Logan doesn’t know how many beers he’s blown through. He could count the bottles on the floor, but that takes much more effort than he’s willing to give right now, and besides, he’s not 100% confident he’s not seeing double.
He’s looking at the shrine the kids made, at the candles, at the photographs. There’s one of Kurt with the students, celebrating a baseball game they’d just played. There’s the full faculty photo, complete with Kurt leaning playfully on Logan’s shoulder. There’s one of just Kurt, Ororo, and Logan, all bloodied and bruised, yet triumphant after a battle they’d won.
The table is littered with memories, and in each one, Kurt’s smiling.
Logan knocks back another beer, puts his head between his hands, and chokes back a sob. Drunkenly, he slurs—
“God, I miss you so much.”
He looks behind him to the bed his back rests against. He remembers how Kurt had bounced on it when he first arrived, because the monastery only had threadbare cots; how he, Kurt, Scott, Warren, and Remy had played drinking games, spilling shots all over the sheets, how Jean had come in to scold them, and how Kurt had BAMFed onto the ceiling in shock when she opened the door.
The memories make more tears fall.
Logan has forgotten the most painful things that have happened to him—whether they’re buried deep in his subconscious or wiped from his mind entirely, he doesn’t know. Sometimes a help, sometimes a hindrance, the fact of the matter is that forgetting the things that hurt is the way the human brain keeps itself alive.
But no matter how much they hurt, no matter how hard Logan cries every time they come to mind, he does not want to lose these memories. Because then… Kurt would be gone forever. He would truly be dead.
Logan contemplates drinking another beer, but realizes he’s all out anyways. He stands up, but instead of looking for more liquid solace, he looks for mementos. Kurt would hate someone going through his shit, but the elf isn’t around to complain about it.
Kurt was like a crow, he finds, as he rummages through his bedside drawers. They’re full of useless trinkets that carry only sentimental value. There’s a friendship bracelet from Pixie, one of his students—blue and black with red beads woven into the strings. There’s a scrap of metal from the Blackbird, a mechanical pencil from Hank, a mixtape from Rogue. There’s a small bottle cap—Kurt’s favorite beer—with a date inscribed on the underside. It was from a long time ago; the first day Kurt and Logan went drinking together.
Damn that elf for being so sentimental. Logan thought he was done crying.
Logan takes the bottle cap, pockets it, and leaves. He crosses the kitchen, where Ororo stands, making a cup of coffee. No words are exchanged between them. He wasn’t sure he could face her after their earlier dispute.
She makes no comment as he takes a brand new bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, opens it, takes a swig, and leaves.
He doesn’t go to the cliffside, or the roof, or any of his and Kurt’s usual drinking spots. He merely sits down on a bench, knocks back even more booze, and sighs.
“You really made a mess of me, you know that?”
”You know, you don’t need to torture yourself like this, liebchen.”
Logan looks up, eyes wide, and drops his whiskey. He doesn’t hear it shatter on the floor.
Before him stands the spectral figure of Kurt Wagner. He’s smiling, fit, and in his prime, and all of his body is intact. He looks alive.
“How…?”
”Come now,” Kurt sighs, and Logan stands up to meet his eyes. ”I couldn’t bare to leave you all alone.”
Logan laughs and the sound comes out nasally, clogged with tears. “You little shit. ‘Course.. ‘course you’d pull something like this.”
”I know how guilty you feel, Logan.”
Logan falls silent.
”And… you don’t need to be. This was… simply the path I chose for my life. There was nothing you could have done, mein liebe. I can’t bear to see you live with such regret weighing down your heart.”
“If I’d killed them all… every last Purifier, if I—if I’d managed to kill Bastion before he got to you—“
”You may very well be dead, yourself.”
“It’d be better than you.” Logan’s head drops, defeated. “It was never supposed to be you.”
Kurt’s translucent hand appears on Logan’s cheek. He can’t feel it, but there’s a warmth there that wasn’t there before. He holds his own hand up to the spot.
”No, schatz. It was not meant to be you. You’re far too important, I’m afraid. And besides, I’ll need more time to prepare your welcome party.”
“I’m not going to heaven, Kurt.”
“Then wherever you are, I will be there, waiting for you,” Kurt says, and the edges of his form begin to dissipate into particles of pure light. “Radiant and with open arms.”
The figure fades, and Logan is left with a fading warmth on his cheek.
“I’ll be there, old friend.”
“Logan?” He hears a voice from behind him, footsteps on stone growing closer. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one, Summers.” Logan reaches for his whiskey, but only sees the shards of it on the ground. “Now fuck off, unless you’re bringing me another bottle.”