk man's idea of a joke. Words struggle to come out of his mouth. "I just forgot... I have to go. But it was nice... uh-"
To hell with it.
Remi darts out of the kitchen, heart pounding a little too quick in his chest, heat rising on his neck. He's going to his room, damn the furniture, damn the bonfire, damn Beta Kapp. Thankfully Bobby was probably too drunk to give a shit...
PJ hadn't gone with Bobby to the bonfire but finds him later that night anyways, hand trailing along the wood siding of a fraternity, most of his weight against it, in search of his glasses. PJ manages to find them on a folding table and then corrals his friend back to their dorms. All the while, Bobby is retelling tales of some divine angel with pickle beer and grilled cheese.
It's the Friday before dead week and Bobby should be having some semblance of fun, drinking, smoking, potentially snagging a tab from his psychonaut homies. He shouldn't be in this theater this late in the evening and he shouldn't be helping in this production at all. Bobby isn't even in a practicum class this semester but he's roped into rehearsal for the theater anyways because their sound tech called in sick and he needed the extra credit. Seeing how mind numbing the job is, he understands why the other dropped it immediately.
He tries to counteract the monotony with several creative additions. They could definitely make improvements to the show, but every suggested change has been met with scathing remarks and the grad student director not so subtley reminding him to stay in his lane. After two hours it becomes clear that the sound isn't being used to enhance the play at all. They just want him for cues.
Every 'from the top' or 'run the scene again' is followed by a snooty finger flicking towards him, wordlessly commanding him to sound a doorbell or foley a knock on wood.
Without fail, the light always rights itself to where the director wants without a word, look, or gesture to the followspot.
Even though he's only a sophomore, that rat-faced Gamma working the lighting gets zero feedback from the director. Every movement is understated, the perfect kind of precision that makes it fade into the ambience of the stage and seamlessly dim from view when not in use. Sometimes it feels like everyone else on this production has forgotten that the light is even a part of it.
After the last line has been read and the director has concluded rehearsal for the day, Bobby creeps up a rusty ladder backstage up to the roof access with the theater students. The sun is setting, and it'd be a pretty decent view if they got anywhere near the edge, but that'd risk getting caught.
The theater students stand in a huddle, mumbling about how cold it is outside, how poorly the show is running, what classes they should have dropped a month ago. It's the Gamma who offers up his freshly rolled blunt, but quickly he falls back into obscurity after an actress whispers "Thanks, Remi."
Brick wall, background-extra-in-real-life Remi. Three days into this shitshow and he finally had a name for the rat face that would always sit infuriatingly at the edge of the circle where only Bobby ever seemed to notice. Not even just at the theater; he had been a nameless face in half of Bobby's blunt rotations in the year thus far. From skate hangouts to parties, from theater circles to psychonaut get-togethers, he was always there, arms crossed and eyes focused on some unseen thing in the distance that was pissing him off. Aside from the almost ever-present sneer on his face, he was content to sit back and let everyone talk over him, even when he was supplying the high. Until his eyes landed on Bobby. They had stood next to each other once before, and Bobby still remembers the tremble in a thin but otherwise firm hand when he was handed a lighter.
The blunt passes between fingers, each trembling in the cold November evening air. Bobby's eyes focus on the glowing tip at an actor's inhale. It was irritating how decent the roll was, even more agitating that Remi stepped back to give up his turn in the rotation. Not like anyone else noticed.
"Man, she had it out for you today," the leading man says, and Bobby groans.
"I guess so. Is she always this anal?"
"Hah... Yeah. You get used to it. You're doing alright though?"
"It's so fucking boring. But yeah. I'm good." Bobby tries to be considerate with his hit, but pauses on his inhale.
It was good. Too good for Ohio, for sure. He got nickled and dimed on most bags not worth half what he had to spend, brown tinged bags of seeds and stems the most his ETV's tight budget could afford him anyways.
Where was Remi getting this shit?
He exhales through his nose, relishing the way it tingles his brain.
The actors start their session of deep questioning. Or version of it, at least. They were all chill kids, but most of the things they wanted to talk about when high were tabloid conspiracies and conversation filler Bobby left behind at the inebriated age of 16.
"Did you guys hear about that Y2K thing?" one says. "Crazy, dude."
"I heard it was this long-con plan by the soviets before the big collapse," the actress next to him says. Bobby doesn't even pretend to be interested in the conversation. He lets their words drift away for a moment and finds himself peeking at Remi from behind his shades.
Prescription shades were often a blessing in disguise, which somewhat made up for the photophobia. He could be facing whoever was talking but make direct eye contact with Remi and he'd never know. He usually looked like whatever was happening wasn't worth his time, but when he looked at Bobby... There was something off. Like he was searching Bobby for an answer, looking him over like a jigsaw puzzle. He's doing it now, but it feels different this time. Softer, somehow. Probably out of guilt. The Gamma couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of him unless Bobby's head was pointed towards him. The blunt only passes by him one more time before the subject changes.
The lead actor grumbles, looking at the evening sky. "We're pushing 8 o'clock. What time did you wanna make it to the performance arts meeting?"
Theater students mutter under their breath as they shuffle back off the roof, not even acknowledging their charitable blunt roller as they left.
It's just Bobby and Remi on the roof now. The fur on his neck bristles, and not just from the cold wind whipping by.
"Hey," Remi starts, cupping his blunt like he's afraid of it smoldering out in the chilled air. Or like it's warming him. Maybe it's just something to occupy fidgeting hands.
"Hey, yourself," Bobby says flatly.
The Gamma has that soft look on his face, and he almost-sheepishly tugs on his sleeves trying to put the words together. He passes the blunt to Bobby like a peace offering. Bobby doesn't take it, staring at the offending object. He grew up with a dead beat dad and similarly absent mom. He can sense a forced apology a mile away.
"The Gammas... I wanted to-"
"Look man, I like your cute little prep steez, but don't get it twisted," Bobby interupts. "We work together, that's alright. But I don't need anything from you. Including an apology if it doesn't mean anything."
Remi takes a step back, looking genuinely crushed but confused. "I know that. I don't mean to—cute?"
Bobby rolls his eyes, despite knowing Remi won't be able to see it. Bobby doesn't want to contradict himself by taking another hit, so he doesn't.
Even though he really wants to.
Bobby shoves the blunt in Remi's hand back towards himself and tries to make a choice with some integrity. Hanging out with a Gamma was bad news. It would betray PJ and Max and that was reason enough to cut the conversation short.
Remi is flushed, eyes searching the shorter stagehand for some sort of expression through his shades.
"What, you don't want a hit?"
Bobby bristles, because he does, God he does, but he doesn't want to hear a lame excuse as to why things are different now and somebody who tried deliberately to hurt him and his friends had a change of heart. It's an all-too familiar tune and he'd rather not do the song and dance. "Wouldn't want to waste your good stash on a freshman," he says numbly.
"This isn't even the good shit," Remi says softly, and the way he doesn't seem particularly offended now reminds Bobby to mellow out.
Usually he smoked so he never got this agro. High school had been hell until Max and PJ had come along, and even then their friendship had been reluctant on Bobby's side, always feeling like he was being taken advantage of or used transactionally. But Remi hadn't asked a thing of him. If anything the shoe was on the other foot, and that was uncomfortable. He didn't want to feel like he owed something to Remi. He still resents that he had ever acted that way himself, only offering his friendship in the form of favors or food on the worst days.
The Gamma eases himself into a squat, gracefully sitting himself on the rooftop, blunt held between his lips.
"Where do you even buy your shit?" Bobby asks, certain he'll get some bullshit answer about how the rich kid doesn't want to share a plug.
"Calisota. My best friend grows. I'm out of supply for the rest of the semester, but I can hook you up later if you want."
Bobby's mouth slacks, just a little. It's a second before he realizes he should say something. "Oh. Uh. Cool, man. Sure."
"I don't have a pen and paper, but if you want I can write it down for you. I know a pusher in town too if you need... like, Prozac or something. Adderall too, if you need that for finals."
Damn it. Weed, the great unifier, has taken most of the indignant wind out of him. He should probably make nice. He slips a red marker from his pocket and squats awkwardly to offer his glove to Remi, who writes down the numbers with a smile.
"Uh. Second one is me. Top one, you gotta call ahead around that gay bar in the evening, so there's the hours too. I think he's using a pager? If you don't use it, that's chill, but you sound like you need it," Remi says. Bobby doesn't flinch at the mentioned location, which Remi takes quiet note of. "You've seemed super stressed out lately."
"It'd help," Bobby says, eyes drifting back to the blunt Remi has pressed to his lips. "This fucking play, man. I don't know how you do it. It's like they don't care about us at all."
Remi almost looks dissapointed at that, eyes lost in the white sealant-painted concrete top they're both on. Bobby feels awkward being the only one standing so he sits down a lot less gracefully.
Remi doesn't say anything for a while, taking another drag and blowing it in a thin stream out the side of his mouth. He pinches the blunt and ashes it off his knee, fumbling for words. "It... feels like I can go days without anyone noticing me. Sometimes... sometimes I feel like I'm not even the main character in my own life."
Bobby feels like a light goes off in his head. Like this guy hadn't been a real person for the past four months, but to even be able to acknowledge it out loud broke the curse. Like Bobby had lived the same way in a dark room for so long and only now was he flipping the switch. A good high was supposed to feel like that. "I know exactly what you mean." He watches the shades of dark blue mingling with the shades of orange in the sky, imagining the colors seeping together like water.
Fuck, that'd look even better if I was really feeling it. "Hey man, if we're gonna be talking some shit like this, I'm gonna need you to pass."
Remi laughs, rolling his eyes. "Damn, I wish I could waste this good shit on a freshman, but alas," Remi says, taking a large hit and holding it in.
Bobby finds himself smiling despite the stupid joke. He looks around at the empty roof, the sky still fading from dull orange to dark blue. It's getting colder.
"Remi, let me hit. Right now."
"Mmm-mmm. I'm smoking this whole thing. You can catch some fumes if you want though."
Bobby's brow raises, a small mischievous smile on his face. Remi's eyes widen, already tensing and leaning back in anticipation before Bobby lunges at him.
He falls back against the concrete, Bobby on top of him, smoke billowing out all at once and Bobby is there to inhale all of it, heady metalic zing, Remi's breath, and whatever gummy bears the stagehand was eating behind the follow light during rehearsal.
Remi is staring up at him in pleasant surprise, his large snout making space for an even larger smile. "There's no way that was good," he says laughing, blunt still cradled in his hand to keep it from snuffing out. Bobby snatches it, batting Remi's grabbing hands away so he can get a good puff in. A hand still manages to grab him by the shirt, pulling him in close enough for Remi to attempt to shotgun off his hit.
Remi is half-lidded and bleary, but desperate and Bobby is holding it in, head feeling like its swimming but still smiling at the sophomore's needy expression. He braces his arms on either side of Remi's head, face tilting to get him closer.
Remi opens his mouth and their lips brush, and like those cheddar samples at the grocery store it's delicious but not enough. Not nearly enough. Bobby cups Remi's head, exhale meeting inhale, lips feintly ghosting over each other in a pretense of necessity, even when there's nothing left to breath in. Remi finally gives a hesitant brush of tongue, and everything carried feintly in the air tastes stronger. The Gamma makes a noise of shock, like he hadn't realized they had touched either. Bobby pulls back, sitting on Remi's waist breathless. There's no guilt clawing at his stomach, just the both of them in the moment, but Bobby still has the opportunity to make the right choice. This would be wrong, wouldn't it? This would betray Team 99, would skim too quickly past making things right with the Gammas and jump into the deepend with another dirty secret he'd have to keep from Max and PJ. He's surprised at how little the notion even bothers him. Bobby doesn't always subscribe to astrology, but he wonders if he has a higher self looking down and testing him. It certainly feels like a test. Even if it doesn't feel wrong... he needs to think this over. Remi pulls his hands away seeing Bobby's wariness.
"F-fuck, I'm sorry," Remi pants, eyes red and unable to focus. "I didn't mean to-"
"Still trying to apolgize," Bobby says after he catches his breath. His head is spinning, trying and failing to right itself. "But that was definitely on purpose."
"I thought you were flirting when you—You called me cute! I thought... Look, man, if you're not interested, we don't have to mention this again, I won't tell anyone."
Bobby snorts. "Dude, that is so not the problem."
Remi's shoulders slouch in relief at what could have been a hard conversation with the Gammas. "Is there a problem?"
It's chilly. Not unbearably so but the stomach Bobby is sitting on is so warm.
"I haven't been tested in a while. I dig whatever this is, but I don't put out that easy, man. And I just learned your name, like, ten minutes ago."
Remi seems shocked, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. "Just now?"
"Dude, it's been months and you never said anything to me."
"....touché."
"And like, sure, if the circumstances were different I wouldn't mind hooking up right now-"
"What?"
"-but I have this stupid fucking show to focus on so I can pass this semester. So.... this can't interfere with the play. Don't make this awkward." It was a poor choice of words. Asking for a lack of awkwardness was counter effective in Bobby's experience, yet it was too late to take the words back. Remi wears awkwardness endearingly enough that Bobby can't help but stare at the way he lights up with a dorky smile and intent lowered brow.
Sitting up quickly, Remi nearly topples Bobby over but catches the freshman in his lap. "Not awkward. Got it."
He leans back, letting Bobby untangle from him and stand up. It was still getting colder. Even more so with the sun slipping further away behind the horizon. Even more so once they were apart.
Remi is still staring so intently at the man who had given him the last traces of that warmth, like it's Bobby lit up by the stagelight. He almost is, framed in the golden waning lines of light from the setting sun.
I see you, he wants to say. But he knows how stupid that sounds out loud.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Bobby."
He doesn't pause for a second as he kicks open the exit hatch."Bye Remi."
The door to his dorm has a sock on it when Bobby gets back and the sight has him deflating immediately. He knows what a hot and heavy make-out sesh sounds like, and the noises coming out of their dorm room fit the bill. If he'd known this was what waited at home for him, he might not have left Remi alone on the roof. He has no other plans for tonight. He won't be able to find any of his stoner friends on short notice. There's the sound of a party distantly down the hall and Bobby sighs. It's a Friday. The dorm with all the noise coming from it has the door popped open.
He could get cross-faded tonight. Fuck it.
The night passes in a haze, between drinks and poppy dance music in the psychadelically decorated dorm of a girl that's a friend of a friend, rejecting a tab he definitely can't fit into his schedule after his last trip, pacing the hall to wait at his door again, and then popping back in to refill his cup with cheap spiced rum. Remi is never far from his mind, the brief sensation of a tongue imprinted in Bobby's mind. He always quickly reminds himself of how the X Games had gone in the first place, the utter shock it had left PJ in and the mess it had made for Max's old man. It wouldn't be right to ignore all that for the sake of some quick tail. And yet... his smile is lazy and content, his lungs and lips are living in another moment in time. He's got to get it together.
When Max shows up, frazzled as all hell, Bobby relishes the opportunity to get that Gamma off his mind. He gives Max the number he'd just gotten from Remi. Thankfully, Max doesn't ask too many questions that Bobby can't just bullshit an answer to.
"Smoking has never been this complicated," Bobby says to Max before wishing his buddy luck on his journey.
Bobby wakes up the next day barely in time to make rehearsal. He's tired and sloppy, but he doesn't stray from the director's shitty plans at all. She barely yells at him now that he's got the major cues down. But he finds himself occasionally watching the light, the way it dances across the stage. It hurts his eyes to look at the spotlight, but behind his shades he can appreciate the smooth subtle motions from the man working on the catwalk.
When rehearsal wraps up, Bobby is staring up the fire escape. Nobody's mentioned anything about a meet up today, but he finds himself anticipating one anyways.
He can hear footsteps, light but unmistakeable, overhead in the catwalk. He doesn't want to look up and seem excited, so he doesn't, climbing the rusted fire escape before Remi can catch up to him.
The roof access cracks open, revealing nothing but blue and the occasional wave of crows flying by to blot out the sky. Bobby hazards a peek past the side of the building now, campus sprawling out in front of him. It's Ohio, so most of the buildings stop at the second floor. The theater needs three floors to accommodate box seats, giving just enough altitude to make out the top of his own dorm clustered by orange and yellow and trees. The main road winds past it like a river, along lecture halls and cars, sidewalks dotted with students in hats and jackets. His ear flicks when the hatch closes again, Remi leaving distance between them as he joins Bobby at the wall. He looks different. Like for the first time, he's not putting on some jaded persona. Which might be why he looks so nervous.
"Getting some air?" Remi asks, hands braced against the wall and thumbing his lighter.
"Yeah. This whole production is kind of ass, I'm not gonna lie." A spark from the lighter catches Bobby's eye and Remi has certainly noticed.
"I've got something that might help," Remi says, pulling a tangle of seran wrap from his pocket.
"What's that?"
"Exodus Cheese. I thought you'd like the funk." He looks up, and eyes meet over Bobby's shades, staring for a second too long. Remi's face furrows, stuttering and backtracking. "I mean, it's like, whatever though. If you don't think you can handle it, it's cool."
Bobby squints. "I can handle the funk, man. Don't even joke like that."
Remi laughs, fumbling with the baggie and pulling out a pipe. It's a heavy duty piece of hardware, the kind Bobby remembers some of his more delinquent highschool buddies toting that necessitated swiping the metal screen aerators from sinks in public restrooms.
"What, you brought hash?"
"Oh, no," Remi says, tilting it so Bobby can see the regular flower. "Just what I had on hand. But, y'know, if you want to make a hash sandwich sometime, I'm down."
A thrill shoots down Bobby's back at the prospect of something novel. A relatively safe way to get fucked up that he hadn't tried yet. "If there's one thing you know about me, I'm down for anything."
One side of Remi's mouth twitches upward, like he's trying hard not to read into anything. "Tell me about it. Tell me about yourself."
"Well... how much time have you got?"
They both struggle with the lighter for a moment, hands cupping around the flame to keep it from snuffing out. Bobby picks the offered pipe up with his mouth, cold metal shocking his lips and distinctly funk-flavored warmth filling his inhale when the spark finally takes.
"However long you want. Whatever you want. I'm just down to hang."
Bobby doesn't usually talk about what's constantly on his mind. It feels like most of his life is avoiding his problems. He's always been better at burying them and then soothing the ache with his friends. Some small part of him is also afraid of the familiar rejection he'd face if he opened up to the frat boy about.... any of that. "I'm taking bare minimum hours on a full scholarship," Bobby finally says, holding the burning air in his lungs for a moment. "Gonna get as close to an AV degree as I can before I change majors. Milk that shit for all it's worth." He leans close to Remi on his exhale, and Remi seems to relax in the cloud of Bobby's second-hand high. "I saw Cats on VHS on the best trip of my life, and that got me into theater. But I gotta do something to make money. I don't know. I'll figure it out. I love cheese. Love comics. Love rollerblading. I'm pimping my van into a primo stoner pad."
Remi takes a hit off his hardware, eyes intently focused on Bobby like he's learning the secrets of the universe. "A production of Cats... is that like the end goal?"
"Well, I kind of... want to direct something. I don't know. I could make a couple skate films. Do some stunts. Dumb shit. I never really had a plan. I mostly got into school for the X Games. Thought about dropping out if we didn't win."
"I hope you stay in," Remi says. "I mean like yesterday, you had some great ideas. Music cues, tension, actual effects? This is just a low maintenance production. There are other directors here that won't treat you like an afterthought."
Bobby looks out at the sky again. The X Games had been his only target for a long time. There hadn't really been a plan after that. The past few months of school had been fine, but Bobby was aimless. He floated between groups, and Remi had followed, trying to make amends. Or maybe not. After yesterday, Bobby isn't sure what the intention had actually been. It might have been Bobby's fault for calling him cute in the first place. It was hard to defend that as a normal thing to notice.
"I don't know. There'd have to be a pretty good play."
"Starlight Express up your alley?"
Bobby tries to hide his smile with his hands, but gives it all away with a snort.
"Fucking Starlight Express!" Of course anybody with half a brain cell would know Bobby was crazy about that shit, but hardly anyone even knew about it and it was embarrassing as fuck to tell people he liked Thomas the Tank Engine a la West End.
Remi had picked a cheesy strain for Bobby too. He wonders if Remi pieced shit together silently in the background of other people's lives. If he was this considerate with all the boys he liked or for his friends in general. "You're a good listener," Bobby says in appreciation.
"Try to be," Remi says in a soft voice, hand raising to offer Bobby the pipe.
And just like that, Bobby's sold. This guy is too cute to NOT hook up with at least once, damn the consequences. And it's almost finals week, so if it goes poorly he can just tough it out for the next two weeks. There's a campus event running all afternoon for STI testing and he's pretty sure there's pizza if he provides a sample. He would have gone anyways.
"Okay, well like. One hit, n' then I'm bouncin'."
"If you're already leaving," Remi says, taking another hit. It doesn't even need words this time, Bobby cups Remi's face and tilts his head. Breathing in Remi is made difficult by his large nose, but Bobby can't find it in himself to think it's anything other than fun. When he pulls away, Remi is red in the face and panting. It's too easy to work this guy up.
"I'll... fuck, I can stay for another. 'N then I gotta go."
It doesn't stop at an inhale this time. There's tongue, and it's probably Bobby's, but then its both of their tongues. Then it's the both of them, arms grabbing at shirts and legs pressed between legs, seeking out contact and chasing the high of young, dumb, and horny desperation.
The metal pipe clangs when Remi drops it onto the ground and Bobby and Remi quickly join it. The high is already hitting. Bobby's mouth is dry and his nerves are electric. His limbs move to touch more, feel more, but he feels so feint in someone else's arms. He's grinding down against Remi, cupping his face and tilting it for more, more, more. He tugs Remi's hair to get the right angle and it draws a beautiful reaction, a soft transatlantic whine and breathy groan.
"Fuck, Bobby, hah-"
"Is that good? I can do it again."
Remi swallows, throat bobbing. He nods. "If you don't mind getting pomade all over your gloves. Wish you had hair to pull."
"You would have loved my mullet," Bobby says, giving the long snout next to his face a quick peck. It was growing on him surprisingly quickly. "But you can fuck my neck up if you want."
Remi stares blankly.
"Like, bite it, leave hickeys and stuff."
"Oh!" Remi obliges immediately, snout tracing the cleft of a shoulder. His tongue laps at it before sucking lightly.
Bobby groans when a thigh presses along the underside of his cock, and everything is suddenly too tight. Wine colored dress pants tangle with plum. His hands snake under a shirt and Remi shivers.
The concrete they're sitting on is too cold, the air is too fucking cold, but Bobby needs to feel the other so badly. He makes up his mind to stop before a grip full of warm skin or a tongue draws him in again.
"Okay," Bobby says, pulling away to breathe heavy and fight the urge to kiss Remi. "I still need to get tested. So I can't go all the way."
Remi's lip is terse. Like he hadn't even considered the possibility of anything past a high, hot and heavy makeout session. "Yeah, that's cool. Take the reigns."
Bobby is painfully curious, hand tracing Remi's collarbone and neck. "You sleep around any?"
The snout next to jerks away from Bobby's face when Remi snorts so they don't smack into eachother. "I'm lucky folks even notice me here. Kissed a few girls. One guy. But I haven't hooked up since last summer."
"That's a shame," Bobby says in a whisper next to a teardropped ear. It twitches from the burst of heat. "They're missing out."
Remi looks the other way, lip twitching in between embarassment and a smile. It wasn't supposed to sound so romantic but Bobby loves the effect it has.
So does Remi it seems, because he's thrusting up against Bobby now, breath ragged as he still tries to hide his expression. His arms cradle Bobby to him, firm fingers gripping his waist to leverage them together.
The cold doesn't even bother Bobby anymore. His nerves feel like TV static and he can barely feel anything else save the occasional burst of warmth across his neck. His hand brushes over the outline of Remi's cock, and the man underneath him arches, gasping. Bobby fumbles a hand through Remi's fly, desperate to feel what he can't see.
"F-fuck, Bobby-"
"Mhm?"
Remi spasms, the fist in his hair jerking him back. He's hard, even as Bobby parts the plaid boxers' button fly to expose him to the air. It bobs, bloodflow fighting against gravity and the chill around them. Bobby's thumb circles a rose-blushed tip. It's longer than his enclosed fist, he thinks he could probably fit the other. And then he does. He'd be staring in awe if they were anywhere else and he's so damn impatient. A laugh bubbles out first and then he's whispering in Remi's ear like there's someone around to hear.
"Hung like a horse. Gonna have to ride you. Break you."
Remi is flushed, probably from the cold but Bobby likes to imagine he has that affect on men.
"Getting chilly?" Bobby asks, and Remi nods, hips thrusting his cock through Bobby's tight fist like it's echoing the gesture. "I could warm you up." Bobby ducks his head down, sliding himself down Remi's leg and sticks his tongue out in flirtation. Remi's hands snatch his ears before Bobby can commit to the act.
"Wait, I have a condom!"
Bobby stops, looking from the dick he really wants to put in his mouth to Remi's flushed face.
"A blow job with a condom?"
Remi reaches one hand into a pocket, other hand keeping Bobby at bay. "Oral herpes would be a moodkiller," he clarifies. "You okay with latex? It tastes like a balloon if that sweetens the deal."
Bobby laughs. "A little pre-sump-tuous. Thought you were getting lucky tonight?"
Remi manages to get the condom on with minimal fumbling but can't hide a smirk any time he looks at Bobby once. "Optimistic."
Finally able to lick the head he's been dying to get his hands on, Bobby looks up at Remi. Remi stares back from around his large snout and it almost makes Bobby giggle from the angle. He holds the base of the condom snug against skin, tongue tracing down the underside. He readjusts his grip on the condom, sliding it back down into place and Remi lets out an adorably shaky breath as his hips spasm in place.
"Oh. I'm seeing the allure now. Like a stroker. Or a blow job with layers."
Remi puts his hands over his face, stomach visibly tensing from his poorly concealed laughter.
"Layers? Oh god, no-"
"You're mad that I'm right."
"Won't be able to think of it any other way," Remi says, sighing and relaxing on the concrete. Bobby strokes him, hand over hand down his shaft, leaving the sensation of nothing but penetration over and over again. It's teasingly slow but horribly effective, as Remi has gone stark silent.
Finally, the pattern is broken. Bobby ghosts his mouth over the glans, lips pursing for just that extra bit of pressure. Remi's fingers scrape over his scalp, hair too short to thread through. It feels pleasant though. Bobby tilts his head, leaning into Remi's hands before swallowing down as much as he can take in this position. It does taste a lot like a balloon.
Latex screeches as he adjusts his pose, fingers pulling the condom taught as he inches closer to the base of Remi's cock. He's not sure he's ever taken anything this long before. His exhale comes in a controlled burst, mouth sinking down in rhythmic tandem with every breath. His whole body has to move to take it at this angle, and he grinds himself against Remi's leg as he does so. Imagining what it would feel like inside him has Bobby aching.
"I can go down on you after, if you want." Remi's choked voice interrupts his thoughts.
Bobby pops off the top of Remi's cock, wiping errant saliva with his sleeve.
"I'm good."
"You are?"
"After I get tested, I wanna go all the way. I want to feel you. But like, til then I don't mind a little blue balling. Just means I get a higher pay-off."
Remi still looks conflicted. "If you're sure... You don't feel like I'm pressuring you into this, do you?
"You're talking a lot for a guy getting his dick sucked," Bobby says, tongue laving over shaft and hand twisting with every pump. "This right here is a self-indulgent taste test." Well. As much taste as there could be with a latex barrier.
All is quiet for a moment and Bobby is frightened that they've jumped the gun, but Remi goes back to shallowly thrusting into his hand. He takes it as a good sign and focuses back on the task at hand. He drops into a comfortable angle for his throat, pushing against resistance with a heavy inhale through his nose while clenching his fists. He can feel the itch in the back of his mouth but fights it with an added flex and finally he's smooth sailing, the slide in and out of his throat alternating with every calm breath. He looks up over the top of his frames at Remi's heaving chest and swaying head.
"Oh... Bobby... f-fuck-"
Hands grip the outside of thighs to pull Remi and himself together. Entire bodies moving in tandem, Bobby chokes down another inch while Remi chokes back a moan. His legs shift apart, letting Bobby push himself down further, and it's taken as an unspoken invitation. Bobby grips Remi's legs and spreads, pushing them upwards until Remi's hips are raised into a more comfortable position for his throat. It also conveniently brings their faces that much closer together. With every thrust down onto Remi's cock, Bobby feels a burst of ragged air against his face.
"Never done it like this," Remi says in mild surprise at the position.
Their eyes lock, and Bobby's mischievous glint sends a thrill of fear through Remi's stomach. Bobby takes him for all he's worth, hands pushing against lean gorgeous thighs to press knees against shoulders. Something is squirming close to Bobby's hand—a tail. It's long and coiled. It flexes rythmically as Bobby goes down, hypnotically, and then it kinks. Before Bobby can ask, Remi lets out a startled noise.
"Bobby, fuck, I-"
And the dog in question doesn't slow, doesn't let go. Remi has no choice but to grab his spasming legs with shaking hands, tail evidently twitching in his pants. Fingers claw the underside of his thighs when he finally reaches the precipice. A shiver runs through him as his core tightens and then with a shudder it all releases, electricity surging through every nerve.
It feels amazing, as it usually does. Weed compliments sex like cheese compliments a tortilla chip. But Bobby has eviscerated him, sucking through every spasm and pinning him down until the sensation was overwhelming. Carefully, Bobby pulls back, the pressure from his throat surrendering his sensitive and spent cock. Audibly popping off of his dick, Bobby snags the end of the condom with his teeth. Remi thrashes as the condom is pulled off of him, the bundle of oversensitized nerves slammed with the unexpected sensation in the last ebs of his climax. Bobby has a nefarious grin as he spits the condom onto the ground.
Slowly releasing his legs, Remi breathes out slowly. He's still shaking, and Bobby curls into him to share whatever warmth he still has.
"You good, man?" Bobby asks, scratching the other's scalp.
Still oversensitive and untensing every muscle, he answers automatically. "Really good, thank you," Remi says, mouth dry, shivering, back starting to hurt. He feels like he's been hit by a car. He tucks himself back behind his boxers and hopes he doesn't stain his jeans. It takes him a second to even his breathing to speak again. "Thanks. So. What are you doing after this?"
"What, after getting tested? ...I dunno."
"I, um. Have some comics. At my place, if you're interested. And I was gonna give you the rest of the bag."
This wasn't supposed to be anything serious, but.... Bobby hugs the other, dreading the thought of peeling away to face the cold. Cuffing season really was in full force. He actually... is thinking of going over. "You sure Tank won't be... I don't know, I haven't really spoken to any of the Gammas since... y'know."
A hand pulls him closer in reassurance. "There's no ill will at all. Tank's actually been wanting to make amends for a while. Max... saving his life and all. I invite you into the house, nobody will say shit if they know what's good for 'em."
With a content sigh, Bobby's head thunks softly onto his shoulder. "You sound like a mob boss."
"What, making you an offer you can't refuse?" Remi quirks a brow.
"Something like that. First you give me your number and now this? Getting into your room?" Bobby cracks a full smile. "Remi, you sly dog."
"Dirty rat, actually," Remi says in a flirtatious whisper.
Consider that suspicion officially confirmed. Now he wants to see that tail.
It's only Monday of dead week, but the ominous threat of finals lays heavy. A small high to take the edge off is in order. Bobby physically can't wait to try Exodus Cheese in his bong and has needled a perfect amount into the bowl. The day has been a little weird, with Bradley and Tank's very public fight still floating through his head. Max has wandered out to ditch Bradley's baggage, PJ has left to order pizza for his girlfriend or something (Bobby hadn't truly been paying attention to the specifics) and Bobby is finally alone in his room for the first time in a long time.
He hasn't read throught the stash of comics Remi lent him yet and is going to take the opportunity before finals week brings any more stress his way, starting off with the latest adventure from Chip 'n Dale. Bobby leans back in the chair, propping his foot up on the corner of the desk.
A fatal mistake.
His foot barely nudges the bong, but it tips too far and slips off the side. He can hear the slosh and a spike of anxiety hits him as it falls onto Max's bed, splash cresting over the top. He barely hooks it by the mouthpiece, stopping it from shattering or causing a larger spill when it thunks against the bed frame, but drags a flurry of papers from the desk with the motion.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-"
Bobby is racing against time, throwing papers onto the ground and stripping Max's bedsheets.
The pillowcase has taken most of the damage, soaked in the light funky scent of dorm-tap bong water. He decides he can run Max's sheets through the wash, tossing it in the large dormitory laundry cart.
Which still leaves a cluster of papers for Bobby to sort through and salvage.
He grabs the notes from English class, blessedly free of water damage, and sets them back on the desk.
The comics are spread everywhere on the floor, and Bobby wouldn't normally care about them staying in mint condition but he'd at least like to read through them before they're destroyed and they're also Remi's. He straightens everything into a stack, adjusting pages and checking for wet spots, but everything is blessedly clear.
He pauses after grabbing the next issue. There's a photo of a dog on the front, ginger and black hair. Bobby doesn't remember grabbing this in the stack, but it's possible he overlooked it. Leashed?
He spaces out sometimes and he had gotten pretty high on Exodus that same day. It's possible Remi accidentally loaned something from his wank bank. Maybe purposefully. And who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?
Nasty dog, he thinks, sitting back on the rolling chair.
And there sure are a lot of dogs. Almost exclusively. Pages flutter, and Bobby is giggling looking through photo on photo of cuffs, leather, harnesses, holes.
He almost regrets not taking Remi's offer to repay the oral, especially now that he's got so much eye candy to oggle. But getting blue-balled was part of the build-up anyways. It would be worth it in the end.
....wouldn't hurt to take the edge off though. The base of his palm presses hard against the growing bulge in his pants.
There's a pair of guys tied together—thigh to thigh, chest to chest, sharing one ball gag. Bobby's mouth is already sufficiently dry but it's only now that he notices. He undoes his fly with one hand, feeling himself through the spandex of his speedo. Flipping another page takes him to a skinny mut with intense features, tied to a chair with a riding crop held to his crotch by someone behind the camera.
It's a money shot that can get Bobby most of the way there. It's so easy to see Remi desperate, begging for some kindness to be laid upon his beautiful dick.
Is that what he's into? Maaaaaajor kink-age. It isn't too hard to imagine wearing leather. He's already got the speedo collection down. Would Remi like that?
So far, Remi had seemed down for anything. Like he was perfectly content to have Bobby pull him around. In a lot of ways, Remi was an unknown. To most, it made him seem extremely bland. Definitely more bland than Bobby would ever consider going for. But it was exactly what made him so intriguing. Nobody from the cast seemed to know anything about boy-next-door Remi—few even knew his name. He was a secret, Bobby's dirty little secret. He turns the page, hoping for some more illuminating content as to what Remi might like.
PJ's shoulder busts the dormitory door open, hands laden with an oversized hamper with the intention of finishing laundry and then walking his girlfriend back from her last class of the day. Instead he sees Bobby, dick in one hand and very-clearly-gay porn in the other. He drops the hamper with a gasp.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING-"
For most there exists a fight or flight response to percieved danger, a phenomena first penned by Walter Bradford Cannon in 1932. There of course exists many subsequent responses in the sentient psyche, however a common tertiary response for stoners is seldom studied. In Bobby's inhibited and paranoia-sensitive state he exhibits the rigidly trained denial response that takes the form of stress cleaning.
Bobby throws the magazine against the wall, fairly certain PJ hasn't seen the contents of it, pants on and zipped up like nothing has happened before he continues picking comics off the ground.
PJ stands there a second longer in beffudlement, watching hisroommate move robotically to pick up laundry like PJ hadn't walked in on it.
"-ON MY FUCKING CHAIR?"
Bobby hazards a look at the other. "....nothing?"
PJ's face is stark white, hand wiping down his face. "Why would you- right before I—ON MY CHAIR!"
"-I'm gonna go finish laundry," Bobby says, rolling the tote out of the room without another word.
PJ stands awkwardly in the doorway, a shiver of disgust shooting through his tail. Of course he should have guessed this would happen eventually. Roommates probably walk in on each other all the time he reasons. There's probably a normal reaction to have to it, but PJ has been high-strung his entire life.
"I'm throwing away the fucking chair!"