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It's Ash Wednesday. I only know that because of the smudge of charcoal on his forehead...the one that's been hastily rubbed off, leaving a bigger, more conspicuous - at least to my ever-vigilant eyes - smear.
He doesn't like anyone to know he's been to church, doesn't like us to know that he's concerned with anything resembling the state of his soul or his sins. He prefers to pretend that he doesn't care, that he's an atheist at heart who only pays lip service to Catholicism out of a sense of duty. I know better.
Even if I hadn't seen that smudge of charcoal, I'd know he'd been to Mass. I can smell the incense smoke lingering on his clothes and in his hair; I can smell the salt of his tears. He's been to church, I can smell it on him...I can see it in the way he looks as though a burden's been lifted from his shoulders. Who knew a soul could weigh so much?
He goes through life looking as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, as if he's taken on the guilt of a thousand sinners and made it his own, taken responsibility for all those things that he can't change and isn't responsible for. Part of the reason for it is his empathy - he feels all guilt as if it were his own - but that's not the only reason for his perpetual martyrdom. He truly believes that he doesn't deserve to be happy, that he's somehow responsible for all the bad things that have happened in his life.
He sees me looking at him and quickly tries to shake his bangs in front of his eyes - his old standby method of hiding in plain sight - a burgeoning look of hunted guilt on his face as he realizes I know where he's been. He still hasn't quite learned to trust me; hasn't learned that he doesn't have to hide from me the way he hides from the rest of the world.
He's watching me with a mixture of distrust and bravado, challenging me to point out the obvious, but scared that I'll actually do it. He doesn't like to let people in, doesn't like to admit that he's not the person he pretends to be behind that show of indifference and invincibility. He doesn't like to admit that he's got a heart or a soul. Admitting that sort of thing has only meant pain in the past.
"What've I told you about trusting me?" I say it as nonchalantly as I can, I don't want him to think I'm mad at him; he already looks like he's ready to bolt.
"Stop t'inkin' so much an' do it," he mumbles, expression wavering between defiance and fear.
"Well stop thinkin' so much 'an do it, then," I answer with an easy grin, letting him know that I'm not angry, only concerned. Most people don't realize that he's skittish; he hides it well, but not well enough to keep me from seeing it. "Rem, you ain't got nothin' t' hide from me. You know that as well as I do. C'mere."
His problem is his head gets in the way of his heart. He thinks too much, although most people would accuse him of the opposite. Most people don't know all the thought that goes on behind that seemingly unconcerned stare...it's only at moments like this, moments where I get a glimpse of the truth behind the lie that I know that I'm not mistaken...that he's anywhere near as fearless as he pretends to be.
He's still hesitating, hanging back with that suspicious look he reserves for the moments when he's torn between following his head and following his heart. It's not me he's afraid of, it's his past. He's never been able to outrun it, no matter how hard he's tried, and it's the reason he's afraid to let me in. He's not going to come to me, at least not soon enough for my tastes. I'm going to have to go to him or we'll be here all day while he decides if the risk is worth it.
"Alright, you don't wanna come t' me, I'll come t' you," I say easily with a shrug of the shoulders, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug before he can bolt. Getting ahold of him's the hard part, now that I've got him he's not going anywhere, I know him well enough to know that. "You smell good," I whisper, burying my nose in his hair and letting a smile creep across my lips as I feel the small snort of laughter against my neck.
"I bet y' say dat t' all de boys, eh, Logan?" Remy mumbles in that sweet Southern accent and I can practically feel the grin I know is lighting up his face. He's back on more solid ground now and he knows it.
"Nah, only the ones I love," I whisper, running a hand up and down his back. It's a gamble and I know it, but I've lived long enough to know when the odds are in my favor.
"Y' love me?" he asks softly, breath hot against my neck. A part of me gloats at having caught him off guard - it's not an easy thing to do, by any stretch of the imagination - but the rest of me wonders if I should have just held my tongue. He's unpredictable at the best of times and this is far from the best of times.
"Remember what I said about trusting me?" It's a test, I'll admit it. If he can trust me on this, on the one thing that matters more to him than life itself, then he'll trust me on anything. I need him to trust me on this, need him to stop thinking and let his heart guide him.
He's quiet for a minute - thinking about the pros and cons of trusting me, I'm sure; they don't call him Gambit for nothing - and then, so quietly I can barely hear him, he says with a slow nod as if the answer had just been presented to him by some higher power, "I love y' too, cher."
END