the hand of your raising
New Orleans greets him with a gorgeous symphony of street noise, brass bands, and rainfall. Hiding beneath the balconies of townhouses are his people, fluttering in between shops and homes. Wind rattles the magnolia trees above them. On a branch sits a smooth, tan bird with gray wings and a yellow underbelly. A black mask surrounds its eyes. It whistles, high pitched and cyclical.
“Remy? You know where to go?” Logan’s voice cuts through the music, a different kind of song.
“Yeah. Just gimme a sec’.” He closes his eyes and breathes in the petrichor. The heartache of being away erodes him slowly like water to stone, until suddenly he feels a canyon of loss runs through him. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. A shaking breath leaves him before he revs his bike and puts his helmet back on. Without a word he speeds west, where a crypt is waiting for them.
The rain kicks up mist on the stone tombs, clouding Remy’s vision as he leans down. He digs through the mud by the base of the crypt, Logan looking on skeptically.
“Are you sure this is the right place? Baptiste seems like a pretty common last name here.” Remy spares a glance to him, where he stands glowering with his arms crossed.
“I’m sure, mon cher . I know my cemeteries.” His hands pull up another chunk of swamp ground. He’s up to his elbow in dirt before his fingertips grasp the edge of a box.
“ Viola! ” He exclaims. The steel box is slimy, dented and carrying a heavy padlock. “Take care of that for me, would’ya?” Logan pops one claw to cut through the lock. After prying the box open, a brass key sits at the bottom.
“Seriously? All the way out here for a key? Can’t you just steal the notebooks?”
“Mama Inés Baptiste did not tell me where to find this before she died so that I could break into her home. Or, wherever she put them.”
Logan stills. “You didn’t tell Chuck you knew her.”
“Well, if the man really wanted to know, he could always take a peek,” he says while tapping his head. “Besides, it ain’t make any difference. Just makes it a lil’ easier on us.” Or harder . Inés was a spitfire woman; her family is the same. “Now we just gotta find out where this goes.”
“You don’t know where it goes?!” Logan growls. His leather jacket has been stripped, leaving him in a denim jacket and white tank top.
“You really don’t have that many clothes, do you?” He says instead of answering.
Logan’s face scrunches in anger and suddenly Remy is being hauled up by the lapel of his coat. Logan pushes him against the crypt, eyes burning.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Remy rolls his eyes, which only makes Logan’s grip tighten. Ever since Halloween, Logan has been taking every opportunity he gets to fight with him. Their sparring sessions have gotten dangerous with Remy coming out of them with a myriad of bruises. He lets enough charge run through him for his eyes to spark magenta.
“ Cher, I know what I’m doing. You can head back to the mansion for all I care.” He amps up the charge, steam beginning to fizz from the stone behind him. “But whatever you do, we can’t get to the notebooks until the morning.” Logan’s face is never this close to his but the charge quells the pull in his gut. The rain begins to pour, seeping into Logan’s clothes and flattening Remy’s bangs to his forehead. Finally, Logan lets go. With a growl, he stalks back towards the bikes. He waits a few seconds, wringing his ponytail of water.
Logan nearly kills himself several times on the ride back. Remy thinks about pulling over to yell at him if it would make a difference. In fact, Logan would probably fly off a cliff if it meant spiting Remy. The road is too rainy for Remy to ride safely either, but the ride to the LeBeau estate is (hopefully) short enough. The cast iron gate squeals as they enter, ivy crawling along the cobblestone road towards the house. He motions Logan towards the car park, where they can leave their bikes.
“You live here?” Logan grunts over the rain.
“No, no. When I was a kid, my daddies lived in a townhouse. We passed it, actually, on D’Hemecourt Street. They moved here after the assassins kept getting in.”
Staring up at the looming house, Remy feels lost. He grew up in the shotgun house with bright purple siding, so far from this Spanish mansion. It's painted a very pale sage green, almost imperceptibly green, if not for the overcast sky behind it. The door is crimson, matching the curtains. He’s been here a few times before but prefers when they reunite at his tante’s house. Pulling his bangs away from his head, he steadies himself. His père will be there to greet him, to scold him for riding in this weather. He can show Logan around and lessen the gap between them by feeding him and letting him warm up by the fire.
“We goin’ in, bub?” Logan interrupts. He doesn’t bother responding. They climb the steps but before he can knock, the door swings open. Jean-Luc’s hair is longer than when Remy was last down here, and they look even more similar.
“I thought you were gonna freeze to death out there.” He throws his arms around Remy. He can’t help but sink into the hold. His father smells like linen and cigarettes, his favorite American Spirit Blacks.
“ Père , this is Logan,” he introduces when they separate. Logan grunts hello, looking like a wet cat.
“Any friend’s o’ Remy is welcome in our home. Come in before y’all catch the plague.” He leads them into the foyer, where they shed their shoes and wet layers.
“Your daddy’s making boudin . More than enough for the two o’ you.” The more Jean-Luc talks, the more his accent comes out.
“Who’s that, amour ?” His daddy calls from the kitchen.
“Come out n’ see!” His père calls back, smiling wide. Remy hears Lazare grumbling as he walks out of the kitchen.
“I- Remy!” Lazare wraps him in a hug before Remy can respond. He smells like sausage and red pepper, and under that is his apple-cinnamon soap that he’s been using since Remy was eleven.
“You didn’t tell us you were visiting! Jesus, boy, you’re skinnier than a wire, what’re they feedin’ you up there?”
“They’re feeding me fine, daddy,” he protests.
“Uh huh, I’m sure. You here on work?” Remy nods and remembers Logan behind him.
“Daddy, this is Logan.” He gestures to the man, who looks no less awkward than when they first arrived.
“He an X-Man?” Lazare asks, raising his brow. Remy’s jaw clenches. Daddy is less interested in Logan’s occupation and more about having another mutant in the house.
“He is. He teaches too. History,” Remy brags. He can’t help it; he wants them to like Logan more than anything. But they’ve always been wary of Remy’s mutation (not that he can blame them), and Logan is a stranger he brought into their home.
“There some problem down here we don’t know about?” His père interrupts.
“No, no. Just something we need’a get. It don’t matter to anyone but mutants,” he replies coolly. As expected, they both back off. That’s how it’s always been to them; they protect their people, and mutants are not their people.
“Why don’t you two go up and dry off? We’ll call you down for the food.” Remy nods and Logan can’t seem to get out of there faster.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs to Logan at the top of the stairs.
“Sorry ‘bout what?” He questions as they continue down the hallway.
“ Cher , they practically looked through you,” he chuckles while opening the door to his room. “They ain’t always fond o’ strangers. And they’ve never been too keen on my being an X-Man.”
“There a reason for that?” Remy sighs. He knows what Logan is asking. They mutant haters? He’s surprised Logan doesn’t just come out and say it given his attitude lately. He waits a second, deciding how much he should reveal about himself. It’s been a long time since he’s brought anyone down here.
“They took me off the streets. Always knew I was a mutant. Told me I was, in fact. Before that, I was running around believing I was devil spawn.” He hands Logan one of his shirts, looking down. “But the charge… It hasn’t always been easy to control. They spent a lot of time makin’ sure I didn’t blow myself up. I can’t blame them for being wary of mutants, especially not after all they’ve done for me.” His hands tighten around the sweatshirt in his hands. Every time he feels the charge slipping out of his control, he can see Jean-Luc’s terrified face behind his eyes.
“Damn. Sorry.” Logan looks sincere but incredibly uncomfortable. Remy laughs.
“ Merci, cher . Remy gonna go take a shower if you don’t mind.”
------
Logan can’t help but pull the collar of Remy’s shirt over his nose. It’s been a long time since anyone’s invited him into their home. Remy’s house is swirling with so many smells and sounds. One of his dads is wearing cologne like Remy's but ten times stronger. The house smells like musk and rain; Logan thinks they have a leak somewhere. He can hear the other LeBeaus in the kitchen bickering, chopping vegetables, and speaking in French. There’s an ache in his chest he can’t place. Everything here is picturesque to Logan; he feels like he’s in a movie. Remy’s family is nowhere near perfect, the man himself told him. But any memory Logan had of being a kid is gone. His mother’s face is lost to him, even if sometimes a scent crosses his path, and he can barely grasp the edges of a woman in his mind. His father is a complete mystery.
Remy’s room is cozy, lined with photographs and trinkets. His bed is a large queen, with thick red sheets dotted with white flowers. His curtains are delicate, white linen, twirling like a ghost with the wind. Logan opened a window as soon as Remy left, hoping the rain’s white noise would soothe him.
On Remy’s nightstand is a framed picture of his dads and a small child, younger than most of Logan’s students. It takes him a second to recognize the kid as Remy. The two men are much younger, but their love for each other is evident. Jean-Luc’s hand is wrapped around Lazare’s waist, while the other rests in Remy’s hair. Remy’s smiling so wide his eyes are scrunched closed. Logan huffs out a laugh. If only he could pull a smile like that from the man today. His red hair is short but clearly grown out. Logan squints and looks closer to see Remy holding a tiny, gray kitten in his hands. He smiles. Maybe somewhere in Alberta, someone has childhood photos of him. He pulls in another breath of Remy’s scent to help dull the overstimulation buzzing in the back of his head. If only Chuck could have sent them down here last month, when Logan was seriously thinking about taking off, just for a few weeks. The ache in his body for lower ground kept him up and gave him vague joint pain he hadn’t had in years. But now, the fatigue has set in. Animals need to use as little energy as possible in winter. He’s no different.
Remy’s words from Halloween rattle around in his head. The anger at his amnesia has settled over the years, a stone at the bottom a river slowly smoothed by the current. But now, the stone has been upturned, the still jagged side revealed. It feels like a gut punch to think- what? That he gave into the crude desires still in his blood? Even before, did he feel pulled towards Remy? To know there was once a version of him who believed in acting on those desires?
A door opens, cutting through his thoughts, and Logan hears Remy’s damp footsteps. He passes by the bedroom, pausing for just a second before continuing down the hall.
Logan waits, trying to hear what Remy’s doing. When nothing comes from the hallway, he goes to investigate.
Remy is lying on the rug, a towel around his waist and arms crossed behind his head. The room is full of towering bookshelves, with large, ornate windows on the far wall. Crimson curtains frame them, and gold accents match the ochre velvet fainting couch.
“You okay?” He asks gruffly. The easy friendship they had has been broken, mainly by Logan. He can’t help but feel like the man is hiding something from him but is too scared to ask.
“Kitchen’s under here. Heats up the floor.” His eyes are closed, and his breathing is slow. Logan slowly enters the room and feels the warm wood through his socks. Carefully, he sits beside Remy, leaving a few feet of space between them, just in case. Remy’s skin is still damp from the shower, making the dips of his muscles gleam. Several pink, thin scars line his hips, dipping below the towel. On his toned flank, just barely visible, are crossed, raised scars that make Logan shudder. They’re old and faded, but he wonders how many there are. He tears his eyes away, but they land on a pair of healed silver scars on Remy’s chest. They’re thin crescent moons that curve under his breasts. Logan’s not sure he would have noticed them if not for their proximity.
“You okay, cher ? You’re lookin’ a lil’ tired.” Remy’s voice is soft and cautious. He opens one eye to look at Logan.
“Jus’ been a long month,” he answers. Remy hums an affirmation.
“How’d your trip to Jersey go?”
Charles had sent him down on Thanksgiving break to retrieve a kid. “Jersey’s shit as always. Kid was fine. Parents gave me some trouble but I handled it.”
“You missed some good food. I cooked up a whole pot a’ gumbo- pork, rice, okra. The whole nine yards.” As if on cue, Logan’s stomach growls. Remy opens his eyes and smiles.
“Don’t worry cher , we’ll get you fed.”
“Sorry your folks gotta put me up like this-” he starts to say before a feathery touch brushes his arm. He nearly jumps out of his skin, wondering what the hell that was.
“Awh, come ‘ere Sweet Pea!” Remy calls and Logan turns his head to see a fluffy black cat standing next to him on the rug. The cat doesn’t respond to Remy’s call, instead flipping over to rub her face into the rug.
“Didn’t even fuckin’ hear her,” he grumbles. Remy’s sitting up now, and Logan can see in between the scars on his flank are small bursts of freckles. His eyes are drawn back to the half-moon scars. Unlike the other scars Remy has, these are well healed and evenly placed. On his left rib is a star shaped scar, puckered and angry pink. He feels a wave of nausea hit him. He hears Remy’s heartbeat pick up every time one of them pries about his past. Logan used to cajole him the worst out of the team.
“They ain’t going anywhere, homme, no need to stare.” Remy’s rigid voice interrupts his spiral. His face heats up. Could he make this anymore weird?
“Sorry. Just- I don’t see scars all that often. Not, uh, used to them.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
Remy looks him up and down, before understanding what he means. He leans over to run a hand down the cat’s side, pulling his hand away as she lashes at it.
“Essex.” Logan stops. Remy told him about Essex when they had first reunited at the mansion. He was on the island with Stryker. “Most o’ these are his work. Or Stryker’s.”
His hand moves to his right side, where he reveals five long gashes that line his ribs.
“This one’s from Cr- Sabretooth. Nearly did me in.” He strums the scars idly, a practiced movement. Logan feels his eyes burn and his throat dry. He wonders if Remy is punishing him for his coldness; bearing his vulnerabilities in a way Logan never can. Logan skims the space between his fingers. The scar tissue is dusty pink and symmetrical. The result of a methodical function that wears away the same space every time. He flinches when Remy’s calloused fingertips caress the knicks. He looks up, seeing Remy’s beautiful eyes staring back at him.
“They hurt?” He whispers, almost inaudible above the storm outside.
“Always.”
They pass a breath between each other, sitting in silence as Remy’s fingers dance across his hands. His skin is electric where Remy touches him. Before Logan can lean in further, Jean-Luc’s voice echoes through the house.
“ Boys! Dinner!”
The boudin is still sizzling when they hurry down the stairs. Remy’s dressed in black jeans and a dress shirt, a floral vest hugging his torso. Logan’s still in Remy’s clothes; the Pet Shop Boys shirt and his mostly dry jeans. His flannel was too soaked to keep on. He shifts awkwardly in his seat upon seeing Remy’s dads. Jean-Luc and Lazare are both in dress pants and collared shirts, looking shockingly like Remy.
Set on the table is a large array of dishes, piles of hot food on the table’s red floral runner. There’s the boudin, but there’s also fried corn, salads, and fresh bread that’s still warm from the oven. It’s like the dinners in the mansion when things are quiet and they can have all hands on deck. Logan wonders if Lazare and Jean-Luc we’re gonna have all this to themselves, or if they whipped it up specially for Remy.
“It’s been pissin’ for hours. Thought we was out o’ hurricane season,” Lazare grumbles.
“How’re the chicks?” Remy asks, piling sausage onto his plate.
Jean-Luc lets out a noise of annoyance. “Those hawks are gonna be the death o’ me. Need you down here to scare them off.”
“You can use the crows to scare ‘em off,” Logan pipes up. “If you feed some crows for a little, they’ll mob the hawks that come by.”
The men look at him curiously. “You own some birds, Logan?”
“I used to. In Alberta.”
Jean Luc balks. “Alberta? Jesus! You a long way from home. How’d you an’ Remy meet, anyway?” Fuck . He tries to casually glance at Remy, who looks completely unfazed.
“Logan helped me out with something. Then we met again through the Professor.” The lie is smooth, barely detectable. The mention of the Professor makes the men still, and Logan can smell their tension.
“And how’s it been… with the Professor?” Lazare asks carefully.
“They’ve got me teaching art history. All that time with nonc really paid off.” He smiles. “Logan an’ I teach the kids some fighting too. Gotta make sure they’re prepared out there.”
“And history?” Lazare points the question at Logan.
“Yup. Two classes of American history. We’re working through the Texas revolution right now.” He hopes they don’t ask about his education. Or anything else before 1985. The conversation lulls as they all eat. Logan complements Lazare, who waves him off the same way Remy does. A crash of thunder rattles the window panes, the lights flickering.
“Those damn circuits. We’ve had three guys to look at them; nothing!” Lazare complains.
“You sure you n’ père should be all the way out here, all by yourselves? Surely someone’s got a house for sale near tante’s ,” Remy questioned, his hand worrying a card under the table.
“Remy, if I have to deal wit’ Sable complaining about the color of my damn cabinets ever again, I’ll kill myself. Your tante and I love each other, but good Lord .” Lazare laughs at Jean-Luc’s bluntness. The LeBeaus converse in French for a few moments, most of it lost on Logan. He knows some from his time in Alberta, and from before he lost his memories. But not enough to get by. Remy obviously loses the argument, but he just sighs and continues eating. They pass each other food, and the older LeBeau’s eagerly indulge Logan’s requests for seconds. For the first time in a long time, something prickles at his skin, a phantom sensation of his life before the Island. He tries to shake it away while Remy’s dads continues to ask him questions.
“And Logan, what’d you do before you taught?” Lazare asks, earning a glare from Remy that bounces off of him.
“I, uh,” Used my super strength to win cage fights? Great fucking impression. “Worked lumber.”
“Up in Canada?” Jean Luc’s chimes in. He nods, trying to think of something else to say. He can’t lie because if those two are any like Remy, they’ll see right through him.
“And how’d you meet the Professor?” Remy’s eyes flit to him, saying something Logan can’t decipher.
“I met a girl, a mutant. She needed a ride there and I took her. He offered me a place to stay.” It’s barely the truth and barely a lie. He would have taken Marie there, if either of them had known to go.
“Logan’s brought a lot of kids to us; the Professor’s always sending him out to help them,” Remy adds quickly, his tone praising. “He’s saved a lot of kids.” Logan looks at him, bathed in soft golden light from the dining room’s chandelier, rouge dusting his cheekbones and soft freckles crawling up his neck. He looks so at home, matches his fathers perfectly and somehow he’s talking about Logan like he hung the damn moon. For doing his job, for atoning.
Lazare clears his throat, breaking him out of his trance the moment Remy looks back at him. The rest of dinner passes without much questioning, just Remy catching up his parents and occasionally bragging about Logan. He’s sure he’s blushing by the end of it. Remy shoos the other two men out of the kitchen when they try to do the dishes, a conversation in French that Logan misses. Eventually it’s just him and Remy, elbow to elbow, doing dishes.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Remy says, echoing earlier in the day. His footsteps are practiced and quiet on the long hallway floor to his room.
“Don’t worry about it. No family is perfect.”
They return to Remy’s room, and Remy shivers as he enters. “Christ, I come all the way done here for a lil’ warmth and get stuck in a damn monsoon.”
“Sure it can’t be that much better back home.” Remy laughs as he separates the long part of his hair into twos. He skillfully braids them before doing the same on the other side.
“Tomorrow morning, if the storm’s let up a little, we can head over to the Baptiste’s,” Remy says idly as he putters around his room. “They’ll help us. Depends on who answers the door, though.”
“Sounds great,” he grunts.
“Don’ worry, cher , I’m sure we can find a way in.” He winks at Logan, quickly unbuttoning his vest. He rolls up his sleeves and sighs before turning back to Logan.
“You gonna turn in soon?”
“Yeah.” He’s not. The LeBeau’s are already putting up a stranger. He doesn’t want to shred their expensive linen bedding and have to explain himself. He’s already put Remy in an awkward position. But he’s gone longer without sleep. If he really needs to, he’ll sleep on the floor. They’ve got that big library down the hall that can occupy him. He looks up to see Remy shirtless for the second time tonight, this time having his muscular back greet him. The scars seem endless, but Logan feels nervous for a different reason. He sees guys shirtless all the time- hell, he’s shirtless all the time. But Remy’s lithe body makes his blood run with something foreign, but instinctual. It feels like those first few months after the Island, when he packed his things army standard without knowing why. It was new to his mind but not his body. The curtain flaps with renewed vigor, the storm picking up again.
“You gonna catch somethin’ if you don’t close that,” Logan points out. Remy chuckles while slipping on a faded black t-shirt.
“Oh I got lil’ Sweet Pea and Whiskey to keep me warm, don’t I?” As if on cue, a large brown tabby works its way between Remy’s legs. The black cat, Sweet Pea, doesn’t make itself known, but Logan’s sure she’ll come around once Remy settles. Logan understands the feeling.
“You need anything before I knock out?” Remy turns all his attention on him, making him want to flee. “My daddies are on the other side of the house, you ain’t gonna wake ‘em up if you head down for a midnight snack.”
“Nah, I’m good, Rems.”
“Alright. Bonne nuit , Logan.”
“G’night.”
Logan was beginning to run out of ideas. His eyes had drawn so many shapes on the ceiling that he was running out of space. The room was dark, illuminated by a small night light Logan hadn’t unplugged. It was a lamb, with small tufts of grass around its hooves. The light inside shines golden through the aged plastic, casting an angelic glow across the room. He wonders if Remy used it as a child to ward away ghosts and monsters, but the thought of tiny Remy is cut short by remembering Remy grew up on the streets. He had no way to ward off evil, especially not when everyone thought he was the anti-Christ. But the man’s so superstitious he could probably use a night light nowadays; maybe when he was taken in, the little lamb watched over him. The room had more pictures on the walls, though not as many as Remy’s. Some had Remy and his brother, Henri, through various stages in their life. There aren’t many pictures of them past Remy’s teenage years. One had Jean-Luc with a large catfish, proudly held up by the young man. Another, tucked away in a far corner of the room, only seen by Logan’s superior eyesight that shows Remy with a blond woman, hugging her. Remy’s young, probably fifteen years younger, and so is the woman. Their embrace is crushing.
A high pitched beeping sounds through the night, crawling in through the open window. It’s not mechanical, and Logan strains his ears to hear the source. There’s a rustle of feathers as the call sounds again, like a flute playing a single note. From what he can tell the bird is tiny, but built for the cold, given how its down feathers brush against the branch. The bird flies away silently, taking its music with it. Logan tries to list as many birds as he can, drifting off when he gets to the ones he saw in Japan.
Logan sips languidly on his iced tea, listening to Remy and Elena gossip. The thick clouds trap the humidity, making sweat bead on Logan’s temple. The other two seem completely unfazed. Elena is beautiful; a small, delicate woman probably a little younger than Remy. Her baby hairs are gelled into ornate curls, like how Ororo does her's. Her nose is wide and set into her face, with a mole dotting the space next to her Cupid’s Bow. The only indication the heat affects her is that her braids are piled into a bun on the top of her head. Otherwise, she is free from sweat or flush. She’s leaning across the table towards Remy as she spills something especially scandalous. Remy ducks his head to listen, and also to not knock the hanging pot above him. Logan refrains from laughing to himself. The large porch looks out onto the bayou with towering cypress trees guarding the house. Logan wonders how they keep the bugs away.
“But anyway, I guess that’s not really what y’all came for,” Elena says, her words filtering into Logan’s hearing. She stands before saying, “Can I see the key?” Remy pulls the brass key from his breast pocket and Elena regards it for a moment before chuckling.
“That woman. I know where this goes. Lemme go get them for y’all.” Logan tips his head at her, appreciative of her efforts to include him, despite him barely saying two sentences the whole time he’s been here.
“That girl’s got her fingers in every damn pie ‘round here,” Remy ponders when she leaves. His accent is thick, honey-like and drawling. “But she’s a sweetheart. Looks just like Ines, her mama.” Remy’s got on some linen shirt that was Jean-Luc’s, until the man had insisted Remy take it. His hair is down and swaying with the slight breeze. Elena interrupts Logan’s admiration by setting the notebooks down on the table. They’re bound in different shades of blue fabric, some showing considerable wear.
“Mama made sure to write down everything about the mutants she helped. You know, there may be a note about you in here, Remy.”
“Awh, well I’m flattered.” They giggle briefly before they hug goodbye. It takes another ten minutes for them to get off the porch and onto their bikes. As Elena walks back inside, Remy levels him with a look.
“Long way to New York,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Logan.
“Uh huh…,” he prompts.
“Wanna see if we can make it shorter?”
Remy doesn’t even wait to hear Logan’s answer, just quickly finishes putting on his helmet and takes off. Logan tears after him, the wind stealing his laugh.