Darn it I couldn't make it to my record yesterday! But here we go, fun angst Lomille to make up for it!

Logan hated airport traffic. He hated the drive in.

He hated airport parking. He would have to park, he wouldn't let Camille stand in the airport by herself,

She had just come back from a long trip. Following tradition, he would have to walk in there. And she would have to run at him. Provided she wasn't mad at him for what he had done. Provided she still loved him, didn't hate him now because what was the point of loving someone who wanted his disease to kill him already?

He wasn't suicidal, he was being realistic.

The sooner he died, the less money they had to spend, to pay for appointments, and gas, that two hour drive. The less everyone would have to worry, because the sooner he died, the less he would exhibit the more traumatic neurological symptoms.

The sooner he died, the less everyone would look at him like he was.

He was being realistic. Nobody liked to listen to reality.

The truth scared him, too. It's not like he wasn't scared.

He just knew what was going to happen.

He shook his head. It was ten-forty, so maybe Camille hadn't yet left the plane, but the plane should've landed by now. He needed to meet her by baggage claim.

And she would run at him, like everything was okay. Like the only thing wrong was that they had been apart from each other for two weeks.

Maybe the phone call didn't matter. Maybe she forgot how she told him they would talk in person about all this. He didn't want to do that.

He just wanted to catch her when she ran at him. He used to be able to do that.

This time, she ran and he fell.

This could be an excuse, he could use this as an excuse to make out in the middle of the airport. He was going to do that, he was doing that. Except, this time, it was harder, because his arms and legs were tightly compressed in the braces, and Camille never weighed much to begin with, but her body weight really was crushing him.

This, coupled with the lack of oxygen and breaths they never took between kissing, made him lightheaded and sick, but he had to ignore it.

If he pretended everything was fine, they wouldn't have to talk.

He couldn't have another person talk to him. Talks ended in psychotic breakdowns or meltdowns or shutdowns and there was nothing he could do to prevent that.

Camille pulled away first. She held his face in her hands, she could probably tell he felt sick and lightheaded just by looking at him. She kissed him again. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

Her eyes have found his, but they fell away. She stared at the braces. He stared at the floor.

"I'm going to get my suitcase."

The issue with this was he couldn't get up, they were stuck on the floor.

His solution had been to grab onto one of the abandoned luggage carts and pull himself up from there.

He was fine, he wouldn't have Camille look at him like that, like he wasn't fine. He was just getting used to the braces. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just a little unbalanced.

Camille took his hand. She didn't let go until he started to drive.

It was because she loved him and they missed each other, and physical contact. It wasn't because he walked awkwardly, each step was harder than the last, and everything hurt. It had to be only because she loved him.

He didn't know where to drive. Sure, he could drive her to her apartment, but he didn't know where it was, or if it was ready. He could drive her to a hotel, but he didn't know if she made herself a reservation, and ditching your girlfriend at a random hotel in Minneapolis didn't seem like a smart idea.

He could drive them both back home, to his house. But he didn't want Camille to meet his mother.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

He'll figure out the permanent destination later.

"A little bit, yeah."

Good. He'll drive to a breakfast place. There, he can ask Camille where he's actually supposed to drive her.

She never specified.

"Okay. Let's get breakfast."

This was a bad idea, because while the breakfast place was at the perfect vicinity, the midpoint between home and Minneapolis, Logan forgot to realize that going to a breakfast place meant, well, that he would have to eat breakfast.

Camille ordered pancakes. He ordered toast.

"Just toast?" Camille asks him.

He had four pieces of toast, he would be fine. The portion was bigger than he had wanted.

Realistically, he could swallow down one. Maybe one and a half.

"Yeah."

Camille takes a bite of her pancakes. "I missed you so much."

He knows that, she's said it already. "I know. I missed you too."

They could ignore it. They could ignore the hospital phone call, it hung in the air. It could hang over them. He would not be the one to bring it up. He had been stupid, that's the best way to explain it. Not that he'll explain it.

He takes a bite of toast.

"When do you start shooting?"

Camille wants to talk about the phone call. She wants to talk about the braces on his legs and arms, she keeps looking there. "Our first table read is on Wednesday."

Today was Saturday. Four days from now.

'Did all your stuff get shipped from the Palm Woods?"

He's avoiding what he knows they need to talk about. He'll just ask as many off-topic questions as possible. Like he doesn't realize he's shifting the conversation away from probably a very important discussion they need to have.

"Most of it. The rest is coming tomorrow. Then I can move in."

"Where's your apartment?"

Camille poured herself more coffee. Logan wasn't looking at her. Logan was avoiding this. She took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm.

"Maverick Apartments."

Logan nodded. He opened a creamer pouch, pouring it into the coffee. He watched it mix in, then added one sugar.

The perfect ratio.

"Logan."

He took a sip of the coffee.

"Did we break up?" she asks him.

He doesn't want to do this. Talks do not end well.

"No," he says.

"But you wanted to."

He never wanted to. He just knew it would be easier in the long run.

"It would be easier."

He doesn't really believe what he's saying. It had to be easier. Because right now it was hard enough looking at Camille, and the disease hadn't even progressed that far.

"For you? Or for me?"

"For you," he replied, without hesitation. "Why would you want to—"

"I don't want to break up."

He didn't want to, either.

"But it would—"

He was not going to win this argument. He didn't want to win, but he knew he was right.

It would be harder when the disease really broke him, when he couldn't walk, or talk, or function at all. Maybe that could be ignored, but only for so long. Sooner or later, he would be neurologically damaged, operating—

He didn't want to think about his brain.

"It would not be easier," she argues. She's not loud, she's just firm. Confident.

He has to believe her.

"I love you. Breaking up would be harder."

"I love you, too."

But she wouldn't love him when he didn't have the mental capacity to love her back, when the doctors strapped him to a hospital bed, weaved breathing tubes and IV wires through him, shoved a feeding tube down his throat.

When he wasn't even a working human, how could she love him?

"I will always love you."

This has to be a lie, but she sounds so confident.

He's nervous, he can't believe her,

There's just no way.

He doesn't want to stop loving her, but he'll forget her. He'll forget her, and he knows that. She doesn't, because she hasn't researched.

He has researched. He knows.

But as she leans across the table and kisses him, it's almost enough to make him forget about all the research.

Almost.

He's terrified of forgetting.

So he deepens the kiss, holding her tightly.

He might forget, but he'll try to remember her.

"I will always love you."

He is telling the truth.

It's just that he knows it will become a lie. This disease will take her away from him. Take him away from her.

But not yet.

Right now, they can kiss and hold each other and be in public, and not care, because they never cared before.

Like normal.