Archive of Our Own

He’s acutely aware of the eyes watching his every move.

He can feel them follow his feet as he sidesteps around Merrick, can feel them trace the curve of his arm as he wipes sweat from his forehead. He does everything he can to avoid staring back.

Keegan is light on his feet as he ducks under the punch Merrick throws at him. His arm comes up, blocks another.

Skin hot and red, sure to be burnt and peeling later—they’ve been training longer than they intended to.

It was supposed to be quick—at most, a couple hours before the sun rose and shone its unforgiving heat, before anyone else from the team woke up. A few rounds and then return inside the abandoned school they’ve turned into a safehouse, back before anyone even notices their empty rooms.

That’s what Merrick had promised, at least, when he had knocked on Keegan’s door at entirely too early in the morning. Keegan had debated not answering, ignoring the call of his commanding officer and pretending to be asleep; but he knew Merrick to be all too familiar with his inability to rest, with the insomnia plaguing his body and mind. He knew the man knew he was awake.

So he answered the door, not bothering to act as though he had rolled out of bed instead of merely stopping his pacing of the small space. The door had groaned as it opened and both men peered down the long hallway to see if anyone had heard.

But the coast was clear and Merrick was looking at him with raised eyebrows and a question on the tip of his tongue. A quick training session, he proposed, because the lack of activity around the base had made him jumpy, antsy. Keegan had almost refused, at first, but Merrick had a point—nothing had been happening and he was filled with a nervous energy, a jitteriness that clung to his bones and made him bounce on the balls of his feet even as he stood there.

Already fully dressed, he had stepped over the threshold and rolled his eyes at Merrick’s shit-eating grin, slapped his hand hard on his back when he passed him.

A low fog misted over the ground and they walked into it easily; drops of dew clung to their boots as they stepped, patches of grass pushing through the cracked concrete. In the distance, down the hill and shrouded in the fog, was a small town.

The town was outside No Man’s Land but had still fallen victim to ODIN’s blasts. Most of the buildings were destroyed and the place was completely abandoned; cars littered the streets and, in the distance, the far side of town appeared to be flooded.

It had been eerie, the way there was no sound at all other than the crunch of their boots on the broken pieces of ground.

They’d started simple and slow; punch, block, punch, dodge. A routine they’d grown used to over the years. Merrick teasing, joking; Keegan ignoring, rolling his eyes.

After about an hour or so, the fog had completely lifted. The sun had begun to rise, the air began to warm, sweat covered their skin.

One of the school gymnasium doors had opened and the sound echoed, loud, in the early morning. There had been rustling, uneven footsteps, whispers he couldn’t make out. Right when he turned to look over his shoulder, an old tennis ball had flown past his face, followed closely by a dog chasing after it.

Logan stood there, door held open by his shoulder. He had an easy smile on his face, hair messy from sleep.

Keegan looked at the horizon, at the sun slowly making its way above it. “What’re you doin’ awake, kid?”

“Riley,” Logan signed, motioning toward the dog. He bent down as Riley ran back to him, spat the ball at his feet and backed up a few paces, tongue lolling out of his mouth and bouncing, waiting for Logan to throw it again.

And throw he did. Keegan watched as Logan picked up the ball and threw it with ease; it had soared through the air in an arc, landed far in the distance. Riley ran after it.

“Nice throw.”

Logan smiled at him.

“Where’d you get the tennis ball?” Merrick had asked, eyes going from Keegan to Logan.

A shrug. “In the back of a storage room,” he replied, hands signing in front of his chest. “I guess not everything had gotten cleaned out.”

“What else is in there?”

Keegan had kept watching, eyes easily finding home on Logan’s hands as he explained the things he’d seen in there; old jerseys, a deflated football, a bunch of things that they wouldn’t find useful.

Riley came back. Logan threw the ball again. Keegan watched.

After another second or so, Merrick had cleared his throat, garnered for Keegan’s attention and raised his closed fists in front of his face to continue sparring.

“Ignore me,” Logan signed, throwing the ball again and sitting down on the concrete, back to the wall and legs bent with feet flat on the ground. His elbow rested on his knee, the other hand reaching up to run through his hair, scratch at the back of his neck; a series of gestures Keegan had noticed that the man does often.

So they had gone back to sparring while Logan sat and watched, threw the ball for Riley until the dog had worn himself out and laid down at Logan’s feet, panting, tennis ball slobbery and resting under his big paw. Keegan had expected him to go back inside, perhaps lay down in bed and go back to sleep or find something for breakfast—but he had stayed.

And he’s still here, now, even with the sun high in the sky and the faint sounds of some of the Ghosts stationed with them being heard through the door Logan had left propped open, ever so slightly. He sits in the shadows cast by the building while Keegan and Merrick are spotlighted by the summer sun. Keegan can’t see him from where he stands, back to the school and eyes carefully watching Merrick’s hands, but he can feel his eyes.

Logan watches, Keegan knows it, and he feels put on display; showcased. It’s still morning, yet the heat is intense and his body is sticky with sweat—he’s sure his shirt would have been soaked through if he hadn’t pulled it over his head an hour ago, flung it off to the side somewhere to be grabbed later. Still, though, his hair sticks to his forehead and he can feel the tightening of his skin as he’s surely burned by the sun’s rays.

He’s not sure why they haven’t gone inside yet, but he thinks it has something to do with their audience. Logan’s eyes on him give him a burst of energy; he feels unstoppable, unbeatable. His skin is burning and his muscles ache and his body is ready to crumble under the weight of his sleepless night yet he keeps pushing, keeps throwing punches and blocking Merrick’s attacks.

Maybe he craves the attention, the validation. Maybe he only craves it from one specific person—Keegan ignores this thought. Yet he still finds himself opening his mouth, taunting; he wants to elicit a reaction. He ducks smoothly, evades, says, “You punch like you shoot.”

They’ve shifted, danced around one another and Keegan can now see Logan’s eyebrow raise with interest through the shadows he sits in.

Merrick responds, and he’s brought back to the moment. “Better than you?”

“I was gonna say sloppy.”

Logan laughs, subtle and quiet. He wonders what to say to pull a stronger sound from him.

A huff from his opponent. Another dodged punch.

“You attack too quickly.”

Merrick throws up his arm to block Keegan’s attack. “That so?”

He’s breathing heavy as they both move faster, work harder. “Should give you some lessons. Teach you to wait.”

“For what?”

“A distraction.” Keegan lunges at Merrick, anticipates his block. He lets his hands move predictably while his right foot hooks behind Merrick’s left. Bracing himself against the concrete, Keegan kicks Merrick’s foot out from under him, grabs onto his hand and stops him from falling to the ground.

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, Russ.” Merrick regains his balance and drops Keegan’s hand, raises his own back in front of his face. “Well played.”

Keegan smiles at him, brief. His fingers are clenched into fists again and his stance mimics his opponent’s. Before throwing another punch, he looks over at the man watching them.

Logan’s back is still against the wall, shoulders slightly slumped. One leg is stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. His hand rests on his thigh, the other scratching at the back of his neck. It’s hard to see through the shadow, but Keegan makes out the smile on his face, easy and carefree; natural. He sees the way his hair falls against his face, most of it pushed back against his head but a few strands falling loose, curling over his forehead.

And he sees Logan staring back at him. He can’t make out the look in his eyes, can’t determine his expression, but the intensity of which he stares makes Keegan shift his weight from foot to foot.

Then all the air is knocked out of his lungs as Merrick’s fist connects with his chest, knuckles pushing into his body just below his right pectoral. He doesn’t have a chance to catch his breath or block the next punch from connecting with his left cheek.

Keegan falls to his knees, gasping and coughing and clutching at his chest as if it’ll help his lungs remember how to work faster. He can hear Logan laughing, off to the side, real and loud and intoxicating and he shoots a glare at him.

The laughter tapers off, replaces itself with a sheepish look and a signed, “Sorry.” He stands up, brushes dirt and dust and bits of concrete off his pants. Logan looks to Merrick and signs something Keegan can’t see from his position, then gives Riley’s collar a slight tug and the two are going back into the building.

After a few more seconds of laboured breaths and pathetic gasping, he feels as though he can breathe normally again. The pain starts to creep in, a dull ache on his chest and cheek.

“Gonna sit there all day?” A hand is held out in front of his face.

If it were anyone else, Keegan would bat the hand away and scoff, push himself up and walk away without a second glance. But it’s not someone else and Keegan holds too much respect for the man to treat him with anything but. So he grips his hand and lets himself be pulled back to his feet.

“The fuck was that?” He asks, rubbing his hand over his chest, over where he knows a bruise will form.

Merrick shrugs, smug look on his face. “What can I say? You’re a great teacher, Sarge.”

Keegan just stares at him.

“You were distracted.”

“This real?” Keegan asks, sitting down at one of the long tables across from Logan. He points toward the mug of dark liquid in front of him. His plate is set down next to it.

They’re sitting in the old building’s cafeteria, some of the salvageable tables having been pushed into the centre of the room. There’s chatter around them, fellow Ghosts talking and enjoying the hot meal—one of the upsides to being stationed in an abandoned school is the surprise amenities: shower stalls in the locker rooms that past squads have repaired to have running water; training equipment in storage rooms like the one Logan had said he’d searched through; an untouched sickroom with a decent first aid kit. Best of all, Keegan thinks, is the cafeteria.

While they’re still stuck using whatever food they brought with them—and what non perishable items were left behind on the shelves—the major difference comes in the form of a stove. The same troop that had fixed the showers had also, it seems, repaired parts of the kitchen. Keegan’s plate is still piled with powdered eggs, beans he knows to be from a can, cardboard-like bread with a chemically modified butter from an MRE, but the difference is the food is hot.

It makes him feel more real—like he’s not stationed with a group of his fellow soldiers, like he’s not waiting for something to happen where he has to grab his rifle or pistol, where he has to shove his knife in the chest of an enemy just to ensure he lives another day. It makes him enjoy being alive, even just for the briefest of moments.

The only thing that would make everything even better is for the coffee to be fresh, real, ground from actual coffee beans and not the instant stuff he’s upsettingly grown used to.

But the frown on Logan’s face gives him the answer he wasn’t hoping for.

He huffs. Bringing the mug to his lips, he never breaks eye contact with Logan. Sip, swallow, set the mug back down. “It’s cold.”

“It was warm when I made it,” Logan signs.

“It’s not warm now.”

Rolling his eyes, Logan makes a face at him. “You took too long getting beaten up. Warm things cool down over time.”

“Shut up, kid.”

Another face; a middle finger thrown up at him. “Aren’t you going to thank me for making you coffee in the first place?”

He’s about to sneer at him, about to spit out some condescending gratitude that he knows will make Logan roll his eyes and smile—when Merrick and Hesh walk up, plates in one hand and mugs in the other. They sit, Hesh beside his brother and Merrick beside Keegan, and all words die in his throat.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Hesh asks, picking up his fork and shovelling a bite of his breakfast into his mouth.

Beside him, Merrick elbows his side. “Nasty little shiner there, eh, Keegan? Care to tell Hesh what happened? Or should I?”

Keegan puts his fork down, pushes his still-full plate off to the side. “Merrick and I were training earlier.”

“Our friend here let his guard down,” Merrick clarifies, drinking from his mug.

One of Hesh’s eyebrows raises, slight—knowing. The look he throws from Keegan to Logan is quick, easy to miss. “What distracted him?”

“The sun got in my eyes,” Keegan says, cutting off Merrick before he can even open his mouth.

Logan kicks his shin under the table, presumably to get his attention. With his eyes on him, he signs, “At least the bruise looks good with your sunburn.”

Hesh snorts into his mug.

They fall into a comfortable silence—as comfortable as it can be with the feeling of three sets of eyes on him, plus the stares of everyone else when they notice the redness of his face and the mean-looking purple bruise.

Merrick and Hesh eat and drink, talk; Keegan and Logan listen. They talk about their successful mission, how their radio signal still seems to be jammed yet there are no threats in the area, they talk about when they’ll be able to fix it and call for transport out of the town and back to their base.

Movement from across from him pulls Keegan’s attention from the conversation. He looks, finds Logan pushing his plate back in front of him.

“Eat,” he signs, eyes going from the food on the plate to Keegan’s face. He wears a concerned expression.

And Keegan should ignore him, ignore the easy kindness and simple care; ignore the foolish gratitude and dangerous attraction that Logan makes boil and bubble in the pit of his stomach, the centre of his chest, the hollow of his throat. He should pay no mind to the man who looks at him in a way he’s long since grown unfamiliar with, who sees him in a way he hasn’t been seen in years. The lazy smile, the sunkissed skin, the freckles; the lip bitten between teeth, the collarbone peeking above a stretched shirt neckline, the hair curling around his forehead.

But Logan kicks at his shin again—a bit friendlier, this time. “You were working hard earlier. Eat, Keegan.”

So he does.

The day drags on.

Breakfast had only been an hour or so ago, yet it feels like ages. Keegan is talking with Neptune, trying to figure out what’s wrong with their radios.

He’s becoming increasingly frustrated, increasingly antsy. The nervous energy that fills his body when he’s still for too long threatens to spill over the top; he’s anxious, stressed, exhausted from lack of sleep and pushing himself too hard with Merrick. The bruise on his chest aches whenever he stretches his arm or shoulder, the one on his cheek matches it with a constant dull throb. His skin feels tight where the sun burned it, rubs against the inside of his shirt in a borderline painful way.

There’s little hope with the radios. Neptune is trying his best, fiddling with whatever he can find in hopes of contacting Elias, Kick—anyone. But nothing seems to be working and all they receive back is static, loud and obnoxious and mocking.

Keegan groans in frustration, knots his fingers in his hair and tugs. He walks away from Neptune without a word, leaves the man to continue what he’s doing.

He stalks through the halls with no destination.

Old classrooms line the hallways, doors open yet he doesn’t bother stepping into them. He knows what he will see—peeling paint and faded posters, chalkboards smashed to pieces; desks strewn across the cracked linoleum floor and shattered lightbulbs. A morbid part of him wonders where all the kids were when the ODIN blasts hit, where they went, how many of them are still alive. The thought makes a wave of nausea wash over him, a heavy stone of resentment and anger root in his stomach.

Keegan keeps his eyes down, watches his feet as he continues to walk through the hallway.

After turning the corner, he finds himself leaning his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’s facing a closed door, one of the offices they’ve dragged cots into and have been using as private bedrooms. There’s a frosted glass window in the middle of the door, cracked and covered with a ratty and torn curtain. He can hear movement behind it.

He knows the face he’ll see before the door is even fully open.

Logan stands there, one hand on the door handle and the other on the frame, leaning. His mouth is open, lips parted as though he’s about to say something.

Keegan beats him to it. “What d’you want, kid?” His voice holds venom—unintentional yet unapologetic.

“Play nice.” Logan scowls at him. “You’re the one creeping outside my door.”

“How’d you even know I was here?”

“Why are you here?” His arms hang loose by his sides when he’s finished signing. The look on his face is confused, concerned. Though his words weren’t spoken, there’s an obvious lack of ill intent behind them.

He sighs, chews on the inside of his cheek and avoids Logan’s piercing stare. He thinks about making an excuse, a lie—telling Logan his brother needs him for something, saying they can’t find Riley and he needs to help look. Keegan thinks about ignoring him, avoiding his question and walking away. But the silence of the hallway, the lack of duty—of purpose, makes him push out a pathetic, “I don’t know.”

Logan stands there and blinks at him and Keegan wishes to die on the spot.

“Sorry, kid,” he starts, pushing off the wall to go walk… somewhere, anywhere, he doesn’t know where. “I’ll leave you alone.”

But there’s a hand around his wrist, strong fingers gripping his skin and stopping him from leaving. When he looks over his shoulder, Logan’s eyebrows are furrowed, lips downturned, his free hand reaching toward him as if he wants to embrace him.

Keegan tries to pull free, but Logan only tightens his hold, stands his ground, pulls his other hand back.

With his right hand, Logan signs, “Are you OK?”

There’s a sincerity in his eyes that hits Keegan in the chest, and when he pulls his hand back, this time Logan lets go easily.

He doesn’t know what to say. Yes, he’s okay, but Logan always has a way of seeing straight through him; he stares into the darkest parts of his mind, finds the hidden parts of his soul. And he is okay, perhaps a little sore and bruised, sunburnt, yet he’s still okay. But he knows Logan won’t take that as an answer.

Logan stands there and stares at him. He holds his hands in front of him, fidgets with his fingers and adjusts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth opens, closes; eyebrows furrow and mouth opens again. A frustrated sound comes from the back of his throat as he runs both hands through his hair, closes his eyes and huffs out a sigh through his nose. “Keegan,” he finger spells, eyes staring straight at him. “What’s wrong?”

Keegan lets his words sit on his tongue for a moment too long and the bitter aftertaste remains when he swallows them. They will taste worse spoken, he knows, so he raises his hands. He hates the tremble as he signs, “I feel useless.”

A raised eyebrow, a questioning look, a slow blink. Footsteps echo at the end of the hallway and he fights the urge to turn and look over his shoulder, but Logan’s eyes bore straight into him and he’s stuck.

“We’re doing nothing but waiting. Waiting for the radios to be fixed or to get ambushed or… Something.” He’s quieter as he adds, “There’s nothing I can do.”

And Logan’s face softens, realization overtakes his confusion. He blinks at him, nods. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips and Keegan knows that look.

“Kid, what’re you planning?”

“You want me to keep you busy?” Logan signs.

Keegan coughs. “What?” He ignores the heat he can feel creeping up his face, ignores the spike of his heartbeat. He ignores the way his eyes widen and his jaw drops, ever slight. He ignores Logan’s eyes. The question has absolutely no effect on him whatsoever.

Logan gives him that damned smile—a small thing, barely there, but the weight behind it all too noticeable.

“Do you want something to do?” He signs slowly, carefully, as if Keegan is a small child or just learning the language.

“Yeah.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. His mind wanders to various scenarios, situations, that they could find themselves in—that Logan could put them in; he keeps thinking about how he had phrased his question.

A split second, a glimmer in his eyes; Logan looks over Keegan’s shoulder at the people he’d heard walking down the hall. He raises a hand in greeting, watches for another moment, two, and then reaches forward.

There’s two hands holding one of his, warm and strong and secure, stable, and it’s so subtle he almost misses it.

“C’mon,” Logan whispers.

Logan hasn’t said another word to him the entire time he’s dragged him through the building.

Together, they had checked all the guns the group had brought with them, counted ammunition and dismantled and cleaned, put back together. They had checked in on Neptune—still no luck with the damned radio. They had even done a sweep of the entire building, checked and cleared all rooms and storage closets, went to the roof and scouted for hostiles approaching; Keegan had begun to get anxious, antsy, and he thinks Logan must have noticed.

The whole time, Keegan has done nothing but repeat what Logan had said over and over in his mind.

One word, something so small and meaningless, so easily missable; he hadn’t expected Logan to ever speak to him. He was content with communicating solely through sign language and facial expressions—the man reads lips sometimes, too. So he was okay with it, more than okay. He’d gotten to know Logan incredibly well without speaking thus far, so there hadn’t even been a need for him to verbalize his thoughts.

But he had spoken, said a singular word, and Keegan has since spiralled.

Logan’s voice was soft, quiet; a whisper. Raspy, a little hoarse, from lack of use. Gentle. Sweet like honey, smooth like whiskey.

One word, and Keegan was a mess.

They sit beside each other, this time, when they reach the table with plates of lunch in their hands. Close, but not too close—careful. Keegan’s been nothing but careful around Logan, toeing the line he knows he shouldn’t cross.

Logan’s elbow bumps into his, bumps again, and when Keegan turns to face him, he realizes he might not have been careful enough.

“What?” He asks, and he’s all too close to him. Keegan is caught by Logan’s stare—brown eyes and strong eyebrows, freckles and summer tan; that curl of hair that always falls to his forehead and the stubble on his cheeks and upper lip.

A hand pushes against his shoulder and those lips curl into a smile.

Keegan blinks. “What?” He’s confused, dazed. It’s only when he hears Logan breathe out a laugh that he realizes he had been trying to talk to him.

“I asked,” Logan signs, still laughing softly, “if you’re feeling better.”

He pauses for a moment, thinks about it longer than he should. “Yeah,” he responds, and it’s the truth. “Thanks, kid.”

That smile again, and then they’re being joined by Hesh, followed quickly by Neptune.

Their time is spent eating and discussing their situation; Neptune gives updates on the radio—comms still down, though there seems to be a break in the static where they almost receive something. Hesh talks about where he thinks they’ll be stationed or sent to next—their previous mission had involved securing intel on Rorke’s next moves, and he’d spent time deciphering the documents and data with Merrick. Logan explains that the guns have all been checked and the perimeter has been secured.

Keegan stays silent, merely listens, watches. He finds himself, again, thinking back to Logan’s voice.

It was a bit higher pitched than he’d expected it to be, though he wonders if it’d deepen with regular use. His mind wanders, wondering who amongst them at the table has heard his voice the most—Hesh, of course, and Keegan can’t see Logan gossiping with Neptune for hours on end anytime soon. Perhaps others not eating with them, not stationed with them; Merrick, or Kick, surely they’ve heard him speak.

A wave of something—jealousy?—washes over him at the thought of others hearing—having?—more of Logan than he does. He takes a bite of his food.

As he watches Logan sign, he starts imagining how the words would sound in his voice. What syllables would he stress? Does he pronounce everything clearly? Can his smile be heard in his tone?

Before he knows it, everyone at the table has cleared their plates and drained their cups. They talk, but their voices all sound far away; he focuses on Logan, instead. On the fluidity in which he signs, how he rests his hands on the table as he listens: palms down, fingers tap, tap, tapping. There’s a slight hunch in his shoulders that Keegan is surprised wasn’t disciplined out of him in the military, and he really should find a better fitting shirt because the loose, stretched neckline and the tightness of the fabric around his biceps is a deadly combination.

It’s when Neptune swings a leg over the bench and clears the table, gives Keegan a look and announces that he’s going back to continue working on the radio, that he snaps back to reality.

Their table is silent, yet the room is bustling; much like before, soldiers fill the space with their bodies and their voices, their conversations jumbling into one big collective sound and Keegan feels the anxiety begin to creep its way back into his body.

Things are too easy, too simple. There are no threats and that’s a problem, there are no injuries and that’s a problem. No enemies, no informants. No bullet shells littering the floor, no gunpowder clinging to their bodies. No face paint or stuffy masks or uncomfortable gear. No target on his back and no crosshair trained on him. They’re perfectly safe and that’s the issue.

He’s learned the hard way that safety doesn’t come for free, and the thought of waiting to pay their dues one way or another has him closing his hands into fists where they rest on the table.

Keegan tries to keep his breathing steady, even, normal. He tries to fit in, pretend everything is okay. He tries to stop thinking about an army of Federation soldiers kicking down the old cafeteria’s double doors and training their guns on him and on Hesh and on Logan; he tries to stop thinking about the entire building being surrounded, stop thinking about Rorke himself appearing, aiming his pistol at Logan’s head and faking a pull of the trigger, just to order his men to beat and bloody and bruise him—much like he’d done to Ajax.

Maybe the other Ghosts will turn on them, draw their weapons. Maybe the signal blocking their radios was set up intentionally in the building by one of their own. Maybe it’s only a matter of time until the bullets start flying.

He thinks about how much of Hesh’s blood would splatter onto his body if he were to get shot, he wonders if he’d hear Logan’s voice again if that were to happen. He isn’t sure how quickly he’d be able to defend himself—defend the others. He’s stupid enough to not have a weapon on him.

His eyes scan the room, go from table to table and person to person.

They’re sitting around and they’re not safe and there’s nothing he can do and—

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

Keegan blinks, turns his head to find Logan looking at him. The man furrows his eyebrows, studies his face, chews on his bottom lip. His hand creeps, slow, barely noticeable, from his shoulder toward his neck, inward; thumb over Keegan’s collarbone.

The touch is ghostly, quick, it sends shivers down Keegan’s spine, and then it’s gone. Logan leaves with it.

He stands without a word, glances at his brother, reaches to touch Keegan again but stops himself before he can.

It’s as if the entire room has fallen silent as Keegan watches Logan slip through the door and exit into the hallway.

“Keegan.” Hesh is staring at him intently and if Keegan were a weaker man he’d squirm in his seat, grow uncomfortable under the look.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he sits still as he’s examined, keeps quiet. Anxiety still eats away at his bones, his very being, and he taps the toe of his boot against the ground.

Finally, though, Hesh speaks again. “He wants you to chase after him.” There’s a small smile on his face.

Keegan doesn’t respond. He thinks back to that morning, watching how Logan threw the tennis ball with such ease, as though it was no strain on his muscles to pitch it as far as he could. He remembers Riley chasing after it, tail wagging and barking happily. His eyes go to the door Logan disappeared through. “Like I’m a dog?”

Hesh snorts. “Fuck off.” He reaches across the table, slaps his arm. There’s laughter under his breath, something else there with it, as he says, “Go on—fetch.”

Their feet kick up dirt and dust as they step over rubble; around them, even the skeletons of the buildings barely stand—most everything is in ruins. Walls are caved in and windows are shattered, bits of glass still reflecting sunlight and shining in his eyes. There is no grass, there are no plants, no trees. No hustle and bustle of people, no children laughing or dogs barking or people going about their days. It’s a ghost town, abandoned, deserted, destroyed.

He wonders what happened to the population, though he knows the answer. The ODIN blasts killed millions of people, the following war killed millions more. Considering the distance of the town from the blasts, and considering the destruction he walks through, he knows that he’d be foolish to think that even a third of the people who once lived here made it out alive.

It’s an eerie feeling, walking through a place he knows was once full of life; his resentment for the Federation only grows, sits heavy within his core.

Glass crunches under the sole of his boot and the midday sun shines hot on the back of his neck.

Keegan glances to his right.

Logan walks beside him, head held high and arms swinging loosely by his sides with every step. He walks with purpose, with a plan, and Keegan wonders how he seems so unbothered by the memories of death surrounding them; he wonders how he seems so unbothered by the heat—Logan doesn’t even seem to be sweating.

After Hesh had given him permission to chase after his brother, Keegan had slipped out the door. The hallway had been empty, but he had somehow known where to go. By the time he’d rounded the corner, walked through the echoing gymnasium, pushed open the heavy door, Logan was already standing outside, waiting for him.

He had that easy smile on his face, and his hands were already forming his words. “Took you long enough.”

Keegan had rolled his eyes, crossed his arms. “What’re you doing, kid?”

Logan shrugged. “Going for a walk. Care to join?”

“Your brother sent me.”

“We both know that’s not why you’re here.”

“Fuck off.”

Another shrug, and Logan had kicked something across the broken concrete.

“You stole a gun?” Keegan had asked, picking up the holster. As if he were on autopilot, he had strapped it around his thigh and pulled the firearm out of its place, checked the ammunition and returned it to its spot.

There had been a laugh, light and airy, and Logan had shaken his head. “I didn’t steal a gun.” With no more explanation given, he had turned around and started walking away from the school.

And then Keegan had seen it. He’d snorted out his own laugh, took a few long steps to catch up with the man. Without thinking, he’d reached and poked at the pistol Logan had strapped to his own thigh. “You stole two guns.”

Logan had turned to face him, signed quickly, “I figured you would feel better if you had one.”

Keegan blinked at him. “Thank you.”

“You would do the same for me.”

Neither of them had struck up a conversation afterward, had merely fallen into step beside one another and walked down the hill, leaving the old school behind them.

As far as he can tell, there is no destination, yet Logan seems to know where he’s going. He steps with confidence, avoids cracks and craters and piles of destruction with ease, as if—

“You’ve been here before,” Keegan blurts out.

Logan nods.

“Kid—Logan. Hang on.” He reaches for him, wraps strong fingers around a slender wrist. Logan stops, makes no move to shake his hand off of him. “When did you come down here? Were you alone?”

Wrist still held in Keegan’s grasp, Logan doesn’t do or say anything. He stands there, blinks against the brightness of the sun.

Keegan waits for a moment, two—for what, he isn’t sure. Perhaps a part of him expects Logan to talk to him again.

But he gets no response.

He thinks about Logan on his own, wandering through the rubble of the town with faces peering at him through broken windows and splintered door frames; he imagines him getting ambushed, jumped, attacked. As he stares at the man’s face, he pictures blood staining his skin and a frightened look in his eyes, screams dying on his lips as he’s left to bleed out alone. No one there to protect him or watch his back, no one there to put pressure on his wounds, no one there to hold him as he dies.

Silence eats away at him, hangs heavy on his shoulders and crawls inside his mouth to choke him. There’s no substance to the buildings around them yet he feels as though they’re caving in, crushing him.

The only reprieve he can find is the weight of the pistol strapped to his thigh and the warmth of Logan’s skin against his; he can feel his pulse, faint, against his fingers.

And then Logan’s pulling his hand back and Keegan feels desperate as he tries to keep him there, tightens his hold, tugs him close.

Logan stumbles a step and he’s looking at him with wide eyes and parted lips and the sun shines on him just right where he looks haloed. With his free hand, Logan signs, “Keegan.”

“Were you alone?” He repeats.

A nod.

Keegan is afraid of the way Logan makes him feel. “When?”

Carefully, Logan pulls his hand free from Keegan’s hold. “The night we got here.”

He takes a deep breath. “We didn’t know the town was unoccupied the night we got here.”

Another nod, and he has the decency to look guilty.

“Why?”

The man chews on his bottom lip, avoids Keegan’s eyes.

“Logan, why?”

“I just needed to get out.”

“On your own.”

“You’re not the only one who feels trapped, Keegan.”

Keegan goes silent. He knows he’s an asshole, forcing the information out of Logan, something that he knows to be so personal. But his emotions twist and turn, roil in his gut like rough waves, and he decides to be selfish. “Look, I know you’re fully capable of taking care of yourself and all that. I trust you more than I trust people I’ve been working with for years. But I…” He trails off, the words tasting like poison.

Logan looks at him and he’s close enough where Keegan could count the freckles on his face if he wanted to.

And Keegan is a coward. “Just… Don’t go alone next time, okay? I’m sure Hesh wouldn’t mind going with you.”

The disappointment on his face only lasts one, two, three seconds before he covers it up. Logan nods, takes a step back, starts walking.

Again, they’re left in silence.

Logan walks ahead of him, just a few steps but enough where Keegan gets the impression that he doesn’t want to be bothered. For a moment, he debates turning around, going back to the safehouse entirely. But he doesn’t want to leave Logan on his own and he doesn’t want to be alone.

So he stays.

He follows in Logan’s footsteps, steps over and around mounds of rubble and rock and debris, alert but not paying attention to where they’re going.

Until he walks into Logan’s back.

“Shit, sorry, kid,” he mumbles, hand coming up to rest on Logan’s shoulder. It trails down his shoulder blade, lingers longer than he knows it should, then falls limp by his side.

Logan glances at him, shrugs and shakes his head. He gestures toward the building he’s stopped in front of; it’s destroyed, much like everything else they’ve passed, but some parts of it are still standing. There’s no front entrance, but the far wall seems relatively intact. What once must have been tables lay in heaps on the floor, and a counter barely stands. Sunlight pools in and highlights the dust floating through the air, kicked up by Logan’s footsteps.

Keegan steps carefully after Logan, hand instinctively resting on his weapon, ready to draw and aim and fire at anything that moves.

The room is empty, however, and Logan seems to know what he’s searching for. He reaches the remains of the counter and Keegan watches with too much care as the man runs his hand along the surface of it, wipes off some of the dust.

It’s calming, just watching Logan exist. He fills space entirely, proudly, and lives as though he’s unashamed. Reckless, carefree, intentional. Everything he does seems to have meaning, and the more Keegan considers this, the more guilt builds inside him at how he had reacted earlier.

A small cough stops him from scolding himself further.

Looking away from the strip of newly dust-free counter, Keegan meets Logan’s eyes.

“I found these here that night.”

Before he can ask what he’s referring to, a small object is being tossed in his direction. Keegan catches it with both hands, examines it.

In his palms is a small pouch, made of something similar to burlap and closed with a drawstring top. He can feel the contents rattling, rolling around, and as soon as he opens it, the smell alone tells him what’s inside.

“You knew this was here and let me drink that cold shit this morning?”

And Logan laughs, quiet and quick and not at all enough to satiate that burning need living within Keegan’s gut.

“I was saving it.”

With effort, Keegan pulls his eyes away from Logan’s smile to look at the coffee beans in the pouch. There’s very little, but the beans are whole; years old, he’s sure, but they smell better than the instant stuff he’s been stuck with. “Saving it? Kid, there’s only enough for one cup. What’re you saving it for?”

“For you.”

“For me?”

A nod.

“You don’t want any?”

“I don’t like coffee.”

Keegan jostles the coffee beans, brings the bag up to his nose and inhales the rich scent. He watches Logan’s hands, held still in front of his chest, as he asks, “Then why are you always the one making it?”

There’s a sound like a cough as Logan clears his throat. He moves his hands and shoves them in the pockets of his pants. “For you,” he says, and the words ring loud in the otherwise silent space.

He tries to keep his face even, level, tries to keep the shock out of his expression; he tries to keep it a secret that Logan’s voice warms his skin far more than the sun in the sky, that it soothes the sting of his sunburn and the ache of his bruises.

So he looks back down at the pouch in his hands, pulls the drawstrings and ties them into a knot. It’s slipped into his pocket easily and all the while, he’s, again, replaying Logan’s voice over and over and over in his mind.

It feels like a peek into Logan’s life, his mind, to hear his voice like this. He’s said three words in total, barely a full sentence, not even all at the same time, yet Keegan feels as though he’s been given something he hadn’t had before, some type of permission to want more. He wants, and he knows he shouldn’t, but Logan is looking him dead in the eye and he’s chewing on his lip, shifting from foot to foot, speaking again.

“C’mon,” he says, much like that first time.

And Keegan thinks himself to be a strong man, a dedicated man—yet his world crumbles and caves and collapses when Logan walks past him, touches his shoulder and lets his hand trail down his arm until there’s skin on skin, fingers ghosting over the veins of his inner forearm, disappearing as quickly as they appeared in the first place.

There’s fire in his footsteps, drugs in his touch, and Keegan can’t help but recall his conversation with Hesh; perhaps he is like a dog, tail wagging and feet bouncing, chasing after Logan as if he’s some toy or treat he can sink his teeth into and keep forever.

The thought makes guilt spark, yet he still follows Logan out of the old building, steps back onto what remains of the street and into the sun’s full glare.

They’re nearing the part of the town that’s flooded when the silence is broken again.

“What are we doing, kid?”

“Found more stuff,” Logan says, “when I was down here before.”

A full sentence, and his voice still holds a slight rasp, and the idea that it’s just always like that throws Keegan for a spin; the heat of the sun is unforgiving and he can feel sweat roll down his back, his forehead, and Logan’s speaking to him in full, honeyed sentences. He can practically feel his tail wagging.

And he knows he should apologize for earlier, for how suffocating it felt to picture Logan dying alone, hurt and bleeding, suffering. But apologizing means admitting to himself something he can’t—at least not yet; apologizing means coming face to face with what he’s tried so hard to bury and smother and kill.

So they walk on, the silence stretching between them like a rubber band, sure to snap under the pressure and slap a bright red welt onto his hand.

The town is just as empty as before, just as demolished—if anything, the buildings they pass now are more destroyed. What once were apartment complexes and storefronts and restaurants lay in crumbled heaps, indistinguishable from one another and laying ruin to the lives that one lived within.

Keegan keeps his eyes on Logan, even as he steps over tree roots pushed through asphalt and around chunks of metal and drywall. He watches the ease with which he walks and how he peers carefully into the windows of every car they pass.

Finally, when the ground begins to slope downward, when they begin to approach the part of town that’s flooded with river water, Logan slows down.

There’s a row of parked cars, windows smashed and some of the doors hanging off the hinges; paint chipped and tires popped. Some of them are missing parts entirely, bumpers removed and hoods open with batteries stolen. But there’s one that appears decently intact, and that’s where they stop.

It’s old, the car, but all four tires still have air in them and the doors are all still attached. None of the windows remain and the windshield has been smashed—bits of glass are still littered along the dashboard, the console, the passenger seat, yet seem to have been swept off the driver’s side. Perhaps before the war, the car was considered vintage: round headlights and large steering wheel, a convertible top; but now, it just appears ratty. The top is fully down, though it looks like it had been torn from the car rather than purposefully lowered, and the seats have long, deep gashes in them. A layer of dust and dirt and rock cover every inch.

Sun glints off the broken rearview mirror, shines directly in his eyes, and he squints as he examines the car’s chipped paint, the missing door to the glove box, the shredded seatbelts, the key in the ignition. Keegan looks up.

Logan stands on the opposite side of the car, hands holding the top of the passenger’s door as he leans forward, eyebrows raised.

“No way.” It’s all Keegan says, all he needs to say, because Logan is nodding.

The door opens smoothly, and all the glass has already been brushed off his seat. Despite the rips in the fabric, it’s still somewhat comfortable.

“You’re fucking with me, kid.”

Shaking his head, Logan opens the passenger door. Before he sits, Keegan reaches over and brushes the glass off his seat for him, ignoring the sharp sting as a shard digs into the flesh of his palm. Logan sits, closes the door, grabs at Keegan’s hand before he can pull it away.

“Oh,” Logan says, and his voice is soft and quiet and gentle and so full of something that Keegan is too scared to explore.

“It’s nothing.”

Beads of red blood stain his skin as Logan carefully picks out the piece of glass that cut him. Still in that whisper, he asks, “Does it hurt?”

And yes it does, it feels like a gunshot wound and a knife to the chest and a kick to the ribs, it hurts far more than any injury he could imagine—to have Logan this close, this careful and this gentle and this fucking close, to have him without being able to have him, hurts so intensely he fears his pain will show on his face.

Logan’s fingers are still in his palm, still touching around the small cut. He’s looking at the blood with a frown on his face.

“No,” Keegan manages to choke out. His heart hammers against his ribcage and he fears it will break through, burst from his chest and betray him, ruin how careful he’s forced himself to be around the man in the passenger seat. “Barely… Can barely feel it.”

There’s pressure, as Logan pushes the pad of his thumb over the wound, stems the bleeding. Against the back of his hand, where it’s being supported, he feels a chill, icy tingles spreading from wherever Logan touches.

“Guess this is worse,” Logan mumbles, and then his free hand is touching Keegan’s face, fingers light as they trace the outline of the bruise Merrick left that morning.

Fire erupts over his skin and he’s frozen in place, stuck, trapped. Keegan’s seen Logan in the field before, seen him with a gun—seen him armed with nothing but a knife, and he’s seen the carnage left behind; he thought it impossible for a man as deadly and dangerous as Logan to touch with such care.

But there’s the slouch that remains in his shoulders and the way he smiles so easily and the carefree quality of his laugh and, he realizes, he’s glad that Logan has managed to stay human. Throughout everything he’s been through and had to do, all the blood on his hands and his conscience, the uncertainty of the future, Logan has stayed alive, and he touches Keegan in this moment as if he plans on breathing life back into him, too.

And, he thinks, maybe he’ll let him.

Logan still holds his palm and still touches his face and he’s forgotten what he had said to him just moments prior. All he holds onto is the sweetness of how his voice sounds and he clings to that raspiness, how it contradicts with his touch. When Logan moves his hand down his face, the tip of his finger catches on the corner of Keegan’s mouth.

“Logan,” he chokes out. There’s a hand against his chest, now, palm flat and barely there.

“Hm?” The man raises his head and their noses almost touch.

Keegan can count his freckles.

He can see the curve of his eyelashes. The slight bend in the bridge of his nose, broken once and healed improperly. The flush on his cheeks, beginnings of a sunburn. The stubble on his face and the curl of hair falling against his forehead, both golden and sandy in colour. The definition of his Cupid’s bow, the chapped skin of his lips; the small scar, thin and straight and white, barely cutting through his bottom lip.

He can see Logan, and he can feel his hands on him, and the sun is beating down against them and his palm has surely stopped bleeding by now but the pressure is still there.

“Logan,” he says again, simply to hear the man’s name.

They’re so close; he can feel Logan exhale. The hands on him are so warm.

The car’s steering wheel knocks against his knee as he shifts in his seat and it’s enough to bring him back to reality, remind him of where they are and who he’s with.

And he’s an idiot if he thinks…

Keegan clears his throat and pulls his hand free from Logan’s. The cut on his palm is small, hardly noticeable, and he turns his body so he faces forward; the hand falls off his chest in the process.

“Where’d you find the keys?”

Logan doesn’t say anything, and Keegan is too scared to glance over at him, afraid of what he might do.

But the silence stretches on and on and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat and there’s no roof to the car yet he feels trapped and suffocated. So he asks again.

Still, no response, but he can see movement out of his periphery. When he turns his head, he sees Logan signing quickly, too quick for him to decipher. The movements of his hands are jumbled and he almost laughs at how it mimics slurred speech.

Keegan shakes his head and considers the man sitting beside him. Logan’s face is flushed far deeper than it has been before, and his eyes are widened. There’s a slight shake in his hands and he’s clearly overwhelmed. Once more, guilt overtakes him and he wonders if he’ll ever escape the seemingly endless cycle of him fucking things up with Logan.

“Hey, kid,” he tries. He’s scared to touch him, yet wants nothing more than to hold his hands. “The car runs?”

Logan’s hands slow. He nods.

“Do you…?”

“You drive,” Logan signs.

To distract himself from reaching over and grabbing Logan’s hands in his, pressing his lips to every knuckle, Keegan pushes his foot down on the brake and twists the key in the ignition.

The car sputters to life quicker than he thought it would—he wasn’t even sure if the car would start at all. The engine rumbles and groans and the entire chassis shakes, but it runs.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and he finds himself smiling. Without a second thought, Keegan shifts the car into gear and eases his foot onto the accelerator.

They move slow at first, Keegan hesitant to overwhelm the engine; the ground crunches under the tires, rolling over rocks and dirt, broken glass and dead plants. He pulls them away from the line of cars, out of the makeshift parking space, and onto a strip of the road.

He assumes Logan had driven the car that night he went to the town, and though he still wishes he hadn’t gone alone, he’s grateful for the cleared path on the road that he hadn’t noticed before—large rocks and debris have been pushed to the side to make room, the space wide enough for the vehicle. As he turns the steering wheel to guide them onto the road, he can’t help but glance over at the man riding beside him.

Logan sits comfortably in the car, leaning back against the seat with one arm slung over the door; he looks the picture of luxury, Keegan thinks, with the sun on his face and the slight wind ruffling his hair. And when he turns his head, looks at him, smiles, Keegan feels his confidence in the car growing.

From where they are now, the road appears to stretch onward forever, going straight up until it’s completely submerged by the flooded water. Keegan keeps driving, an idea forming in his mind.

Before long, they’ve picked up enough speed where the wind blowing over them is strong and counteracting the heat of the sun. Keegan’s hair flies in his face and he feels the sting of his sunburnt cheeks as he grins. He spares another glance at Logan.

A wide smile overtakes his features, tongue poking between teeth and nose scrunched up. His hair is messy, unruly, and some of whatever product he uses to push it back comes loose; sandy blond strands fly loose and he looks beautiful, haloed by the sun and practically glowing. His skin is tanned, sunkissed, and he’s laughing.

He’s laughing that real laugh, the one he seems to save for certain, special moments. It’s full of life, of something indescribable, and Keegan thinks every moment of his past, every tragedy and death and all the chaos—perhaps it’s all been worth it for this one moment, this one sound. He’s never heard or seen Logan this happy before, and he feels overjoyed because of it.

Cruising at the highest speed he feels the old car can handle, Keegan keeps them on the road, swerving slightly to avoid potholes and debris that haven’t been cleared. The engine roars, rumbles, drowns out every sound other than Logan’s laugh.

And for the first time since they’ve been cooped up at the safehouse, for the first time since being sent on their mission, for the first time since the ODIN blasts, Keegan feels safe. He feels free, happy—he feels content with the world. He feels as though life is something he experiences rather than something that's done to him.

They approach where the road dips down further, water creeping along the cracks in the concrete and asphalt. Sunlight reflects off of it, creates a glare that he squints his eyes against. Logan laughs louder, harder, and he’s so alive it hurts.

The water comes closer and closer and he can smell it, the years and years of garbage and debris piled up and drenched, soaked to the core; the musty smell of mud and moss, of a summer too hot.

And he gets an idea.

Keegan pushes harder on the accelerator, speeds them up. The entire car shakes and he can now smell gasoline alongside the flooded town. He worries that, at any moment, he’ll start to see smoke come from somewhere under the hood.

Yet he keeps driving and Logan keeps laughing and the sun keeps shining. The water gets closer and closer and closer, it’s under their front tires, and then he’s slamming on the brake and spinning the wheel sharp, turning hard.

“Keegan!” Logan exclaims in his raspy voice, his honeyed tone, and there’s still that hint of laughter behind his syllables. His hands are scrambling for purchase on something, anything, and he grabs onto the door with one hand while his other wraps tight around Keegan’s wrist.

Water kicks up under the tires and shoots into the sky, rains down on them in cool, fat droplets. Mist hangs in the air and they’re soaked.

His clothes are wet, his hair sticks to his forehead, they both smell disgusting, but all he can think—hear—is his name in Logan’s voice. He doesn’t even realize that he’s put his foot back on the accelerator.

The car speeds back the way it came, the water to their backs and the sun in their eyes. They’re going fast, too fast, and he’s barely steering to avoid the messes on the road.

Logan digs his nails into the flesh of Keegan’s wrist, looks over at him. “Keegan!” he calls.

It’s enough to snap him out of it, and Keegan pushes on the brake. The car slows, stops rather abruptly, and then he’s switching gears and turning the key. With a sputter and a cough, the engine dies and they’re left in silence.

But nothing lasts long, and the two burst into simultaneous laughter; heads thrown back against seats and Logan’s hand still around Keegan’s wrist. They laugh and snort and hiccup, and Keegan pushes his hair off of his forehead and wipes at his face.

“Keegan—!” Logan starts, and he’s cut off by another fit of laughter that rolls through him, shakes his shoulders.

He realizes that he would give anything to hear Logan say his name again, hear him call out for him. Before he’s entirely aware of what he’s doing, Keegan is turning in his seat, tugging his wrist and taking Logan’s hand in his own. “Say it again,” he whispers.

All the laughter is gone, and Logan’s looking at him with bright eyes and a curious look. “What?”

Suddenly, the world is too quiet. “Again.”

Realization dawns on Logan’s pretty face and his teeth dig into the flesh of his bottom lip as he hides the wide smile that creeps over his expression. “Say what?”

If he were a more patient man, he would tease and taunt, torture. But Logan has thrown the ball and Keegan is nothing but an excited mutt with his tail wagging behind him and his ears perked right up. He takes the bait, eats straight from Logan’s outstretched hand. “My name.”

“Your name?”

“Please.”

Perhaps he looks desperate, perhaps his voice shakes, perhaps Logan thinks him pathetic. Regardless, he parts his lips and whispers, “Keegan.”

“Again.”

“Keegan.”

And he feels high, drunk on the whiskey that Logan speaks; addicted. Their hands are still together, palm pressed to palm, fingers locked. “I’m sorry.” He spits it out, because his head feels full and fuzzy, because his skin tingles and burns, because Logan is saying his name like he’s something holy.

Eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“For earlier,” he clarifies, desperate to both stop and keep going; he’s afraid of what he’ll admit to but he needs to speak. “For getting mad.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not.” Keegan blinks at him, watches a droplet of water roll down the side of his face, over his cheekbone and along the line of his jaw. “I didn’t… I shouldn’t have freaked out. You’re more than capable of taking care of yourself.”

“It’s okay,” Logan frowns slightly, “Keegan.”

His name again—and Keegan wants to ruin everything. “But I care about you. More than I should.”

“What do you mean?” He shifts in his seat, squeezes Keegan’s hand.

They’re closer, now, far closer than they should be. Every wall he’s built crumbles around him and the sun is so hot and his skin is starting to itch from his wet clothes sticking to him. Their foreheads touch and Keegan brings up his free hand, carefully touches Logan’s cheek as though he’s made of glass.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Logan’s eyes plead with him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re the son of my commanding officer.”

“He’s my commanding officer, too—”

“The youngest son.”

“Oh.”

“We can’t do this, Logan.” He’s fetched the ball, ran back. He’s dropped it at Logan’s feet and eagerly waits for his next throw.

His eyes close and he breathes deep, gives Keegan’s hand another squeeze. “We can.”

He’s desperately warring against himself, fighting a losing battle as he tries to put a stop to this, to them. “You don’t want this.”

Logan moves closer and his lips ghost against Keegan’s with every word. “That’s not your decision to make for me.”

Palm flat against his face, stubble scratching his skin, Keegan dooms himself. He hooks his pinky finger under Logan’s jaw, touches the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and then covers his lips with his own.

All at once, everything explodes.

They move in tandem, let go of each other's hand to grasp desperately to one another; Logan holds Keegan’s shoulder, grips his thigh; Keegan keeps a hand on his face and loops the other behind his neck, buries his fingers in his hair. Logan breathes life into his lungs and he wonders how he’s gone this long without him.

Chapped lips that fit perfectly against his, teeth that tease and bite; fingers digging into the meat of his thigh through his pants.

Keegan kisses Logan, drinks him up. He revels in the feel of him, the taste of him—all consuming, ever forgiving.

Their noses bump and his lungs burn and he takes and takes and takes, afraid he will get no other chance after they pull away.

But Logan is generous, giving, and he breaks away for a second, just long enough to inhale, and then Keegan is living and he is dying, all at once.

The scratch of Logan’s facial hair against his chin, his upper lip, drives him far crazier than he’d care to admit. The feel of his fingers grasping and wanting, dipping under the neckline of his shirt and pushing against his sweaty skin—it’s intoxicating, addicting, and Keegan is only one man. He pulls back with a desperate lungful of air.

His chest heaves as he breathes in and out, and Logan’s hands are still on him—his hands are still on Logan.

“Keegan,” Logan says, and he’s breathless. His eyes are wide, lips are pink, cheeks are flushed. His hands are wandering.

Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, alarm bells ring. They blare, shrill and shrieking. But the sound of his name on lips he’s just kissed is enough to drown them out. “We… We can’t do this.”

“We just did.”

Keegan’s thumb rubs back and forth along Logan’s cheekbone. They’re both leaning awkwardly against the car’s console and, for a moment, he considers pulling Logan into the backseat with him, crawling over his body and pulling the wet shirt off of him, kissing any place he’s allowed, touching every inch of his skin and treasuring him.

And he’s put things together, connected the dots in his mind; he wonders if he could overwhelm Logan enough with just his lips and his tongue, his teeth, where he would be unable to form words. The thought makes his head spin, and the challenge lights a fire in his veins.

But he pushes it from his mind, scratches along Logan’s scalp with his nails and pulls their faces together. Forehead against forehead, noses bumping.

“You deserve better,” he whispers. Whether he’s talking about Logan deserving better than a quick fuck in the backseat of a car that shouldn’t run, or deserving a better person in general, he isn’t sure. But the words ring true regardless, and he feels them deep within his core.

Logan kisses him quick, presses their lips together and pulls back just as fast. “I don’t want better.”

“Logan—”

Another kiss. “There isn’t better.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Logan’s thrown the ball again.

Keegan chases.

He isn’t sure what to say or do, so he kisses him. He kisses him slow, so different from how he had done it before. There’s a tenderness he had forgotten he possessed behind his movements as he pulls Logan as close as he can get—not close enough.

“Hey,” Logan whispers against his lips. “Keegan?”

“Hm?” His eyes are closed and he feels like an addict itching for his next hit, pushing forward to connect their lips and feeling like he’ll die if he doesn’t soon.

Logan is merciful, generous; he kisses him sweetly, pushes his hand a bit further up his thigh. “I like saying it, too.”

Keegan blinks his eyes open. “What?”

“Your name.”