Logan's fingertips up Kurt's side are points of pressure, dancing along the edge between uncomfortable and blissful, awakening older scattered bruises across his ribs and belly. Blossoms of pain race up his spine, making his muscles tense, chasing the firework-hot sweep of Logan's fingers on his cock. Kurt catches his lower lip under his pointed teeth and leans into the touch, his golden eyes glittering under heavy lids.
When Logan drags words out of his rumbling purr, they're almost enough to set Kurt off right then and there. The stark need, the want in Logan's eyes, in his voice, runs down Kurt's body. He shivers, his fond smile becoming a little sharp with wickedness, almost the devil he's been mistaken for so many times. His tail slips up underneath him, sliding along the inside of Logan's thigh.
Hips rocking, he leans down and captures Logan's mouth with his, meeting him growl for growl, then pulling back just enough to speak again. His hand slides down from Logan's jaw, thumb settling into the hollow of his throat.
Logan’s never been a man committed to proving people wrong about himself. It’s a philosophy that’s made him the resident bad influence amongst their found family. Mostly it’s a reputation he’s uses to hurt himself with. But truth be told, there are times, perhaps now more than ever, when he’s never been happier to be a less upstanding member of the X-Men. Moments like this one that make him feel like the sole cause of that devilish smile and Kurt’s budding enthusiasm for a such self-indulgent debauchery as this. If it’s a sin, he’ll never envy the saints.
Despite his upward straining, there’s precious little he can do from this angle to effect what Kurt lets him feel. And that is, in itself, so much a part of what sets that love-drunk look of aw across his face. If his hips and the hunger with which he tries to hang on to that kiss can’t beg enough, Kurt’s words make his whole body stutter. It takes a strained grunt and a growl before he can think through the fog in his forebrain to come to the very words Kurt just demonstrated for him, but that thumb on his Adam’s apple gives him pause.
His wide-blown eyes look like there’s no limit to the depth of them when he drags his hands roughly down the younger man’s plush flanks, and rakes his blunt fingers along those taut thighs.
“Please...” he whispers it at first as his fingertips follow Kurt’s elbow down to his knuckles. The same one he can feel sticky with the remnants of blood he put there. Closing his hand over Kurt’s, he tightens the grip on his neck, an inch or so at a time. And then with a little more breath in his lungs.
Kurt's breath catches in his throat as Logan hisses his response, both consent and request as he presses Kurt's hand closed, until he can feel the columns of Logan's throat against his palm, the surge of his breath and the throb of his pulse. It's a wolfish instinct, Kurt knows, to expose that most vulnerable part to one's packmates. It displays surrender and submission. And, above all, trust.
Trust that he will do no more harm than this. Trust that he could, if he wanted to.
Like the blade of Logan's claw skating along the inside of his thigh, or the desperate grip as they fall together from a cloud of smoke, the need for it, the give and take, threads through their relationship. Kurt feels Logan's thumb slide in the blood on his knuckles and holds him as tight as he dares.
The words he uses to beg for their shared release sing through Kurt's body. He slips his other hand between them, sliding over fur and skin hot and damp with sweat, and wraps it around himself as he speeds up the roll of his hips, driving himself between his own fist and Logan's cock, gasping out half-words as he buries his face into Logan's shoulder, syllables of German and English, prayers and gratitude and entreaties.
It doesn't take long; he's been close enough to it since Logan pushed him up against the counter, waiting only for permission. With a rising whine that turns into a breathless gasp, he comes, hard, back arching and his hips bucking and stuttering as he spends himself into the wet warmth between them.
There are places Logan can go to visit pain objectively. Corners of his mind that center him enough to let him observe the feeling rather than react to it. The same is true of pleasure. It's a mechanical ability he can only guess as to where he learned, but he's never found happiness in either side of that divide between raw sensation and cold disconnection between body and mind. The trick is walking that line.
Attempting to stand still right where the two forces meet. Where he can cling to Kurt's hips, feeling the fur between his fingers. Where every movement of muscle in the younger man's body electrifies him as he bears down and pulls back. And at once, where he can copy this image to memory. Burning an eidetic recording into his brain of the way Kurt touches himself. The way his hair falls into his eyes. The words that tumble out of him in that last frantic moment and just how hard he bears down on Logan's thighs.
It's impossible to stay there very long. You can't drown in sensation when you're breathing with clarity. And if he has to give in somewhere, the side ruled by senses always wins out.
When Kurt pitches forward Logan's arms ensnare him. Scattering him with bites from his ears to his bicep. Planting his heels against the floor, he bucks up even harder, chasing the the sensation he can feel pulling its way out of him. And feeling as though he can catch it and be pulled along with it if Kurt would just hold it there for him a little more firmly.
"Harder..." his voice is rasped by the hand on his neck but he realizes his request could span so many things. "Tighter," he tries instead and covers Kurt's hand with his own again until the low growl in his throat is wrung into total silence.
It takes a long quiet moment for the lack of air and blood flow make his head feel light. Where the only sound that reaches his ears is Kurt's breath and the occasional creaking of the couch. But when his vision goes spotty, he holds those hips down against him. Giving in to the wanton shuddering of his hips with a strangled groan.
Kurt drifts in the wake of his release, moored to the world only by the presence of Logan under and inside his his body. Wet heat glazing his palm, his belly and chest, he sags forward, letting Logan catch him. Aftershocks make the long muscles of his thighs tremble, but part of him has it together enough to keep moving, rocking against the tide of Logan's own pleasure.
He hears and feels the growl beneath his hand and against his heart; he obeys, the sound sending waves of shuddering pleasure down his spine. His tail drifts up to join his hand, sliding around Logan's throat, a tight band of muscle. He sinks his teeth into Logan's shoulders, spurring him on, not caring at the bruises that will awaken in answer on his own; knowing he has enough of those already.
His other hand goes to grip the back of the couch as he holds himself against Logan, making wordless sounds against Logan's skin with every thrust, no longer seeking to control but only to hold on.
For a moment he loses his vision. It's there on the verge of blacking out that every muscle in Logan's body goes taut, like a bowstring attached to his spine is pulled back and then snapped. If not for the hands on his throat the sound that might escape him would be positively inhuman, like the baying of some wounded wolf. So overwhelmed by that feeling of being buried in Kurt, he comes blissfully unaware that the claws on both hands now creep out between his knuckles just a few unchecked inches.
And then he goes slack. Kurt becomes a soft blue blur in the warm morning light of the cabin and briefly he feels no pull of gravity. Unburdened even by the weight of his bones. Only when those hands on his throat relax and air fills his lungs does he feel the sheen of cooling sweat on his skin and the warmth of Kurt on his stomach and in his lap and one sense at a time reality settles in around him.
The pleasant ache in his resting muscles and the dull throb of his cock make him unlikely to move and risk disrupting the glowing pleasantness of these moments after. He blinks a few times, forcing his eyes to refocus and when they do he tries not to interrupt that moment for Kurt. Instead just watching his breath find it's rhythm again, and letting his eyes rove over the younger man's spent body one more time. Indulging some catalogue of deeply personal posterity.
When Kurt does finally move, Logan's breath hitches. "Fuck..." He squeezes that soft thigh to guide him up slowly and evenly lest the crushing sensitivity of his most precious parts reduce him to a whimper.
He could go on like this. For Logan, there's never quite the same sensation of being throughly depleted, but some things like the hands on his neck, help him get closer than he otherwise could. To truly settle himself he's better off pulling away completely. Distancing himself from the feel and smell and sight of the person who drove him this far. But the body draped over him is nothing he wants to let go of now. Instead he slings his arm around Kurt's neck and nudges the younger man's ear with his nose.
The feeling of Logan tensing and shuddering beneath and within him, finally reaching that longed-for point of release, is good enough to wring a moan from Kurt's throat, rolling his hips down as he surges upwards. Then, after a long moment, Logan subsides; Kurt lets himself fall as well, loosening his hand around the Canadian's throat and letting his tail slide down.
For a time he stays there, cheek cushioned against Logan's shoulder, racing heartbeat gradually slowing, suspended and sheltered from the world by the warm wide body beneath his. But as much as he longs to stay there forever, reality gradually intrudes. He becomes aware of the light breeze that ruffles over his sweat-damp fur; the ache and throb of every limb. His headache has abated somewhat, but new and old bruises layer his shoulders, his hips, the hollow of his throat.
He shifts a little, groaning softly, and lets Logan guide him away, resettling him in a more comfortable position for them both. The absence of Logan within him feels like a loss in a way he can't quite articulate, but Kurt can't muster the energy to do anything except lower himself gently into Logan's lap, fur sliding against warm wet skin.
Turning his head to meet Logan's attention, he blinks heavy-lidded eyes and smiles softly.
"Likewise," he sighs, "more than I can say."
Kurt lifts his arm to touch Logan's cheek, but the movement is interrupted by a flare of stinging fire between his knuckles, the ghosts of Logan's healing. Almost absently, he examines the red beads of blood forming in the short fur between his fingers, then lets the hand fall back onto Logan's chest, making peace with the inevitable strangeness of this new element to their relationship.
The urge to close his eyes and lose himself in the moment, in the solid warmth and steady heartbeat beneath his cheek, laps against him like the pounding of distant waves. But just as strong are the memories of the last few hours, the long days before, that well up inside him like the blood on his hand.
He moves slightly in Logan's embrace, pain running down his body and through his heart like the tolling of church bells, resounding off nerves raw and exposed. Fear, grief, anger, gratitude, immense joy -- all war inside his chest, making his breath catch. He buries his face against Logan's chest and squeezes his eyes shut, as if to forbid the hot tears that leak out from them.
This, Logan thinks, is the most at peace he's felt since he opened his eyes in Deerington. This is the most anything feels, not just looks on the surface, like a place he knows how to exist within.
Not the same as home. Not exactly. But familiar enough. even more familiar perhaps than the way things have been. Not just here, but even before this. Before Utopia and Hope. Before Xavier's last breath. Hell, with what he knows now Logan's not even sure how far back he'd have to go to set things right. Maybe there were no mistakes. Maybe everything ends up a mess anyway. Maybe it doesn't matter. Not so long as they finally get their shot at this. Kurt's beard is thicker, coarser than the rest of his fuzz, and the way it softly bristles Logan's chest is exactly the feeling he can't put words too. New but familiar.
But then amongst the damp pine and the dusty cabin and the wool blankets on the sofa, he catches the sweet, soft scent of tears. They smell like lillies. Like marshland flowers. And his chest goes tight, feeling spiked with the worry that Kurt is already full of regret.
"Hey..." his voice is a gravelly whisper and he passes his hand through the younger mans hair. Pushing it back from his face to find some pain he's already convinced he put there. "Kurt. It's all right. What's wrong?"
Kurt leans into Logan's touch in his hair, unable to stop himself seeking more of that comfort even as his body shivers with the aftershocks of their mutual contact. He sniffs, pulls in a shaking breath. Opens watery golden eyes to look up at Logan's face, the lines of concern in his expression another twinge of guilt.
He strokes Logan's chest a little with his fingertips, trying to offer more than just this moment of weakness, the riptide of emotion that threatens to knock him back into cold dark waters.
"Es tut mir leid," he croaks. "It's okay, nothing is wrong, only I can't -- I never thought I would have this, again. With you. I wanted it so and I.. it is a lot. So much. Ich habe dich so sehr vermisst. And. I am sorry for what I said before, you have had so much pain in your life, meine Liebe, I never wanted what we had -- what we have -- to be part of that. I just.. I want.. I.."
His voice cracks as he struggles into silence, chest heaving with choked breaths, trying to haul himself back under control. Part of him -- the part that has been fighting in wars for years -- knows how to explain it: the aftermath of endorphins and adrenaline flooding his system, combined with a long and mostly sleepless night and a significant hangover, as well as the emotional fallout of their encounter. But knowing something is not the same as coping with it, so he shivers and huddles against Logan and feels more than a little pathetic.
The tears welling in those golden eyes shiver and shimmer. It'd be pretty if it didn't break Logan's heart so easily that he finds himself fighting the reflex to start muttering reassurances and promises apropos of nothing. Whatever might put that toothy grin on Kurt's face again. Instead he bites his tongue when the younger man draws lazy circles on his chest, and looks like he's gathering his thoughts.
What he has to be sorry for though, Logan can't think of it. Sure they said some things, they put each other through their paces, but Logan's likes to think of himself as a man apt to forget words and member actions. Of course it's all part of that complicated system of defence someone as mistreated as him has to cobble together. But he can manage to care little for what people say as long as he understands what they do. And this? Here with Kurt now, makes up for anything. Every frustration and misunderstanding taken for transgression. None of that matters if they end up here.
"Hey, hey, hey..." he pushes Kurt's hair back gently when it flops forward again. Not because he needs it there, but because it's soft and hides his face just slightly and it's the gentlest of touches that could keep pulling the younger man's attention back to him when his gaze shies away. "Sorry for what? you don't owe me any apologies." His brow furrows stubbornly when Kurt speaks of pain and Logan's forefinger catches him under the chin. "Look at me. Kurt. There's no part of my life you need to be sorry for. Ok? I don't need special treatment. I don't need... you thinkin' there's anything you can't say. Anything you gotta tiptoe around. This. This works because we're honest with each other. Even when things get messy."
Reaching blindly up the back of the couch Logan snags a blanket and opens it across Kurt's back, drawing him in tighter as they resettle on the sofa. Stretching out properly where their muscles can relax. "It's a lot," he sighs some quiet agreement. "I'm sorry if I rushed you. If you needed more time then I was willing to give. I just... I'da felt like an idiot if I didn't try to hold onto you this time. If you need me to just, step back and have faith that this? This'll be there for us later. I'll wait. Not sayin' I'll be sunshine and roses about it but. Kurt, I'd take you anyway you came to me."
Logan's voice is a low rumble that Kurt can feel as well as hear. He draws as much comfort from the sound as from his words, trying to let them sink in to the places inside him that still feel splintered and cold. Part of him wonders, if he hadn't sold his soul for another chance at life, would this be easier? Any of it?
Logan is right, of course. He almost always is. That blunt honesty, that ability to speak from the heart, was one of the first things Kurt loved about him, and he leans into it now as well as into the hand that strokes through the fur on his jaw. This, Logan says, like there is a this, like there can be a this, and Kurt feels that acceptance roll through him as warm as the blanket settling on his shoulders. Whatever this is, Logan's calm assurance soothes something he hadn't realised was hurting.
But then Logan mentions waiting, and Kurt starts against him, leaning up against his chest to meet his eyes.
"Nein! That is, no, I don't want to wait any more. I want," he reaches up and brushes his thumb over Logan's cheek, "as much of you as I can get." He pushes himself up to meet Logan's lips with his, a kiss that tastes of salt, the embers of desire stirring again.
Then he winces as his movements re-awaken his awareness of the mortal cost of his heart's needs.
The way Kurt's weight goes slack against him again is the reassurance he's looking for that Kurt believes him. That he can do something for Kurt's peace of mind with a touch and a promise and a little of that very honesty he knows they're better at than most. The blanket is not as soft as Kurt himself, but Logan bundles him closer until his fingertips can gaze his bare shoulder.
Logan too relaxes along with him. One man's calm feeding the other man's comfort. Until it's his fault the younger man tenses up again. It's hard not to smile at the way Kurt's wide bright eyes look down at him with such conviction. It's not everyday anyone is moved to that kind of possession for him. Logan turns enough to kiss that soft blue palm and then Kurt's lips are there for the next one.
"Ok, ok, I'm just sayin'," he smiles and even his eyes look bright enough to rival Kurt's. Shining with something almost too light and playful to suit any part of his well known reputation. "I'm sorry, I got impatient. You got me. Now. Tomorrow. Whenever. Always." Brave or self-less as Kurt is to try to rally himself a second round that stiffness that's sinking into him, making his joints rusty and making him reconsider the idea, is enough to pull on Logan's heartstrings and sympathies.
"Don't be a hero," he whispers, dragging his fingers through that beard again. "Give your hangover a little rest and a little water, how 'bout? You eat anything yet? Can I make you some breakfast."
Kurt groans in the back of his throat as Logan buries his fingers in the fur along his jawline, his eyes closing a little, very much like a cat being petted. Always. His heart hangs on the word, though a tiny part of him knows it's too close to whistling through the graveyard when it comes to the two of them. They both know how easily always can be snatched away.
He sends up a brief, silent prayer. Vater im Himmel, protect him, keep him safe.
"But mein Freund, you know how I love being a hero," he says out loud, the whining complaint a teasing note in his voice. He's not quite up to wriggling, mischievous, to prove his point. Instead, his tail tip dances over Logan's thigh.
But Logan has a point. As he speaks, Kurt's attention is brought unwillingly back to the headache pounding in the corners of his skull. He grimaces at the mention of breakfast.
"No food, bitte. But coffee would be good. And being clean again." He raises his head a little, glancing back over his shoulder at the rest of the kitchen, the cans and utensils on the floor, the shredded remains of Frank's sweats. "We have made a bit of a mess."
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no subject
When Logan drags words out of his rumbling purr, they're almost enough to set Kurt off right then and there. The stark need, the want in Logan's eyes, in his voice, runs down Kurt's body. He shivers, his fond smile becoming a little sharp with wickedness, almost the devil he's been mistaken for so many times. His tail slips up underneath him, sliding along the inside of Logan's thigh.
Hips rocking, he leans down and captures Logan's mouth with his, meeting him growl for growl, then pulling back just enough to speak again. His hand slides down from Logan's jaw, thumb settling into the hollow of his throat.
"Say please."
no subject
Despite his upward straining, there’s precious little he can do from this angle to effect what Kurt lets him feel. And that is, in itself, so much a part of what sets that love-drunk look of aw across his face. If his hips and the hunger with which he tries to hang on to that kiss can’t beg enough, Kurt’s words make his whole body stutter. It takes a strained grunt and a growl before he can think through the fog in his forebrain to come to the very words Kurt just demonstrated for him, but that thumb on his Adam’s apple gives him pause.
His wide-blown eyes look like there’s no limit to the depth of them when he drags his hands roughly down the younger man’s plush flanks, and rakes his blunt fingers along those taut thighs.
“Please...” he whispers it at first as his fingertips follow Kurt’s elbow down to his knuckles. The same one he can feel sticky with the remnants of blood he put there. Closing his hand over Kurt’s, he tightens the grip on his neck, an inch or so at a time. And then with a little more breath in his lungs.
“Please.”
no subject
Trust that he will do no more harm than this. Trust that he could, if he wanted to.
Like the blade of Logan's claw skating along the inside of his thigh, or the desperate grip as they fall together from a cloud of smoke, the need for it, the give and take, threads through their relationship. Kurt feels Logan's thumb slide in the blood on his knuckles and holds him as tight as he dares.
The words he uses to beg for their shared release sing through Kurt's body. He slips his other hand between them, sliding over fur and skin hot and damp with sweat, and wraps it around himself as he speeds up the roll of his hips, driving himself between his own fist and Logan's cock, gasping out half-words as he buries his face into Logan's shoulder, syllables of German and English, prayers and gratitude and entreaties.
It doesn't take long; he's been close enough to it since Logan pushed him up against the counter, waiting only for permission. With a rising whine that turns into a breathless gasp, he comes, hard, back arching and his hips bucking and stuttering as he spends himself into the wet warmth between them.
no subject
Attempting to stand still right where the two forces meet. Where he can cling to Kurt's hips, feeling the fur between his fingers. Where every movement of muscle in the younger man's body electrifies him as he bears down and pulls back. And at once, where he can copy this image to memory. Burning an eidetic recording into his brain of the way Kurt touches himself. The way his hair falls into his eyes. The words that tumble out of him in that last frantic moment and just how hard he bears down on Logan's thighs.
It's impossible to stay there very long. You can't drown in sensation when you're breathing with clarity. And if he has to give in somewhere, the side ruled by senses always wins out.
When Kurt pitches forward Logan's arms ensnare him. Scattering him with bites from his ears to his bicep. Planting his heels against the floor, he bucks up even harder, chasing the the sensation he can feel pulling its way out of him. And feeling as though he can catch it and be pulled along with it if Kurt would just hold it there for him a little more firmly.
"Harder..." his voice is rasped by the hand on his neck but he realizes his request could span so many things. "Tighter," he tries instead and covers Kurt's hand with his own again until the low growl in his throat is wrung into total silence.
It takes a long quiet moment for the lack of air and blood flow make his head feel light. Where the only sound that reaches his ears is Kurt's breath and the occasional creaking of the couch. But when his vision goes spotty, he holds those hips down against him. Giving in to the wanton shuddering of his hips with a strangled groan.
no subject
He hears and feels the growl beneath his hand and against his heart; he obeys, the sound sending waves of shuddering pleasure down his spine. His tail drifts up to join his hand, sliding around Logan's throat, a tight band of muscle. He sinks his teeth into Logan's shoulders, spurring him on, not caring at the bruises that will awaken in answer on his own; knowing he has enough of those already.
His other hand goes to grip the back of the couch as he holds himself against Logan, making wordless sounds against Logan's skin with every thrust, no longer seeking to control but only to hold on.
no subject
And then he goes slack. Kurt becomes a soft blue blur in the warm morning light of the cabin and briefly he feels no pull of gravity. Unburdened even by the weight of his bones. Only when those hands on his throat relax and air fills his lungs does he feel the sheen of cooling sweat on his skin and the warmth of Kurt on his stomach and in his lap and one sense at a time reality settles in around him.
The pleasant ache in his resting muscles and the dull throb of his cock make him unlikely to move and risk disrupting the glowing pleasantness of these moments after. He blinks a few times, forcing his eyes to refocus and when they do he tries not to interrupt that moment for Kurt. Instead just watching his breath find it's rhythm again, and letting his eyes rove over the younger man's spent body one more time. Indulging some catalogue of deeply personal posterity.
When Kurt does finally move, Logan's breath hitches. "Fuck..." He squeezes that soft thigh to guide him up slowly and evenly lest the crushing sensitivity of his most precious parts reduce him to a whimper.
He could go on like this. For Logan, there's never quite the same sensation of being throughly depleted, but some things like the hands on his neck, help him get closer than he otherwise could. To truly settle himself he's better off pulling away completely. Distancing himself from the feel and smell and sight of the person who drove him this far. But the body draped over him is nothing he wants to let go of now. Instead he slings his arm around Kurt's neck and nudges the younger man's ear with his nose.
"I've missed you."
no subject
For a time he stays there, cheek cushioned against Logan's shoulder, racing heartbeat gradually slowing, suspended and sheltered from the world by the warm wide body beneath his. But as much as he longs to stay there forever, reality gradually intrudes. He becomes aware of the light breeze that ruffles over his sweat-damp fur; the ache and throb of every limb. His headache has abated somewhat, but new and old bruises layer his shoulders, his hips, the hollow of his throat.
He shifts a little, groaning softly, and lets Logan guide him away, resettling him in a more comfortable position for them both. The absence of Logan within him feels like a loss in a way he can't quite articulate, but Kurt can't muster the energy to do anything except lower himself gently into Logan's lap, fur sliding against warm wet skin.
Turning his head to meet Logan's attention, he blinks heavy-lidded eyes and smiles softly.
"Likewise," he sighs, "more than I can say."
Kurt lifts his arm to touch Logan's cheek, but the movement is interrupted by a flare of stinging fire between his knuckles, the ghosts of Logan's healing. Almost absently, he examines the red beads of blood forming in the short fur between his fingers, then lets the hand fall back onto Logan's chest, making peace with the inevitable strangeness of this new element to their relationship.
The urge to close his eyes and lose himself in the moment, in the solid warmth and steady heartbeat beneath his cheek, laps against him like the pounding of distant waves. But just as strong are the memories of the last few hours, the long days before, that well up inside him like the blood on his hand.
He moves slightly in Logan's embrace, pain running down his body and through his heart like the tolling of church bells, resounding off nerves raw and exposed. Fear, grief, anger, gratitude, immense joy -- all war inside his chest, making his breath catch. He buries his face against Logan's chest and squeezes his eyes shut, as if to forbid the hot tears that leak out from them.
no subject
Not the same as home. Not exactly. But familiar enough. even more familiar perhaps than the way things have been. Not just here, but even before this. Before Utopia and Hope. Before Xavier's last breath. Hell, with what he knows now Logan's not even sure how far back he'd have to go to set things right. Maybe there were no mistakes. Maybe everything ends up a mess anyway. Maybe it doesn't matter. Not so long as they finally get their shot at this. Kurt's beard is thicker, coarser than the rest of his fuzz, and the way it softly bristles Logan's chest is exactly the feeling he can't put words too. New but familiar.
But then amongst the damp pine and the dusty cabin and the wool blankets on the sofa, he catches the sweet, soft scent of tears. They smell like lillies. Like marshland flowers. And his chest goes tight, feeling spiked with the worry that Kurt is already full of regret.
"Hey..." his voice is a gravelly whisper and he passes his hand through the younger mans hair. Pushing it back from his face to find some pain he's already convinced he put there. "Kurt. It's all right. What's wrong?"
no subject
He strokes Logan's chest a little with his fingertips, trying to offer more than just this moment of weakness, the riptide of emotion that threatens to knock him back into cold dark waters.
"Es tut mir leid," he croaks. "It's okay, nothing is wrong, only I can't -- I never thought I would have this, again. With you. I wanted it so and I.. it is a lot. So much. Ich habe dich so sehr vermisst. And. I am sorry for what I said before, you have had so much pain in your life, meine Liebe, I never wanted what we had -- what we have -- to be part of that. I just.. I want.. I.."
His voice cracks as he struggles into silence, chest heaving with choked breaths, trying to haul himself back under control. Part of him -- the part that has been fighting in wars for years -- knows how to explain it: the aftermath of endorphins and adrenaline flooding his system, combined with a long and mostly sleepless night and a significant hangover, as well as the emotional fallout of their encounter. But knowing something is not the same as coping with it, so he shivers and huddles against Logan and feels more than a little pathetic.
"It is a lot," he finishes.
no subject
What he has to be sorry for though, Logan can't think of it. Sure they said some things, they put each other through their paces, but Logan's likes to think of himself as a man apt to forget words and member actions. Of course it's all part of that complicated system of defence someone as mistreated as him has to cobble together. But he can manage to care little for what people say as long as he understands what they do. And this? Here with Kurt now, makes up for anything. Every frustration and misunderstanding taken for transgression. None of that matters if they end up here.
"Hey, hey, hey..." he pushes Kurt's hair back gently when it flops forward again. Not because he needs it there, but because it's soft and hides his face just slightly and it's the gentlest of touches that could keep pulling the younger man's attention back to him when his gaze shies away. "Sorry for what? you don't owe me any apologies." His brow furrows stubbornly when Kurt speaks of pain and Logan's forefinger catches him under the chin. "Look at me. Kurt. There's no part of my life you need to be sorry for. Ok? I don't need special treatment. I don't need... you thinkin' there's anything you can't say. Anything you gotta tiptoe around. This. This works because we're honest with each other. Even when things get messy."
Reaching blindly up the back of the couch Logan snags a blanket and opens it across Kurt's back, drawing him in tighter as they resettle on the sofa. Stretching out properly where their muscles can relax. "It's a lot," he sighs some quiet agreement. "I'm sorry if I rushed you. If you needed more time then I was willing to give. I just... I'da felt like an idiot if I didn't try to hold onto you this time. If you need me to just, step back and have faith that this? This'll be there for us later. I'll wait. Not sayin' I'll be sunshine and roses about it but. Kurt, I'd take you anyway you came to me."
no subject
Logan is right, of course. He almost always is. That blunt honesty, that ability to speak from the heart, was one of the first things Kurt loved about him, and he leans into it now as well as into the hand that strokes through the fur on his jaw. This, Logan says, like there is a this, like there can be a this, and Kurt feels that acceptance roll through him as warm as the blanket settling on his shoulders. Whatever this is, Logan's calm assurance soothes something he hadn't realised was hurting.
But then Logan mentions waiting, and Kurt starts against him, leaning up against his chest to meet his eyes.
"Nein! That is, no, I don't want to wait any more. I want," he reaches up and brushes his thumb over Logan's cheek, "as much of you as I can get." He pushes himself up to meet Logan's lips with his, a kiss that tastes of salt, the embers of desire stirring again.
Then he winces as his movements re-awaken his awareness of the mortal cost of his heart's needs.
"Though maybe after a shower."
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Logan too relaxes along with him. One man's calm feeding the other man's comfort. Until it's his fault the younger man tenses up again. It's hard not to smile at the way Kurt's wide bright eyes look down at him with such conviction. It's not everyday anyone is moved to that kind of possession for him. Logan turns enough to kiss that soft blue palm and then Kurt's lips are there for the next one.
"Ok, ok, I'm just sayin'," he smiles and even his eyes look bright enough to rival Kurt's. Shining with something almost too light and playful to suit any part of his well known reputation. "I'm sorry, I got impatient. You got me. Now. Tomorrow. Whenever. Always." Brave or self-less as Kurt is to try to rally himself a second round that stiffness that's sinking into him, making his joints rusty and making him reconsider the idea, is enough to pull on Logan's heartstrings and sympathies.
"Don't be a hero," he whispers, dragging his fingers through that beard again. "Give your hangover a little rest and a little water, how 'bout? You eat anything yet? Can I make you some breakfast."
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He sends up a brief, silent prayer. Vater im Himmel, protect him, keep him safe.
"But mein Freund, you know how I love being a hero," he says out loud, the whining complaint a teasing note in his voice. He's not quite up to wriggling, mischievous, to prove his point. Instead, his tail tip dances over Logan's thigh.
But Logan has a point. As he speaks, Kurt's attention is brought unwillingly back to the headache pounding in the corners of his skull. He grimaces at the mention of breakfast.
"No food, bitte. But coffee would be good. And being clean again." He raises his head a little, glancing back over his shoulder at the rest of the kitchen, the cans and utensils on the floor, the shredded remains of Frank's sweats. "We have made a bit of a mess."