Chapter 1
The TV flickered in their dingy apartment, shadows dancing against nicotine-stained walls. The sound was scratchy, some late-night rerun of a cop drama neither of them cared about. It was background noise, like the hum of the cheap refrigerator that rattled every time one of them shut it too hard. Logan and Wade sat on the lumpy couch they’d salvaged from the alley two years ago, its springs digging into their backs, its faint mildew scent all but forgotten now.
Between them on the coffee table was a half-empty six-pack of the cheapest beer Logan could stomach. He was nursing one bottle, barely sipping, while Wade tipped his back with the practiced ease of someone who needed to drown something. Wade leaned back into the couch, a joint pinched between two fingers, exhaling a cloud of smoke that mingled with the thick scent of Logan’s cigar.
“You ever think we should’ve gone to therapy or something?” Wade asked, half-laughing, voice muffled by the beer bottle pressed to his lips.
Logan snorted, his eyes fixed on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “What the hell would therapy do for us? We’d have the therapist jumping out a window by the second session.”
“Yeah, but think about all the fun. We’d get matching straitjackets, maybe even a group discount for all my personalities.”
“Your personalities aren’t the problem,” Logan muttered, voice low, dangerous. It wasn’t meant to be a joke, but Wade, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the tone, laughed anyway.
They sat in silence for a while, the TV flashing blue light across their faces, illuminating the lines etched into their skin. The years had been hard, not just because of the wars they’d fought or the scars they bore, but because of each other. There was a gravity between them, pulling them together even when they should’ve let go years ago. Neither of them could remember how long they’d been like this—scraping by, orbiting each other like broken planets—but it was long enough that it felt like forever.
Logan leaned forward, stubbing his cigar out in the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. His silence stretched on a beat too long, and Wade side-eyed him, catching the tightness in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
“You got somethin’ on your mind, bub?” Wade asked, voice lighter than it had any right to be.
Logan’s response was slow, measured. Too calm. He didn’t look at Wade when he said it. “You gonna tell me what you’ve been hiding, or am I gonna have to drag it outta you?”
The beer bottle in Wade’s hand froze mid-air. For a second, the loudest sound in the room was the hiss of the TV. Then Wade laughed, but it was forced, sharp around the edges. “Wow, okay, Detective Logan. Who put you on the case? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Logan finally turned to look at him, his eyes dark and unflinching. “You’re full of shit. You’ve been weird for weeks now. Sneaking out. Lookin’ over your shoulder. What is it? Another job? Someone I need to deal with?”
Wade’s heart thudded in his chest, but he plastered on his best grin, all teeth, none of it reaching his eyes. “Pfft, please. If I was sneaking out, you’d never know. I’m like a ninja. A sexy ninja. You’re just jealous because—”
“Don’t.” Logan’s voice cut through Wade’s deflection like a blade. “Don’t start with the jokes, Wade. Just tell me the goddamn truth.”
And there it was: the weight, the inevitability of this moment. Logan had a way of pinning him down like this, cornering him in a way no one else could. Wade felt his stomach twist, the urge to run bubbling under his skin.
“I don’t know what you think you know,” Wade said finally, trying for levity, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”
Wade dragged a hand through his messy hair, the joint forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling onto the couch. “It’s nothing. Drop it. Seriously. It’s nothing.”
Logan leaned back, his jaw tightening again, his face hardening into something unreadable. He cracked his knuckles, a deliberate sound, and Wade hated how it made him feel small. “You know I don’t drop shit. Not when it’s you. So you can either tell me now, or I’ll find out some other way. Your choice, Wade.”
The calmness in Logan’s voice was worse than shouting. It was cold, calculated. Wade had seen this before—Logan retreating behind walls, ready to punish him for every lie, every joke, every betrayal. He couldn’t stop himself from lashing out.
“Jesus, Logan, can’t I have one goddamn thing that’s mine? One little secret? I don’t ask you what the hell you’re doing every time you storm off like a toddler, do I?”
Logan’s lip curled in a snarl, but his voice stayed low, a simmering anger beneath the surface. “What’re you hiding that’s so bad you can’t trust me with it? Huh? You screwin’ around? You planning to ditch me?”
“Screwing around?” Wade barked a laugh, but there was venom in it. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. You want to play that game, let’s talk about the time you—”
“Don’t.” Logan’s voice was a growl now, but Wade didn’t stop.
“Oh, yeah, big bad Logan doesn’t want to talk about his secrets, huh? Let me guess, you don’t want me digging around because then I’d find out all the ways you’ve already decided to screw me over.”
Logan’s fist came down on the coffee table, the sound like a gunshot in the small room. The beer bottles rattled, one tipping over and spilling onto the carpet. “Enough!” he barked, and Wade flinched despite himself.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with everything they weren’t saying.
“You don’t trust me,” Logan said finally, his voice quiet, almost resigned.
Wade swallowed hard, his throat dry. “You don’t trust me either, so let’s not act like this is a one-way street.”
Logan shook his head, looking away, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, maybe I don’t. Maybe that’s the problem.”
Wade opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. He hated this—the way Logan could strip him bare, make him feel like nothing, and yet he still couldn’t walk away.
“Fuck this, and fuck you, you fucking bitch.” Logan spat, standing up and grabbing his jacket.
“What, you’re leaving now?” Wade asked, his voice rising. “Typical. Just walk away, Logan. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it? Fucking dick bag!”
Logan didn’t respond. The door slammed behind him, leaving Wade alone with the flickering TV, the spilled beer, and the crushing weight of everything unsaid.
Wade sat on the couch, staring blankly at the door long after Logan had slammed it shut. The joint smoldered between his fingers, forgotten, its embers trailing a thin wisp of smoke into the dim light of the room. For a while, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think. Just stared.
Then, without warning, it hit him—the tightness in his chest, the sting in his throat, the prickling heat behind his eyes. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing at his face as if he could scrub the feeling away. But it didn’t work.
The first tear fell before he could stop it, and then another, and another. He tried to laugh it off, a weak, broken sound, but it only made it worse. His shoulders shook, and the laugh turned into a sob. He doubled over, pressing his palms into his eyes like he could push the emotion back inside, but it spilled out anyway, raw and ugly.
“Fuckin’ pathetic,” he muttered to himself between gasps. “Big man, right? Wade Wilson, the life of the party. Can’t even keep it together when your roommate—boyfriend—whatever—storms out. God, you’re such a goddamn joke.”
But the words didn’t help. They just echoed in his head, louder, meaner, until they drowned out everything else.
He clawed for distraction, his hands fumbling for the joint he’d dropped on the couch. He found it, the tip still glowing faintly, and took a shaky drag. It didn’t calm him down, not really, but it gave him something to do. He blew out the smoke in a long, slow exhale, trying to steady his breathing.
His gaze drifted to the coffee table, to the half-empty pack of beer and the small plastic baggie shoved underneath it. He didn’t even remember when he’d bought it—days ago? A week? Time blurred when you lived like this.
He reached for the baggie, his fingers trembling. The little white pills inside rattled faintly as he shook it open. Low dose Vicodin.
“No powers, no claws, no healing factor,” he murmured to himself as he dumped two pills into his palm. “Just good ol’ Wade Wilson, the human garbage disposal. Let’s see if this fixes you.”
He swallowed them dry, the bitterness coating his tongue, and chased them with the last of his beer. The tears hadn’t stopped, but they felt farther away now, like they belonged to someone else.
He leaned back into the couch, his head tilting against the worn fabric. His mind felt like a static-filled TV, flickering between thoughts too fast to hold onto. Bits and pieces of himself came and went, voices and urges that didn’t quite feel like his own but were too familiar to ignore.
It’s your fault he left, one of them whispered.
“No shit,” he said aloud, his voice slurred.
You push everyone away. You always do.
“Yeah, yeah, get in line,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes again.
You could call him, another voice suggested. Softer. Kinder. Apologize. Tell him the truth.
But that thought filled him with panic, and he crushed it as quickly as it came. He couldn’t tell Logan—not about this, not about any of it. Logan didn’t get it. Logan would never get it.
Instead, he reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over Logan’s contact. But he didn’t press it. He couldn’t. Instead, he opened the group chat he used to score, the one filled with people who didn’t ask questions, didn’t care about anything except money.
The text was short, simple. “Need something strong. Same address. ASAP.”
He hit send and tossed the phone onto the coffee table, leaning back again. The Vicodins were starting to work a little while later, dulling the edges of everything. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts fuzzier. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, the world fading into static.
—
Logan didn’t get far. He rarely did when he left like this. He’d storm out, angry and hurt and tired, and end up walking aimlessly for hours, circling the same shitty blocks, smoking through every cigarette he had.
He hated himself for leaving. Hated himself for letting Wade get to him, for letting the fights go so far. But more than anything, he hated that even now, he couldn’t stop worrying about Wade.
He was getting high again, that was no secret. But what else was he hiding?
Logan stopped himself. He lit another cigar, sucking in the smoke and holding it in his lungs until it burned. Then he exhaled, watching the gray haze drift into the night air.
“Not your problem,” he muttered to himself, even though he knew it wasn’t true. Wade was always his problem.
Logan sat slouched on the curb outside the corner store, the whiskey bottle cradled loosely in his hand. The sharp winter chill bit through his jacket, but the burn of the alcohol in his chest kept him warm enough. He tilted the bottle back, taking another swig as the faint buzz of a neon sign above him hummed in his ears.
The store door jingled open, and Logan glanced up to see Omar, one of the guys from work, stepping out. Omar had a plastic bag in one hand and a pack of Black & Milds in the other. His sharp eyes immediately caught Logan’s figure in the low light.
“Yo, Logan,” Omar called, stopping mid-step. “You good, man?”
Logan gave him a halfhearted grunt, waving the bottle in a vague motion. “Just peachy.”
Omar shook his head and walked over, the worn soles of his boots scuffing the pavement. “You look like shit,” he said bluntly, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “What’s goin’ on?”
Logan looked up at him and smirked. “What’s it look like? Drownin’ my sorrows, one cheap bottle at a time.”
Omar crouched down, putting his bag on the curb. He opened the pack of smokes but paused, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Tell you what,” he said, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a fat, neatly rolled blunt. “I was savin’ this for later, but you look like you could use it more than I could.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do that shit much.”
“Well, maybe tonight’s the night,” Omar replied, already fishing out a lighter. He lit the blunt and took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling with a satisfied sigh. He held it out to Logan. “C’mon. Won’t kill ya.”
Logan hesitated, eyeing the blunt like it was about to bite him. But the whiskey was wearing off, and the ache in his chest was still there, gnawing at him. With a low growl, he took it and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The smoke hit harsh, and he coughed, much to Omar’s amusement.
“Damn, old man,” Omar said, chuckling. “You ain’t gotta prove nothin’. Take it easy.”
Logan shot him a glare but took another, smaller drag before passing it back.
They smoked in silence for a while, the weed dulling the edges of Logan’s thoughts. The streetlights above buzzed softly, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. Logan could feel the tension in his shoulders easing, just a little, and for the first time that night, the knot in his chest loosened.
“So what’s got you out here drinkin’ alone?” Omar asked eventually, his tone casual. “You don’t usually hang around this late.”
Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Roommate drama,” he muttered. “Same old shit. Fightin’ over nothin’, but it never ends.”
“Ah, I hear that,” Omar said, leaning back on his hands. “Me and my babys’ mama? We’re always at each other’s throats. Dumb stuff half the time—money, the dishes, what kinda crib to get for the baby.”
Logan glanced at him. “Baby?”
“Yeah,” Omar said, smiling faintly. “She’s due in, like, three months. It’s stressful as hell, but…it’s worth it, you know? My son, he a real good kid. But damn, he got attitude like his mama.”
Logan grunted. “If you say so.”
Omar shrugged, taking another puff. “I get it, though. Feels like you’re stuck sometimes. Like no matter what you do, it’s never enough.”
Logan nodded, staring at the pavement. “Yeah. That’s about right.”
“But,” Omar continued, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, “you gotta ask yourself if it’s worth stickin’ it out. If it is, you keep tryin’. If it ain’t…well, you know what you gotta do.”
Logan frowned, taking the blunt when Omar passed it back to him. “What if you don’t know?”
Omar laughed softly. “Then you smoke a little more weed and figure it out in the mornin’.”
Logan snorted, shaking his head. “You’re a real philosopher, huh?”
“Damn right,” Omar said, grinning.
They sat there a while longer, passing the blunt back and forth, their conversation light but easy. Logan felt the haze settle over him, the edges of his thoughts softening as the weed worked its way through his system.
By the time the blunt was a roach, Logan felt…not good, exactly, but better. Lighter. He stood, brushing off his jeans as Omar did the same.
“You gonna be okay?” Omar asked, his tone genuine.
Logan nodded, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Omar said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just don’t forget—ain’t nothin’ wrong with takin’ a step back and breathin’. Might help more than you think.”
Logan gave a small grunt of acknowledgment before turning and heading back toward the apartment. His feet felt heavy, but his chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.
When he got back, Wade would still be there. The mess would still be there. The fights, the pills, the bills—they’d all still be waiting.
—
Logan opened the door to the apartment, the smell of stale beer and weed hitting him hard. It felt like it had been days since he left, though it was really only a few hours. But the silence in the place was suffocating. The TV was still on, but Wade wasn’t on the couch anymore. Logan’s heart dropped as his eyes scanned the room.
There, in the middle of the floor, Wade was sprawled out, completely out of it. His chest rose and fell unevenly, shallow breaths puffing in and out as he lay on his back, eyes closed. A bottle of vodka tipped over next to him, the clear liquid pooling into a puddle on the hardwood. The fridge door hung wide open, the light casting an eerie glow on the disarray of the kitchen.
Logan’s gut twisted, the frustration and anger from their earlier fight boiling in his veins, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming urge to just get Wade off the fucking floor.
He rushed over, his hands already working to check Wade’s pulse, his fingers digging into his neck to make sure he was still alive. Wade’s skin was cold, clammy with sweat, and Logan’s heart skipped a beat. He cursed under his breath, not wasting another second.
“Goddamn it, Wade,” Logan muttered, lifting Wade’s limp body with surprising care, despite the anger still roiling in his chest. Wade’s head lolling to the side, his body like dead weight in Logan’s arms. His skin smelled of booze and sweat, his hair matted and sticking to his forehead.
Logan grunted as he hoisted Wade up, feeling the warmth of his body against his own. The mess that Wade had left behind felt like a weight he could never shake. But he couldn’t leave him here. Not like this. Not after everything.
With steady determination, Logan moved through the apartment, making his way to their bedroom. The single mattress was still on the floor, as filthy and roach-infested as it had been when they first moved in. Logan didn’t care. It was where Wade was, and it was where they both ended up, time and time again.
Logan gently lowered Wade onto the mattress, not caring that the edges of it were stained and the sheets barely covered the thin foam beneath. Wade groaned faintly, his lips parted as he mumbled something incoherent, barely more than a breath. Logan reached down, brushing the strands of matted hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear with a tenderness that felt foreign.
He stared down at Wade for a long moment, his hand lingering on his forehead, his thumb gently swiping over the sweaty skin. Wade’s eyes flickered beneath his eyelids, a small whimper escaping his throat as he shifted, the weight of his intoxication making his body tremble.
Logan sat down next to him on the edge of the mattress, pulling his jacket off and draping it over Wade’s shoulders. He didn’t want to leave him exposed, even though the room was warm. Not like this.
Wade shifted again, his hand twitching toward Logan, almost like he was reaching out for him, even in his stupor. Logan didn’t hesitate. He gently took Wade’s hand in his, his fingers brushing over the rough, trembling skin. For a second, Logan forgot everything—the fights, the frustration, the pain—and he just held him, feeling the steady rhythm of Wade’s breath under his hand.
Without thinking, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Wade’s sweaty forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment, the warmth of his touch a quiet promise. The anger that had been coiled tight in his chest loosened, replaced by something deeper—something tired.
“I’m not going anywhere, Wade,” Logan whispered, his voice barely audible in the dim light of their bedroom. “I’m still here.”
Wade didn’t respond, his head still lolling to the side as he shifted closer to Logan, instinctively seeking comfort even in his intoxicated haze. Logan tightened his grip on Wade’s hand, feeling the heat of his body against his own. Despite everything—despite all the wreckage of their relationship, the broken promises, the fights, and the mess—they were here together, in this moment, tangled in their own flawed, desperate existence.
Logan exhaled slowly, brushing his thumb over Wade’s knuckles before letting his hand rest on his chest. He could feel the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his breathing beneath his palm. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Logan allowed himself to close his eyes for a second, letting the exhaustion take over, knowing that, for now, this was enough.
“Fuck,” Logan muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he gently pulled Wade closer, his arms wrapping around him in a tight embrace. Wade’s body was limp, his breath slow and steady as he sunk deeper into the haze of drunken sleep.
Logan buried his face in Wade’s hair, inhaling the familiar, bitter scent of whiskey and sweat. “Goddamn it, Wade,” he murmured. “You better wake up, or I swear to God, I’m gonna leave you here for good.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. He never could.
Logan stayed there, his arms wrapped around Wade like a lifeline. Wade’s drunken sleep was heavy, his body slack in Logan’s embrace. The weight of him, of everything they’d been through, pressed down on Logan’s chest like a lead blanket. He could feel the faint rise and fall of Wade’s chest, the heat of his body against his own, but it wasn’t enough to settle the storm inside Logan. The anger, the frustration, the guilt—it was all still there, churning beneath the surface.
Logan tried to shake it off, tried to find something to calm him down. But the truth was, he couldn’t. He’d been fighting this feeling for too long—fighting Wade, fighting himself, fighting everything that was so damn broken between them. The promises they’d made, the words they’d thrown at each other, the nights spent not talking. It all felt like too much to carry.
Wade shifted slightly in his arms, mumbling something incoherent, the words slurring together in a way that sounded like something between a plea and a curse. Logan’s grip tightened automatically, pulling him closer, as if somehow this—just holding him—could undo all the damage.
“Hey, hey…” Logan whispered, brushing his fingers through Wade’s tangled hair, his thumb rubbing gently over his scalp. Wade mumbled again, this time something more coherent, though still weak.
“I’m sorry,” Wade said, his voice hoarse but clear enough for Logan to hear. He sounded like he was drifting in and out of consciousness, but there was something in the way he said it that made Logan pause.
Logan’s chest tightened. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he muttered, his voice rough with the weight of everything unsaid. “You’re just a fucking mess, Wade. And so am I. But I’m still here.” He tried his best to remain calm and docile even despite his anger, his resentments.
Wade let out a breath, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, and in his drunken stupor, he nuzzled closer to Logan’s chest, burying his face into his shirt. Logan could feel the dampness of Wade’s sweat against his skin, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“I’m not gonna leave you,” Logan said again, though his voice wavered slightly. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Wade or himself, but he meant it. Even if it felt like he was losing control, even if Wade’s self-destruction was something he couldn’t save him from, Logan would stay. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know how much longer he could do it, but he’d stay.
Wade shifted again, pulling at Logan’s shirt in a slow, uncoordinated movement. “Promise?” The word was thick with exhaustion, the plea almost inaudible.
Logan hesitated for a moment, his heart giving a painful twist. “Yeah,” he whispered, his hand stroking through Wade’s hair once more. “I promise.”
Wade’s body grew heavier, his breathing slowing, and soon, Logan was left sitting there with the weight of him in his arms, the world outside completely irrelevant. He wasn’t sure how much time passed—could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours—but eventually, Logan’s eyelids began to droop.
Wade’s body was slack in Logan’s arms, the faint smell of whiskey and the residue of pills still clinging to his skin. His head lolled back, eyes half-lidded, mouth a slack mess. His breathing was slow, uneven, the kind of deep breaths someone took when they were barely holding on, lost somewhere between awareness and oblivion. Logan could feel the heaviness of Wade’s weight on him, a pressing reminder of everything that had gone wrong. But it wasn’t the weight of Wade’s body that made Logan’s chest tighten. It was the way Wade was slipping further away—into that sick haze he couldn’t pull himself out of.
Wade’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused, swimming in a cloud of drunken stupor.
“I’m sorry…” Wade murmured, his voice slurring like he couldn’t form words properly. It was a hollow apology, one that didn’t even sound like it meant anything. “For lying… for not… tellin’ you. Just… let me make you feel good, okay? Just… wanna make it better for you…”
Logan’s stomach twisted, a sick, bitter feeling rising in him. He hated that. Hated the way Wade could barely get the words out, hated the desperation in them, but more than anything, hated the fact that Wade was so fucking far gone he couldn’t even think straight. His heart hammered in his chest, but there was a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth that was impossible to swallow.
“No, Wade,” Logan bit out, his voice sharp, his hands trembling with frustration. “You’re so fucking drunk you can’t even sit up straight. I’m not in the mood for that.” His voice came out colder than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t even stomach the thought of what Wade was offering. Not like this.
Wade barely heard him, still caught up in whatever fog had settled over him. His head tilted slightly, his lips curling into a pathetic, drunken smile. “I’m not… I’m not bad, am I, Logan?” he mumbled, his words slurring, barely hanging together. “I… just needed some cash… I thought… thought it was the only way to help… just wanted to keep us from drowning…”
Logan froze. His chest tightened with something heavy, thick. His gut churned with disgust, the kind that settled deep and burned. He knew exactly what Wade was confessing.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Logan snapped, his voice rising now, sharp with anger. “You think turning tricks for cash, is gonna make anything better?”
Wade blinked slowly, like the words weren’t processing, his vision swimming. “I didn’t… I didn’t wanna tell you,” Wade mumbled, his eyes half-shut. “Thought you’d hate me. But I… I couldn’t keep it all inside anymore… I just wanted… I wanted to help…”
Sure, the thinking made a little sense. Too sick and addicted to get a regular job like Logan had, so surely something like prostitution would work? Well, Logan couldn’t stand for that.
The sick, desperate words twisted like a knife in Logan’s gut. It wasn’t just the fact that Wade had been turning tricks for money. It was the way he said it, so carelessly, so half-conscious, like he’d given up any shred of dignity, and now it was just something to hide under the haze of alcohol and pills. Logan’s chest burned with rage, a hot, suffocating anger that made him feel sick to his stomach.
Without thinking, Logan slapped Wade hard across the face, the sound of the strike loud in the quiet room. Wade jerked slightly, his head snapping to the side, his eyes blinking open in a daze.
“Get the fuck up, Wade!” Logan hissed, the fury in his voice making it crack. “You’re pathetic. You think this is helping? You’re ruining your life, motherfucker. You’re dragging me down with you. I’m sick of this shit. You’re a fucking junkie, Wade. You can’t even look at yourself in the mirror anymore, can you? This is what you’ve become. This is what I’ve been stuck with. And you think I’m gonna just sit here and— what?— take it?”
Wade’s breath hitched, his face still red from the slap. His body trembled as he blinked up at Logan, his vision unfocused, mouth slightly open as if trying to say something, but nothing came out.
Logan’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his whole body tense with anger and something else. Something darker.
“You’re fucking pathetic, Wade,” Logan spat, his voice low and biting, each word hitting harder than the last. “And I’m just as fucking pathetic for loving you. It’s like God’s sick fucking joke, isn’t it? We’re both too broken to fix, too far gone to get out of this mess, but here we are. Stuck. Together.”
He stared at Wade’s face, at the drunken haze and the way Wade’s lips twitched like he was going to apologize again, but Logan couldn’t stand it. The pit in his stomach was too deep now, the disgust too overwhelming to ignore.
“You think this is right?” Logan continued, his voice shaking with anger. “This? This bullshit you’ve been doing, this fucking self-destructive spiral? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. I don’t even know if I want to fix you—because every time I try, it gets worse. You just get worse.”
Wade’s eyes filled with confusion, the remnants of his foggy brain barely able to comprehend what was happening. Logan knew he was losing him again, just like every time before, but it didn’t stop the words from coming out, from spilling from a place that felt like it was tearing him open.
“I hate that I love you,” Logan muttered, his voice cracking slightly, as if the weight of the words was too much to carry. “I hate that I fucking can’t walk away from you, even though every time I try, you pull me right back into this shit.” He shoved his hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. “And you don’t even get it, do you, Wade? You’re breaking us both.”
Wade’s lip trembled, his gaze flicking between Logan’s angry face and the floor. He was still too out of it to fully comprehend, but Logan didn’t care. He couldn’t.
For a moment, there was only silence—the kind that stretched and pulled at everything Logan had left. He stood there, staring down at Wade, feeling something like rage and something like grief battling in his chest.
Wade’s eyes were glassy, his head lolling, and he reached out weakly, his voice barely a breath. “Please… don’t go…”
Logan looked at him for a moment, his heart twisted up in knots. He wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to run. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at Wade’s broken form.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” Logan said quietly, his voice thick with frustration. “I don’t know how much more I can take, Wade.”
Wade’s fingers, weak and trembling, found the lapels of Logan’s jacket, gripping onto them like they were the only thing keeping him tethered to anything real. His bloodshot eyes, unfocused but desperate, locked onto Logan’s face, as if he was searching for some kind of answer, something that would make it all stop. His body was barely holding itself up, intoxicated beyond reason, but his hands clung to Logan’s chest, pulling him closer.
“Please,” Wade slurred, his voice a broken whisper, full of something that sounded almost like self-loathing. He tilted his head, his lips brushing over Logan’s skin in soft, fleeting kisses—barely there but enough to send a shiver down Logan’s spine. “Please… hit me again.” His words were thick with pain, his breath warm against Logan’s face. “I need it. I deserve it.
Logan recoiled, the words slamming into him like a punch. It hit him so hard, it knocked the air from his lungs. He stood there, frozen, for a moment, staring down at Wade, his chest heaving with the weight of the emotions that were bubbling up, boiling over.
“What the hell did you just say?” Logan’s voice cracked, his breath ragged as he jerked back, pulling away from Wade’s grasp. But Wade’s hands were relentless, locking onto him like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. His fingers dug into Logan’s jacket, and then—softly, like a whispered apology—his hands slid up to Logan’s face.
The touch was almost too gentle, like Wade was trying to make some kind of connection, something that felt real. But Logan couldn’t shake the unease that crept through his veins. Every moment that Wade was close, every tender kiss against his skin, made Logan feel like he was drowning.
Wade’s lips brushed across Logan’s cheek again, slower this time, almost too delicate, like he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping through his fingers. His breath was shaky, and his eyes were unfocused, somewhere between confusion and a haunting kind of desperation.
“You can hurt me,” Wade whispered, his voice barely a rasp. “It’ll make it feel better. Punish me.”
The words hit Logan like a gut punch. He recoiled slightly, blinking, trying to process what Wade had just said. Punish him? What the hell was Wade asking for? Logan’s eyes flitted over Wade’s bloodshot, half-lidded gaze. His words were so broken, so far gone.
Logan’s chest tightened, his pulse racing as he stared at Wade, unsure of what the hell was happening. He was supposed to be taking care of Wade, protecting him from this kind of madness. But Wade… Wade was making this a fucking game. A sick, twisted game.
“I’m not this monster,” Logan whispered to himself, the words barely leaving his lips. “I’m not…”
But then Wade’s hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for anything—anything to stop the chaos inside his head. And in that moment, Logan’s heart felt like it was being ripped in two. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to just leave, get out of there, but Wade wouldn’t let go.
Wade was hurting in a way Logan couldn’t even begin to understand, and part of Logan… part of him wanted to make it stop.
Logan took a breath, his hand shaking as it hovered just above Wade’s cheek. He told himself this wasn’t real. That he wasn’t about to do something he couldn’t take back. He could hear the voice in his head screaming at him to stop. But it wasn’t just Wade. It was everything.
Logan’s hand came down, the slap sharp and loud, the sting resonating in his palm long after it made contact. Wade barely reacted, his face slack as the blow hit him. Logan’s heart twisted with a sickening ache, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Wade didn’t cry out. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to feel it. He only pulled Logan in closer, pressing his cheek against Logan’s chest.
“Please,” Wade whispered, the word barely audible, slurred by the alcohol in his system. “Please, hit me again. I need it.”
Logan’s breath came out in a ragged gasp. He stared down at Wade, his mind a mess of anger, guilt, and something darker, something he couldn’t quite place. His stomach churned with the realization that he was losing himself in this.
“I’m not a fucking abuser,” Logan muttered, his hand trembling as he lifted it once more, hovering just above Wade’s cheek. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, thudding like a drum. “I’m not. You’re making me do this. You’re fucking making me.”
But Wade wasn’t listening. His grip on Logan only tightened.
Logan’s palm crashed down again, harder this time, and Wade let out a small noise, but it wasn’t pain. It was almost… relief. His head sagged forward, his breath ragged and wet against Logan’s shirt. When he straightened his neck to look up at Logan again, who was teary eyed and shaking, a slow drop of blood dribbled down his nose.
Logan’s breath was still heavy as he stared down at Wade, his hand trembling at his side. He could feel the rush of adrenaline and guilt coursing through him, the weight of the last few minutes pressing on his chest. But when Wade straightened up, his head tilting toward Logan with that same broken, desperate gaze, something in Logan snapped.
The blood on Wade’s nose was slow to trickle down, leaving a thin trail of red that stained the curve of his lip. But it wasn’t the blood that shook Logan—it was Wade’s quiet acceptance, the way he didn’t pull away, the way he seemed almost relieved by it. Like it was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that could quiet the storm inside him.
Logan took a step back, his heart racing in his chest. He could feel the hot sting of tears threatening to break free, but he refused to let them fall. This wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. This wasn’t who he was. Wade drove him mad, brought out the worst in him. He poked and prodded and made bad decisions in attempt to get himself hurt even further.
But Wade was still looking at him, those wild, desperate eyes never leaving his face. And in that moment, Logan’s resolve cracked. Without thinking, he reached out and pulled Wade to him, his arms wrapping around him in an almost desperate embrace.
Wade’s body sagged against him, like he was too heavy to hold up on his own. But Logan didn’t care. He buried his face in Wade’s hair, feeling the warmth of his breath against his neck, the weight of everything they’d both been through pressing down on him.
Logan closed his eyes, his chest tight as he held Wade close, as though trying to keep the pieces of their shattered reality from slipping away completely.
He kissed the top of Wade’s head, his lips brushing against the sweat-dampened strands of hair, and for a moment, he let himself feel something other than anger and guilt.
“Fuck,” Logan whispered, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of it all. “I hate what you do to my mind, Wade. You make me lose control. You make me want to break.”
Wade’s arms tightened around Logan’s waist, his breath shallow, his body warm but trembling against him. Logan could feel the quiet pain in the way Wade held on, and it broke something inside him. The desperation, the need, the way Wade was clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
Wade didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes were glassy, lost, but there was something there. A flicker of recognition, maybe, or a quiet plea for something more than the mess they’d made of their lives.
“I’m not proud of this,” Logan said, his voice breaking. “I’m not proud of what we’ve become.” His hand slid down to Wade’s neck, his thumb brushing lightly over his skin as he tried to steady himself.
Wade’s lips trembled slightly, and then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he let out a shaky breath and whispered, “I know. I know you can’t. I don’t want you to.”
And Logan, despite everything, despite the chaos and the pain and the mess of it all, didn’t want to let go either.
He kissed Wade on the forehead, the tears he’d been holding back finally spilling over. He hated this. Hated what it had become. But somehow, they were still here, together. And in some twisted way, maybe that was enough for now.
Logan froze at Wade’s words, his breath catching in his throat. His arms tightened around Wade instinctively, his face buried in Wade’s hair as if he could block out the sound, the desperation in his voice. But the words clung to the air, sinking into Logan’s chest like an anchor.
“Please,” Wade whispered again, his voice hoarse, barely audible but raw with need. “Just love me. I just want you to love me… even if it hurts.”
Logan’s jaw clenched, and he pulled back just enough to look at Wade’s face. The blood on his nose had dried now, and his eyes were red, half-lidded from the booze and benzos swirling in his system. But behind all that, behind the haze and the exhaustion, Logan saw something that cut him deeper than any wound he’d ever carried—a raw, unfiltered ache for something Wade couldn’t even articulate without breaking.
Logan’s heart twisted painfully. He wanted to scream at Wade, tell him how fucked up this all was, how they’d both sunk so low they couldn’t even see the bottom anymore. But when he looked at Wade, his trembling hands gripping the front of Logan’s shirt, his lips cracked and shaking as he waited for something—anything—Logan couldn’t bring himself to yell.
He reached out instead, his thumb brushing against Wade’s cheek, rough and hesitant. “You think this is love?” Logan asked, his voice sharp but quiet. “What we’re doing here? Beating the shit out of each other, tearing each other apart every damn day? You think that’s love, Wade?”
Wade didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered down, avoiding Logan’s eyes as his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like,” he said, his tone broken and uneven. “But it’s the only time I don’t feel empty. When you’re close, it’s the only time it’s quiet.”
Logan exhaled shakily, his anger and frustration ebbing into something colder, heavier. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, to silence the part of him that wanted to give in, to grab Wade and tell him that he’d never leave, no matter how much it hurt. But that same part of him wanted to run, to get as far away from this as possible because he couldn’t keep living like this.
“Wade,” Logan muttered, his voice thick, his hand still cupping Wade’s face. “You’re breaking yourself apart, and you’re dragging me down with you. This isn’t love. It’s—” He faltered, the words catching in his throat as Wade’s watery gaze met his.
“Don’t,” Wade interrupted, shaking his head. His grip on Logan’s shirt tightened as his eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over. “Don’t pull away from me. Don’t say it. Please, Logan. I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he dropped his head, resting it against Logan’s chest. “I can’t lose you. I don’t care if it hurts. I just want you to stay.”
Logan clenched his teeth, his hands trembling as he held Wade closer, his face hardening with the effort it took to not completely fall apart himself. “You’re killing me,” Logan whispered harshly, his voice a low growl. “Every time you look at me like that, like I’m the only thing keeping you alive, you’re killing me.”
“I’m sorry,” Wade murmured, though it didn’t sound like he believed it. His voice was muffled against Logan’s chest, the warmth of his breath seeping through Logan’s shirt. “But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to be without you.”
Logan’s arms tightened around him as his tears finally broke free, hot and silent as they slid down his face. “Goddamn it, Wade,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “You’re asking for something I don’t know if I can give you.”
But even as he said it, even as the words left his lips, he didn’t let go. Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how broken they were, Wade was right. Logan couldn’t leave him. At least, not right now.