Present for JB, who wanted happiness with ice cream, but got happiness instead. Damn you. *grin*
-- July, 2000.

A New Kinda Perspective
by Lise

"Remy. I did not expect to find you here, my friend."

"Stormy. Why not, chere?"

She ignores the nickname for once, knowing there is more here to delve into. There are a hundred ways to answer the man she adores, that sits on the roof, alone; a hundred things he could be doing rather than visiting past ghosts. She could say that he should be happy, should be grateful that he breathes in and out, that his lover is downstairs, waiting patiently for him to come to bed.

The stars, they stare down on her, and she feels their soft smiles. The wind, she feels that too, and it brushes past the two of them. The Goddess knows how close they are, of course, and gives them delights to ponder, to stare at.

Gazing at him, vital and well, she is so very grateful that they can share this moment, together.

She is frightened by how close she was to losing him.

She hugs her arms around herself, and stares fondly at him again. His cheeks are pale, made more so by moonlight and sickness ... but the sickness is retreating, and the moonlight is kind, even if it accentuates the shadows in the planes of his face. She knows that those shadows stand for strength, now, not hardship, and for that, she thanks the earth and sky and heavens and water and everything.

She would have wept, were they to have lost him.

He should not be sitting here, alone. He should not be lonely.

"Are you coming inside, dear friend?"

"Soon, chere."

She worries for him, naturally. There are a billion beautiful things in the world, and he stares at them, serious expression at the ready. There is not nearly enough joy in this world, she thinks to herself, and sighs. She wishes that he would not brood -- she thought that phaze was over, with the retreat of the sickness, and the good news they rejoice in.

Death was not coming for him. Not yet, and hopefully not for a long time.

It smells of spring, and he inhales quietly. She knows he is ever so grateful to be able to feel the air in his lungs. It is something she has always taken for granted, but now it feels like the most important thing in the entire world, to know that breath exists and they are both bringing it into their bodies. Each breath is a testament to him.

"Don't worry, Stormy. I ain' down tonight."

His tone is gentle, caring, and laced with something stronger and larger than before. She is surprised to hear it coming from a man whom once was so broken, it made her cry.

His mending was a cure for more than just his body, and the changes within him made her heart sing. His lover, too, was part of it, and so much more -- was part of his new lease on life, his newfound life itself. Bobby and him swam together now, connected in fate, and for that she was so very grateful. It was time that he found happiness, and when he and Bobby looked at each other, she felt the flowers blooming outside.

How could it ever rain, when two such people lived?

He was not brooding, then, and she begs to ask the question, 'Why are you here?' The timing does not seem right, however, because he is deep in contemplation of something she suspects she will never see, for all her looking. While they are close, were close, and always will be, a part of him is always closed off, so deeply in love that she would feel strange to see it.

She suspects that she isn't the only one grateful for his breath tonight. His lover still waits patiently, wanting him to come to bed.

She cannot help but ask, "What has brought you here, Remy?"

He has warmth, and beauty, and even love, beneath him inside, and yet he chooses to sit on the roof and stare out at the night and its blackness. She does not understand what he is enraptured with.

He looks to her, and smiles, a slow, wide smile that has nothing hiding, or pained, or cramped within it. He does not see what he did before. She cannot see with his eyes, the perspective that is slowly changing. She worries for him, but there is no need. All his life, he sat up here, and never saw what splendid sights were really laid out for him, the whole world a feast for his senses to soak in. But, for all his thinking, he cannot express it.

He has to make do with a quiet, "I'm jus' admiring the view."

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