the sky, frozen black, covered my wayward tracks
In the silence of the snow, Logan’s footsteps echo throughout the night. The giant cedar trees tower over him, their large, drooping branches like the judging eyes of a mass. They shudder collectively at the sudden ghosts of wind that pass through the air like a cavalry. He pulls his collar up as he passes under them, dipping his head to watch his boots crunch through the snowbanks. Ice cracks beneath his weight as he walks up to the cabin.
The siding is spruce, dark and knotty. The roof is barely holding together, buckling slightly under the weight of the snow piled atop it. He can hear a slight creaking when the wind blows before it’s overtaken by the sounds of the cedar needles rustling. The whole cabin seems to shudder as he climbs the steps towards the door. It’s meager inside, with a wood stove and a skinny, iron-piped sink. A rickety red armchair is sat next to the stove, seemingly stuck reclined. The bedroom is crammed with a large, queen bed piled with quilts and comforters. There’s a gun lock box in the corner, with more blankets piled on top of it. Logan sets his stuff down on the bed before piling wood into the stove. The first match breaks, the second one burns too quickly for him to throw it into the oven. He huffs in frustration while breaking two more matches to light the fire. Wood smoke fills the air and Logan sighs. Even in his fragmented memories, he’s had a long history with the smell of wood smoke. He chuckles, remembering the last time he’d been camping, when he’d brought the cloying smoke smell into the mansion with him. Jean had nearly stormed out in protest.
Once he’s shed his snow-sodden coat, he lies flat on the floor, counting the cracks in the ceiling. The fire warms his flank through his tank, and for the first time in days, he closes his eyes.
The drive to Ottawa was wet. The roads were slick with harsh snow, but Logan trudged on. Sleet began to pour a few miles outside of the cabin, soaking through his clothes. He’d passed through Buffalo on his way up, met with a guy he’d met in ‘87. He’d fought in ‘Nam, something he and Logan had bonded over (despite the amnesia). The guy owned an animal rescue and grew dope in his garage. They met up a few times a year by coincidence, mostly. This was his cabin that he’d vacated a few years back. The cold was bad for his joints, apparently. Couldn’t bear to leave New York, though, so he rented the cabin out.
Birds squabble on the tin roof, the scraping of their talons making a screeching noise.
Logan sighs. There’s a whistling call, one that’s followed him from New York. The cardinal lands on a branch outside the window where Logan can just barely see the crest of its scarlet head. Logan watches it fly away before heading back into the bedroom. In his bag are several thick pieces of wood he picked up in Buffalo that have since dried from the snow. Most are cedar that work well under his knife. Ororo had said something about getting more tools for finer details. Maybe he’ll take her advice. His half-finished dog is lying at the bottom of his bag, left without a defined lower half.
The wood resists his knife, but he slowly eases it into an approximate, bird like shape. The wings are always the hardest for him, so he leaves them for last. The beak is a shape not unlike a whale fin, of which he’s carved many since that day in October. He winces. Since he left, Remy’s face appears hauntingly in his mind. His lithe figure and drawl like silk floated around Logan’s vision He forces down the thoughts best he can during the day, but in the few hours of sleep he gets, they invade his dreams. The visions of Remy are shockingly realistic, while the background is blurred or warped. Instead of the mansion, Logan and Remy are in the Rockies, or in a sprawling living room where none of the others seem to intrude on. It’s as if his subconscious pours all of its energy into creating the most lifelike Remy, all other aspects secondary to the man.
Sleep should have been harder to come by, but Logan found himself sleeping better than he had all year. The cold made him drop like lead. He’d wake with the sun streaming onto his face, morning fog already drifted out of the sky.
He carves the crest, letting the peaks take shape slowly. The belly is easy; just long strokes of the knife with careful nicks for some feathers. Sawdust piles on his jeans while the bird reveals itself to him. Soon, the only part left is the wings, where Logan cuts only a few nicks before pocketing the bird in frustration. Back home, there’s an ever growing pile of half-finished birds, some with chunky wings, some with their heads replaced by an uncarved cube. It wouldn’t matter much if he left this bird to languish in that pile, but he promises to finish it in the morning.
With the snow slowly sealing him inside the cabin, his mind wanders to passing the time. In the side pocket of his duffle, hidden under some of his boxers is a small plastic bag. As soon as he opens the bag, the heady, earthen smell snakes into the room. The joints are rolled thick and tight, sitting in a pile of cactus colored bud. Logan had asked his war buddy for some pre-rolls till he went back to the mansion where his grinder and papers were hidden under a floorboard. For now, he flicks his lighter on and waits for the paper to burn. He brings the joint to his lips and lets the smoke fill his lungs. It burns his chest as he exhales, catching slightly. He eases himself into the armchair, sinking deeply into the red upholstery. It creaks loudly, but holds steady. It takes until nearly the roach for his head to cloud and his body to feel light. He cracks his knuckles idly, feeling clearly where the joints connect. He flicks the roach into the fire before leaning back. Logan lets his head roll, nestled on his shoulder and the back of the chair. The fire breathes gently on his calves while it sings happily about the wood he fed it. Without meaning, his eyes close. Unbidden, a vision of Remy, bathed in sunlight, flashes behind his eyelids. Logan tries to think of anything else, but nothing seems as enticing as Remy.
Now that he thinks about it, there’s really no harm in just thinking of him. Besides, he’s high. And no one will know. Except for Chuck, who probably already knows. Thinking of Charles, he thinks of Jean. She’d called a few days after left, her voice soft and calm. She’d tried to coax him back with the promise of Christmas ham. He smiles. It could have worked, had he not known that Remy was cooking this year, meaning it would probably be one of the best things he’d ever eaten. He tires, idly, to think of Jean the way he longs to think of Remy. There had been many nights where it came with ease. He tries to conjure an image of Jean, maybe with her blouse slightly unbuttoned, just to start, but he quickly recoils. It’s just… a little strange now. It’s been so long since the possibility of them has ever been realistic, though Logan hadn’t thought he’d moved on. But any thought of Jean just morphs into Remy.
Remy bathed in sunlight, hair spilling out behind him like a wildfire. Maybe he’s lounging on the back porch, taking in any heat he can get.
Or Remy’s home from a mission, fresh from a shower when he comes into bed to curl around Logan. He can let himself nuzzle into Logan’s chest and sink into sleep.
Or Logan can take Remy out into the middle of nowhere, can’t be too far north but maybe they can compromise, and they can keep each other warm through the night. Remy’s calloused, strong hand cards through his hair, kneading at the knots in his back with the other.
Logan sighs heavily. Thinking about him hurts. But beside the hurt, deep in his gut, is an aching desire. He’d felt this way about Jean, after he’d known her for a few months and while they sometimes kissed, her heart was Scott’s. He’d felt it about Storm, in a way. Maybe even Scott.
His jaw stopped aching about an hour after Remy had punched him, but a phantom pain had him rubbing his mandible constantly. That had gone away sometime around Christmas, something he only knew because of Jubilee’s voicemail. Now, he was left with hurt and desire, constantly trying to drown each other out. And it's not like Remy’d forgive him now, after what he’d said. Even if he did, Logan hadn’t seen any evidence that Remy’d ever want to be with him. He pulls out the second pre-roll and lights it quickly so he doesn’t lose his high. This one must have something different in it, because the taste is smoother on his tongue. It smells like roots, like pulling up tulip bulbs with Ororo. Maybe one day he’d get her to smoke with him. Maybe he could get Remy to do it.
There’s an image of Remy, splayed out amidst the smoke, trying to lead Logan on some story he can barely get through, that appears in Logan’s mind. Remy’s never quite relaxed, even when he’s drunk or beat to hell. He sits with his back against a wall, in the corner of any room he walks into. Same as Logan. But maybe enough dope would convince him to drop his guard and sit wherever he wanted, not whip his head up whenever there’s a slight noise somewhere in the mansion. They could tangle their limbs together, letting the slight discomfort roll off of them with the help of the weed.
Logan runs his tongue over his lips, feeling the chapped skin. Before he knows it, he’s down to the roach, inhaling the caustic smoke of burning paper. He coughs a little, stubs out the barely there fire on the table. The images of Remy and him disappear with the embers. It’s nothing more than fantasy; a deluded fantasy thanks to Logan. But it settles something in him, perhaps the animal, perhaps the man. The indulgence of the daydreams and the weed help him curl up in a mound of blankets on the bed and drift to sleep.
—--
Sweat beads on the hinge of his jaw where Adam’s hands are placed, with his long nails digging into his skin, creating crescents that heal in seconds. Logan furiously kisses him back, pushing him further into the alley wall. They nip passionately at each other, taking turns tasting iron in each other’s mouths. A door opens further up in the alley, followed by broken glass and rustling. They finally break apart for the first time since they stumbled out of the bar together.
“You got a place here, cowboy?” Adam asks breathlessly. His wild blonde hair flutters in the breeze.
“Is’ pretty far.” He responds gruffly, nosing gently at the skin under Adam’s ear.
“Oh, well, I live in a weird basement, if that works for you?” He nods, not really caring what Adam means by that.
“Let me just grab my coat, it’s inside,” Adam says while trying to slip out from under Logan, but not doing a great job. Logan paws at him before letting him go, moving to lean against the brick wall. He hadn’t anticipated the night turning out this way when he’d rolled up to the bar an hour earlier.
In hindsight, he should have noticed it was a gay bar. The outside was nondescript but well-kept. There were a few less bloodstains than on the bars he frequented in New York. It was a couple of hours before Logan had hit civilization, but the setting sun had warmed his back as he rode, with his stuff piled behind him. He’d stopped briefly, to watch a moose that was trying to cross an icy river. He’d stayed on the road, but sat on his bike while the cow had tried to find the thickest part of the frost. Once she was out of sight, he carried on.
The door was painted emerald green, opening to reveal the most sequined room Logan had ever been in. A disco ball hung from the ceiling over the dance floor, while several smaller ones hung over the bar and in the window. The light danced on the sequined tops and pants of the patrons, refracting throughout the room.
Not everyone was sparkling, but a large group of young men dominated the dance floor. They seemed a little older than college aged, but many were still baby-faced. Logan slid onto the barstool and flagged someone down for a beer. He was content on brooding by himself while he was assaulted with Cindy Lauper. And he had spent a fine fifteen minutes by himself, nursing his beers.
A sweaty, glistening, sparkly man slid up to the bar and asked for a Bloody Mary. The man had breathlessly sat down next to him, wiping a hand through his hair. He glanced at Logan quickly, before turning all of his attention on him.
“You don’t like Cindy?”
Logan almost doesn’t answer. “What?” He courteously offers.
“I’ve just never seen anyone so depressed in here, Jesus!” He giggles, leaning heavily on the bar. “I’m Adam. Where’re you from?”
Kid’s very forward. “Alberta.”
“Wow. Any reason you’re all the way out here?” Logan doesn’t answer, hoping vaguely that Adam will go away.
“Yeah, fair enough. My friends and I, we’re home for Christmas break from Carleton. This is our favorite place.” His hand trails along the wood grain of the bar. It’s slowly inching towards Logan’s arm, which means Logan’s gonna have to do something. He turns, ready to cut the kid off. When he does, however, he gets hit with Adam’s scent. Beneath all the sweat and booze, he’s got the smell of juniper, powerful and sweet, mixed with cardamom, warm and soft, sticking to his hair. It makes him shiver. Logan searches his scrambled brain for Carleton, trying to pull any useful information to the surface.
“Uhm. What’re you studying?” He clumsily asks.
“Oh, I’m studying engineering. But most of the other guys are in business or bio. Trying to be doctors and CEO’s, you know how it is.” He nods, despite not knowing how it is. “What do you do?”
“I’m, uh, a teacher. At a private school.”
Adam smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling cutely. “Awh, neat. I love kids. Being a teacher must be great.” He shrugs, tipping his beer with the gesture. Adam arranges bar peanuts into a pattern on the counter. “Now that I’m doing engineering, it's all just old guys who can’t believe a guy like me works with them.”
Logan swallows. The bar is starting to make sense now. “Guy like you?” He dares to ask.
Adam turns and regards him for a moment. “Like, you know.” He waves his hand a little, maybe signaling something. “Oh, God, are you not-?” He turns bright red, suddenly taken aback.
“Nah, kid. Well, I am. But I’m a little old for it, right?” He suggests wryly, throwing back the last of his beer.
“I… don’t think that’s how that works,” Adam questions skeptically.
Logan shrugs, letting his neck roll. “I ain’t been with a guy in nearly fifteen years. It is what it is.”
“So, you just came into a gay bar because you’re… not gay?”
“Needed to get drunk.” Weariness hangs off his words. Speaking of which, he flags down the bartender for another drink.
Adam laughs. “Well, I guess any place works for that. You, uh, got any reason for it?”
Logan lets out a small chuckle. The booze is loosening him a little, and this far away from home means no one’ll recognize him. “A guy.”
Adam winces sympathetically. “Oh, I know how that goes.” He pats Logan’s arm, letting his fingers linger for a few seconds. “That was me when I was sixteen. I was with some thirty-something who couldn’t decide whether he was gay or not. But, I was so young I just wanted someone to like me.”
Logan swirls the liquid in the bottle. Remy was a hair over eighteen when they’d first met.
Adam continues. “I just thought if I got drunk like an adult he’d realize what he was missing out on. But you know, I’m a bit of a lightweight. Probably just made a fool of myself.”
“‘Fraid you’re not alone on that.” Logan tips his beer towards him.
Adam giggles. “You’re a lightweight?”
Logan chuffs involuntarily, the kid’s laughter infectious. “Nah, just a fool. ‘Specially when it comes to him.” The admittance is surprisingly easy. It’s been years since he’s really talked to another man of his persuasion. At least, a man that was so sure of it. Logan’s always wondered about the Professor. But it’s not really his place to say.
“You haven’t been with a guy in fifteen years and now one makes you want to get shitfaced. That’s pretty rough.”
“The same guy,” Logan corrects.
“What?”
“I slept with him fifteen years ago and I’m getting shitfaced because of him now.” Adam doesn’t say anything for a few moments so Logan glances towards him. His mouth is agape and his eyebrows are resting near his hairline. Logan grunts.
“I’m sorry, but that’s just. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been that strung up about a guy before. That’s kind of romantic though- in, like, a totally gay way. If you were straight I’d be like ‘Ew girl run!’” He huffs out some uneasy laughter, but grows more confident when Logan joins him.
“I’m not sure he sees it that way. No one really wants an ol’ dog like me.”
Logan nearly spits out his beer when Adam lets out a howl of laughter. His flushed face sparkles with leftover glitter, catching the light from the disco ball.
“I’m so sorry, but that is a load of bull. I don’t know your guy, but I’m sure if he’s stuck around this long he’s seeing something in you. Like, I don’t know, your crazy insane arms or your ridiculously handsome hair…” The lilt in his voice is joking, but Logan can feel the undercurrents of desire beneath it.
“You know I’m hung up on some guy and you’re still flirting with me?”
Adam looks taken aback. “I’m sorry, I just figured, you know, we could hook up and it wouldn’t have to mean anything. I’m not looking for anything serious.” Adam starts to move, but Logan grasps his upper arm, taking care to be gentle.
“I ain’t mean it like that. Just makin’ sure you know what you’re getting into.” Adam swallows, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck and into the divot of his collarbone. He nods silently, but holds Logan’s intense gaze. He’s not sure if this is a good idea, if it’ll help him at all. But, the slightly buzzed part of his mind says, it can’t hurt.
Two hours later, Logan is wrapped around Adam on a couch that has sunken two feet deep now that he’s on it. Adam had rode on the back of his bike back to his house, where they snuck in through a well window.
“My aunt is like, crazy about me having guys over. It’s a little moldy down here, sorry,” Adam had whispered to him once they had crawled into the dank basement. Mildew hangs in the air, cloying against the lingering scent of their sex.
Logan’s trying to trace shapes in the shiplap paneling, finding orcas and hawks in the shadows. He thumbs idly at the quilt Adam had dragged over them, watching the rise and fall of the man’s back. He’s teetering in the limbo of awake and sleep when there’s a soft buzz. His eyes fly open, searching for the sound. From his jeans on the floor, his phone rattles with a call. Logan debates jostling Adam to answer it, but no one would call this late if it wasn’t important. Carefully, he pulls himself out of Adam’s hold and hopes to God the squealing of the couch won’t wake him. He grabs his pants and ducks into the unfinished bathroom.
“Hello?” He grumbles.
“Logan. Thank you for answering,” the Professor’s voice is tinny and tired, even through the static. This phone’s probably been waterlogged ten times over, so the speakers are a little fried.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, everyone is okay. I’m afraid I was given a psychic communication through a dream just now. There is a mutant in Bismark who needs assistance. She told me to find her at the Lazy S Ranch. I’m afraid I was not able to gain more information from the dream, though I believe she is currently safe. Still, we should not waste time. We are short on hands right now, with Gambit being away and Scott injured. Can I entrust you with this?” Logan almost thinks to ask about the two men, but Charles’ weariness seeps through the phone.
“Yes, yeah, I’ll head off right now.” He feels himself stand up straighter.
“Thank you, Logan.” The call clicks off without another word. He supposes even the Professor’s usual exhaustiveness has a limit at 3 A.M.
When he heads back into the basement, Adam is awake, watching him.
“Who was that?”
“My- family. Listen, I’ve gotta leave, now. I’m sorry.”
Adam waves him away, drawing himself up to sit. “Don’t be. Not looking for anything serious, remember? You need anything before you go?”
Now it’s Logan’s turn to wave him away. “No, I’ll be alright.” He presses a kiss to Adam’s cheek after he’s gotten his shirt back on. “Thank you.”
Adam smiles softly. “Any time, cowboy.”
–
The ride northwest is frosty, too dangerous for anyone but him. He rides through most of the nights, crashing at moist-carpeted hotels and taking off early in the morning. The beast tells him how dangerous this is to use all this energy. But he’s still days out from Bismark, so he’s gotta keep going.
Once he’s crossed over to North Dakota, he stops on the side of the road to shake some of the sweat off. The wilderness that stretches out before him is wrapped in snow, so unlike Ottawa or Alberta. A river runs delicately through the white, too large to freeze but too small to stand out. Unbidden to his original goal, he trudges through the snow. He finds himself at the edge of the river, Logan’s watching the ice cold water flow, trying to plan when he’ll need to sleep next, how long he can keep going, when a snort gets his attention. It’s no deer or moose. He looks down river, where two horses stand. One is a paint, tawny and white with a striped mane. It conjures a memory in Logan’s mind, blurred by time. The other is jet black with four white socks. He thinks of Marie, and her stories of riding horses as a kid.
He sniffs, trying to catch the scent of the rest of the herd. But either the icy wind has snatched it away, or these two are alone together. The waterflow by the river bank is thin enough for winter to wrap her claws around it, creating a lattice of ice climbing downstream. Reaching out with a hoof, the black horse stamps the ice, the plates cast away with the water. Together, they drink through the well they’ve made. Their coats are thick, and Logan watches their withers twitch in the wind. One, the paint, lifts their head to gaze back at him. Frost sticks to their whiskers.
The black horse looks at Logan as well, but just shakes their head. They bring their head over the neck of the paint, who huffs. A gust of wind brings their manes fluttering around them, but tucked into each other they hold steady. The cold hasn’t been biting to him since he was small, that much he remembers, but now, the full force of the season seeps under his clothes. Stillness blankets the plains, keeping him and the horses locked in a staring contest. But stillness does no good to horses, so they unwind from each other and begin to stomp through the snow, heading the opposite direction of Logan.
He watches their swaying figures turn to dots on the horizon before he has to shake off the growing pile of snow on him. The ride deeper into the state is colder than the whole trip has been.