Lensherr had shitty paper-thin fucking blinds in his bedroom, and although Logan had been dealing with them for the past couple years, he had been doing so so randomly that he never seemed to fully get used to them. Thus, here he was way too early in the fucking morning, wincing at the sunlight ghosting through. Hadn't the guy ever heard of fucking blackout blinds?
He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in Lensherr's expensive pillows, huffing as he noticed the stale taste in his mouth.
He hated going down on men in general, and Lensherr in particular since it required so much more of him, but he very much got off on the man...what? Forcing him to? Ignoring completely what he said he wanted, or didn't want. God, that was so fucked up. That was fucked up, wasn't it? The whole relationship was fucked up. He was so fucked up. It wasn't Lensherr who'd instigated this whole thing, after all.
So long ago, it was hard for him to remember, especially with his already shoddy memory and the copious amounts of alcohol involved that night. "Go fuck yourself," he'd said, he remembered that part, but not what he'd said it in response to. Remembered the sudden, sobering chill of Lensherr reaching out with that damned power of his and dragging Logan intimidatingly closer by his very bones. It wasn't too far from that to a bedroom, but was that Lensherr's fault? Had the other man had any idea that that would be hot to Logan, or had he really been threatening to kick his ass?
As if to make himself feel worse, he pushed up onto his elbows, glaring down at Lensherr's sleeping face. The man was undeniably handsome, much as Logan would love to deny it. His face was too lined, Logan had long ago decided, scrabbling for flaws. And the lines on his forehead were especially deep-set, so that even in his sleep it appeared as if something were wrong, something worrying. And yet, it gave him a sort of dignified, tragic air that was mysteriously interesting. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, and even with it closed it appeared as if he had too many teeth, or maybe it just seemed like that because Logan knew that he did have too many goddamned teeth. Even his hair, mussed in their violent rampage last night, dark and gingery but shot with silver in places, seemed austere and teeth-grindingly haughty. God, he'd hated the Bronte sisters when he was forced to read them in high school but he sure was living a romantic life pulled straight from their pages.
How the hell did you get yourself into this? he sighed to himself. But he asked himself this nearly every time he ended up at Lensherr's place. All the self-loathing involved afterwards didn't keep him away for more than a couple months. What the hell did he get out of this? What was so worth coming back to, over and over again? His brain apparently didn't understand rhetorical questions, and bombarded him with answers right away: no strings, no danger, no emotions, no heartbreak. Logan loved serious relationships, loved the calm affection of it, the investment in another person, loved being in love. But everything he liked about it was exactly what he hated about it: the routine of it, how untrustworthy other people could be, how painful it was for that love to turn to shit. How easy it was for those you loved to hurt you.
He laid down again for another moment, satisfied with his conclusions. Being with Lensherr didn't make him happy, but it didn't make him exactly unhappy. He certainly didn't dislike it enough to stay away; that much was pretty damned clear. Lensherr was safe. He was good in bed. He was easy to be with so long as they didn't speak to each other, at least in the periods where Logan didn't hate himself for being with someone so imperial, so high-and-mighty, so holier-than-thou.
Awake enough to function after all his philosophizing, Logan slipped out of bed, heart stalling in his chest as his bones paused in mid-air, holding him back.
"Wha?" came the grumble from behind him.
"I'm getting up. Let go of me, you idiot."
Lensherr did, releasing him immediately from his mental hold, curling back up in the bed to rest for a few more minutes. Logan had been through this enough times to have the routine mostly down. By time he was done with his shower, Lensherr would be fully awake, going over work, which he'd put aside impatiently, as if Logan had taken too long. Then the angular man would shower while Logan made coffee. The guy didn't eat breakfast as far as Logan could tell, and he didn't approve of Logan doing so either, at least not in his apartment. There was never any morning sex, even back when Logan had used to offer. Sex was something secret, for the dark and night, and if Logan could get any vindication out of this thing it was in the fact that Lensherr was just as disgusted with their situation as he was. Maybe even more so.
"About goddamn time," the man grumbled bitterly when Logan came dripping from the bathroom.
"Nobody asked you, bastard."
While Lensherr muttered away in the shower, Logan got dressed again in his same clothes from last night. He was never allowed a clean cache. Anything of his left behind after the deed would be thrown out, he knew from experience.
While he was tying his shoes he examined the photograph on the nightstand. He'd seen it plenty of times, it'd been there for years, but was bored enough to see it again. Erik looked young then, just a teenager, and happy, if somewhat self-conscious. As if the photographer didn't particularly like him, didn't approve, wasn't there for him. It was partly hidden in the flurry of activity, the smiling boy in his graduation robes throwing himself into Erik's arms, cap falling and obscuring his eyes but not his beaming rosy smile, hand blurred in its rush to catch his cap but not in his grip on Lensherr's shoulder.
Logan turned away, shaking his head. The two seemed too happy. Logan had learned that too much happiness simply begged for disaster. This was just another example.
A quick readjustment of his jeans and he wandered to the kitchen. Lensherr had a nice coffee maker, as far as Logan could tell, and in a couple of impatient steps the smell of brewing caffeine was roaming through the quiet apartment. While he could get away with it, he grabbed a piece of bread and slathered some butter on it, dropping the knife into the empty sink for the other man to deal with. Lensherr's fridge was as cold and bare as his attitude, and Logan was reminded why they would never work even if either of them wanted it to work: no bacon, no milk, too much bran, too many vegetables. If it weren't for all the take-away boxes overflowing Lensherr's garbage, Logan would think he was a total health nut.
"You're still here," the gaunt man stated when he stepped out of the bedroom, freshly washed and looking very haughty in his expensive dark suit, hair neatly combed. The look made Logan long to be violent with him: fuck up his prissy hair, rip the suit off him, fuck him till he goddamned sobbed, show Lensherr that he was not actually better than him just because he owned a fucking suit.
"Just waiting for the coffee to finish," he grumbled back.
Lensherr frowned but otherwise didn't balk. Like a bird shitting on his windshield: Logan's continued presence galled but it was just one of those petty annoyances life threw his way. He grabbed the newspaper from outside his door and sat at the breakfast bar to read it, just as if Logan weren't there. Biting the inside of his mouth, Logan scrounged around for a way to force his presence on the man.
"You want it here or to go?" he settled on.
"To go," Lensherr grunted, and returned them to icy silence, made worse by the fact that Logan had put himself out for the man, was offering to fucking do something for him. Pissed, he grabbed the framed photo that sat on the countertop, the same boy as all the other fucking photos in this mausoleum, shining blue eyes no longer hidden, beaming out from the summer scene, picnic and a book at the beach, how idyllic. Was it any wonder Lensherr was so dour when his old life was so sweet?
"You should get rid of these," Logan accused, snapping the photo face-down on the countertop, the noise waking Lensherr's cat on the reading chair nearby.
The other man looked up, but only cursorily, glancing at what Logan had snapped down, recognizing it immediately, eyes moving back to his paper, not dignifying Logan's suggestion with a response.
"I mean, it's been a long time, hasn't it?" He knew it had. It had been a long time way back when Logan had first ever even seen this apartment, and that was nearly two years ago. "He's not coming back."
Lensherr's eyes when he lifted them were a cool, disinterested gray, but Logan could feel the mix of anger and disgust behind them, and smiled, happy to get his own licks in where he could.
"I'm sure the coffee's ready now."
Shut down, as per usual. Lensherr refused to rise to the bait because even a screaming match would count as a discussion. He never let the subject stray too close to Charles. Or anything else. Never wanted to discuss his boyfriend with...what? His mistress? His repeat one-night stand? Logan shook his head and let it go, didn't care anymore, turning to the machine and pouring them each a cup, getting Lensherr his travel mug, adding a splash of cream last. Somehow, making the man coffee seemed like the most fucked up thing he'd done lately.
Logan finished his coffee quickly while Lensherr took a few seconds to get his work bag together and pull on a jacket. By time the man had said goodbye to his cat, Logan was ready to go. They rode the elevator down in silence. Lensherr never let him stay at the apartment after he left, even if it made him late. Logan had no clue if the man was going to be late today, had very little idea of his work-schedule other than that when he did call him,he usually had work the next day. Logan was sure he worked it out that way so he wouldn't have the opportunity to spend a morning really together.
On the sidewalk Logan reached a hand out for cab fare and Lensherr was already tugging out his wallet.
His long fingers wavered on the bills though.
"I only have a twenty," the man said in shock.
Logan was a little surprised as well. In all the time they'd been doing this, Lensherr always had exact fare, a crisp ten-dollar bill.
"I'll get you back next time," Logan suggested. Lensherr stared at his wallet, a devastated look on his face, hand paused in mid-air, as if he really didn't want to invest as little as ten dollars on their doing this even one more time.
Gritting his teeth, Logan grabbed the man's wallet and took it himself, shoving the leather back to him and storming away to hail a cab. Lensherr went the other direction to his car. Never once had he even offered Logan a ride. The cat got a kiss goodbye but Logan never got so much as a backwards glance.
Jesus, what the hell did he get out of this?