Summary: Slash: Scott/Logan. Not my favourite pairing, but hey. Angsty, fluffy, PG13 for swearing and the whole m/m thing.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't mind so much about Scott, but I wish I owned Logan. And Kurt. I DEFINITELY want to own Kurt.
The bench is made of stone, cold and hard and unforgiving. The beer bottles are made from green glass, and they glisten smugly in the scant moonlight. The man is made from flesh and metal and emotion, and he raises another bottle to his lips, and takes another swig.
"Does it help?" The voice behind Logan is weary, mocking.
He drains the bottle dry. "No." His voice is curt. He does not want to talk to anyone right now - least of all to Scott.
"Yeah," His voice is no longer cynical and taunting; it is more of a sigh. "It didn't help me either." He admits, and sits on the other side of the bench, the pile of empty bottles a glistening green barrier between them. "I just wish -"
"I know." Logan interrupts him. "You wish that she could come back." Damn him.
"No," he says, surprising Logan. "I wasn't going to say that. I just wish that I had been able to finish things properly."
Logan isn't listening; Scott's nearness is like a knife cutting him. "Explain yourself, or get lost, Summers." He snaps, patience at an end.
The silence from the other end of the bench is distinctly hurt.
"Oh, damn." Logan says, already regretting his hasty words. "Look, Scott, I'm sorry, I didn't mean -" He trails off, and awkward silence hangs between them. Why couldn't Scott just bloody go?
There is a sigh, and a rustling sound as Scott runs his fingers through his hair. Logan bites his lip.
"It's - ok." Scott eventually says. "I just want to know what I'm supposed to do now. Should I be honouring her memory, or what?" There is real frustration in his voice - and far less grief than Logan would have expected. "You told me she said she loved me," Scott continued. "But I never talked to her about that! I never got to tell her how I felt. I never got to know…" A deep breath. "If it was all that serious." His voice grew tight with strain and unhappiness. "And I don't know how much I should be mourning for her."
"So," Logan's voice sounds strange in his own ears. "How did you feel?"
"I don't know," Logan sees Scott as a silhouette, a darker outline among the shadows of the night. "I cared about her - and, God, I miss her every day, but…" His voice pauses. "I think that at some point, I stopped loving her."
Logan's heart beat faster. "Why?" Was he trembling.
"I fell in love with someone else," Scott admitted. "I - think I still love - them. And they're… brave and noble, and …"
The bench is far too long. There's far to much cold, hard stone in between them.
"Did you… love her?" Scott asks him. Nervous, hopeful, fist clenched in the shadow of his lap.
No. No, it was you, always you, so goddamn arrogant, so aloof, from the moment I first met you, all I wanted was to have you, own you. And God! When you were with her, I was so… bereft, and I wanted to be close to her. To prove that I could beat you. To prove that I didn't need you. And most of all, because if I kissed her, maybe they'd be some taste of you left in her mouth.
How can he some that up in a few words? "Never truly loved her…" Did that sound as dazed as he thinks? He pulls himself together. "The one you love. Does he - do they - know?"
Moonlight gleams of dark red sunshades, and for a minute, Logan fantasises that he can see the eyes beneath; warm and dark, and oh so bottomless. "I think so." Scott whispers.
Wolverine swipes at the green glass barrier with one moon-bright claw; and over a pile of shining green jewels, Logan leans in for a kiss.