A month and a half later, with a lengthy session a week or so, Wrench and Blake should find themselves excitedly pushing through to more and more advanced concepts. Unfortunately, with November comes cold winds and cold shoulders, too. Blake, normally warm and open and mindful, turns inward.
He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
Evidently, one does not need much in the way of personal formal education to be accepted as a professor in Deerington. Wrench can't find it in himself to feel surprised over the lax nature of higher education in this dreamscape. What might shock others, however, is how eagerly a man who struggled through his own time in public schooling has taken on the role of educator. The lessons have kept his schedule full, but the guarantee of connection and communication have been motivation enough. Largely.
Never in his life has Wrench enjoyed the opportunity to have so many conversations. Just to be noticed and appreciated is something he could not have expected for himself some months ago. And so for the tall man, the lessons represent so much more. They aren't just a means of sharing a piece of knowledge he has that might serve Deerington as a whole. He gives something of himself to them each time. As much as Wrench hasn't consciously considered that, he's not able to disassociate the two. Commitment to the language is tantamount to a commitment to him. Lack thereof hits him deeply.
Wrench has felt some wariness of Blake since learning about his career before this place. Nevertheless, he's approached the reciprocal nature of their lessons with relative ease and has been mostly eager to learn the skills the other man has imparted. Those weekly sessions have been a bright spot thanks to Blake's generous nature, but he's noticed the difference lately. And while Deerington has a way of wearing at a person's psyche, it's hard not to think that maybe the other man has discovered something about him he'd rather not have known.
He feels the impact before he can raise warning, but Wrench stands solidly as the cream sloshes all over Blake. It draws a faint, wordless grumble from the man. A sound much too little and much too late. Wrench searches the space for a rag to offer.
Blake, now icy in more ways than one, turns that much cloudier and stormier with every passing moment. He withers into the gloom, dark eyes narrowing as he looks up at the very tall man in front of him. It's fitting, isn't it, that Blake would be covered while Wrench doesn't have a speck on him.
Huffing, Blake reaches out and takes the towel to mop less fruitlessly than before (but still fruitlessly), already trying to decide how long it'll take him to go home and change. Peeling out of his sweater, tossing it aside and into the trash, he's left with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin, and dark trousers obviously stained. Even his socks and shoes aren't untouched, it seems, and as he stares down at the mess, he can't help but grumble more. No "thank you", no "I'm sorry", just a pissed off and unhappy Blake swearing quietly under his breath, inconvenient enough for their current arrangement.
Dipping down, Blake uses the towel to mop up the mess, but even that isn't going as planned. He's chasing the liquid, probably a good pint between him and the floor, but every time he moves his shoes trail more everywhere, and eventually the frustration becomes obvious.
He stands, barking out a sharp "fuck" before throwing the sodden towel. It splatters against the hood over the flattop and slides to the floor as Blake tosses his hands into the air and stalks out to the front room.
For weeks now, Wrench has been living in a cloud of his own guilt. Guilt that he couldn't save Kurt, and then again that he wasn't there to greet the man upon his return. Guilt that he was not better for Logan, both when the man was struggling against his own sense of self, and when he was shouldering the loss of his partner. And perhaps most profoundly, the guilt of once again losing his partner. Their time together was too short, short enough that it could have only been a trick of this place. And yet Wrench still feels the nagging in his chest that he might've given anything just for a longer time to spend with Grady. It's not fair that so many here should enjoy the company of loved ones while Wrench faces his own loss twice over. But there he feels guilt for his resentment for those who have more than he does.
There's no more room in his heart to hold any more guilt. Not today, and especially not over something so plainly accidental. Spilled milk and all of that. Wrench watches as Blake bats at himself with the kind of force he might expect to see the man wage against a monster in this place, clumsy and ineffective against such a mess. He looks for something to use to help, but he's barely made it out of his place when the man flings the towel and stalks out of the kitchen. Something in Wrench snaps like a string, and he feels a swell of frustration in his chest.
He's fucking trying, after all. Why can't anyone see how hard he's trying? And why should he keep trying if there's not enough good deeds in the world to make up for the life he's lived so far?
He's not far behind Blake, but Wrench stops at the first table in the main room of the café. He pounds his fist against the top of it, insisting the man's attention from the noise it makes. It was an accident! What's your problem?
They've come a ways in the past several weeks, but most of that might be over Blake's head.
The sound generated by Wrench's fist against the tabletop draws Blake's attention as intended, his head whipping around to stare first at the signing hands, then at the table, and finally back up at Wrench's face. As expected, he didn't catch much of any of it, boiling over instead over frightfully pointless reasons, disturbed and annoyed and overall pissy, really. He usually calls himself bitchy, but it's gotten a laugh before, so he neglects to use that phrasing outsider of close company, and even in his own head these days.
He shakes his head, not getting it, not even trying. Home he signs back, pointing to himself and then turning away again. Circling once, he's looking for his jacket, not wanting to go out into the cool air without something better than a t-shirt.
It's uncommon these days, but Blake can be thoughtless. He doesn't consider that Wrench may be taking this as personally as Blake, nor does he think there's any way the guy could have as much beef with Blake as Blake has with him. All accidents aside, there's more here than meets the eye and that's certainly not helping their communication issues.
Fine, I understand. The joint in Wrench's wrist cracks with the effort of his open palm pushed forward from his chest. Even his expression of comprehension seems less permissive than intended. Over the past couple of weeks he's come to really enjoy the little tasks that Blake has trusted him with as he prepares for the opening of the little restaurant for breakfast service. It's never very much, but it passes the time and lends a natural vocabulary to their lessons. Wrench knows the mishap puts the other man behind his schedule, but he still doesn't offer an apology. It would be such an easy thing to give, but the annoyance he feels from Blake makes him want to armor himself up and insist his own innocence.
Maybe he ought to leave too. Maybe it's just plain stubbornness that makes him take a seat instead. But while Blake circles the restaurant in search of his coat, Wrench slides into a vacant booth and sits there like a customer waiting with barely-restrained impatience for his turn to be served.
Of course, after all that, he understands, and Blake catches that just fine. It creates a knot of misery deep down, makes his stomach turn and churn, tightening in displeasure. It's not Wrench's fault that Dean's gone, not Wrench's fault that Blake's feeling haunted and targeted and downright miserable. Still, the anger doesn't dissipate and as the other man takes a seat, more a customer than a cohort, Blake convinces himself to double down on his upset. Fuck it.
Pulling on his jacket finally, he fusses with the sleeves and collar, having no luck in keeping himself from transferring some of that dampness over. All he can think about is how very little he wants to deal with any of this: with the stress between him and Bruce, with the future Tony had planted in Blake's head, with Jean-Paul being reckless and no one else bothering to call him on it, with Dean being gone and his family left behind, with all of that and more. So much more.
Expression souring, he casts one last glance at Wrench and barely stops himself from flipping the guy a bird for not taking the road already. He wants badly to hold on, to be mad, and he's succeeding better than a person like him should. It's not him, not truly, but Deerington facilitates such things pretty readily these days.
He's just about to walk out when a shadow passes across the door and lingers in the low light outside the restaurant. The time of year means the sun's not up yet, but for Blake there's no mistaking the face — the half a face — looking through the glass. The man, taller than Blake but similarly colored, shares enough of a resemblance even in part (no pun intended) it should be obvious he's family. Suddenly finding a change of clothes doesn't feel quite so desperate. The door doesn't open, neither side seems to want to make that move, and Blake, hoping to wait out the zombie version of his dead father, miserably returns to the argument he was having with Wrench.
J-P he signs on his way back, getting well ahead of any questions. He repeats the letters, points at Wrench, and then adds asshole for good measure. It's a little aggressive considering, but Blake isn't feeling much for pulling his punches all of a sudden.
He never did make the quiet exit he'd hoped to. But neither has he been so completely absent that he actually expect any residents of the cabin to be missing his presence much if at all. He's still there in the mornings especially, when wood needs to be split again and piled on the porch so they'll have something to stoke the fire with for breakfast. He still scrubs his clothes and leaves them on the line every few days. He still keeps an eye on who comes and who goes.
Working while the rest of the sleep proves the best way to keep his own thoughts under control and still enjoy the more comfortable feelings that resonate through that cord that connects them.
It's early morning still when he ventures into the cabin. Treading barefoot across the wooden floor to ensure he's not walking anyone much in need of sleep.
In truth, Wes has been absent plenty himself. He'd expected their arrival in Deerington to feel more like a homecoming after two months lost to the harshness of the open sea. Instead, it's been a bit like taking an old shirt out of the back of the closet and hoping that it'll fit. The seams keep stretching and the buttons bulging a warning that not everything is just the same. And Wes still feels raw. It takes the better part of the month just to burn what's left of the ADAM out of his system in night sweats and jogs through the wooded area around the cabin. It feels strange to run. Stranger still when nothing is chasing him, but the man wishes more than anything he could outrun himself.
When he's not finding ways to escape, he's looking for things to pour himself into. The barbershop, his experimenting, the smoky downstairs of Pixie's, and one more warm bed than usual. It's not self-destruction, but it's something like burning bridges to a man who's never much had to stay in one place for as long as he's found himself settled here. He still comes back to the cabin -- it's his home after all, and who else would have him? -- but his desire for sleep has mostly worked itself out by the end of the month.
Which is why he's on the couch early in the morning, bare save for his shorts and looking particularly disarmed with his knees to his chest and a book spread against his thighs. He catches the movement before he pairs it with the man, and stands with all the intent of a man prepared to defend the other residents of the sleepy little cabin.
All told, the man doesn't look too much worse for wear. A little overgrown perhaps, but otherwise about as well considered as he ever is. His boots, a little more caked in mud than usual sit outside the door and he comes in stripping himself of a shirt he's put a hole in, hauling it over his head before he takes notice of his company.
He looks a Wes a long moment before holding a finger to his lips— the universal sign for silence— before going on to the washroom and closet. Rummaging around until he finds a shirt that might be his. It fits if nothing else.
Go back to sleep, he says straightening himself out as he changes his socks and empties a few things quietly out of his bag.
Wes takes in Logan with all the interest of a forensic scientist, as if the man's every movement through the silent little cabin drips clues about his previous whereabouts and the current state of his emotions. He looks uninjured, save the wear on his clothing, but Wes realizes moments too late that doesn't say very much about what he's been through. For weeks now the only image of Logan he's been able to call to mind -- at least when the man isn't immediately in his field of vision -- is the sight of him lying in the grit and the dark, bleeding from a belly wound of Wrench's own infliction. To see him up and whole is still baffling. It's as though the younger man expects that this healthy, virile image of the man he's hurt so badly so recently is the false one. A projection meant to trap him into a false sense of comfort.
I wasn't sleeping. He gestures to the book he's abandoned on the coffee table as proof. The already well-loved copy of Winesburg, Ohio Kurt inscribed and presented him for Christmas sits propped open halfway through, set aside in a rush at the first threat of potential danger. Now Wes feels foolish and exposed. He hesitates to sit, not wanting to make himself comfortable in a place he'd promised that he'd leave as soon as Logan arrived. But standing makes the man feel foolish, and he squares his shoulders and tries to look sure of himself. Like something worth having.
The smell of recently brewed coffee lingers heavily enough in the air to turn his head towards the pot as Wes points it out, but his instincts wall him up for even the smallest of invitations. It's hard enough to stay away from this place when it's filled with the pull of people he's attached to by those strings. There's no sense in making it any more tempting than it has to be.
I'm not staying, he says before he can even let himself consider otherwise. There's wood on the porch. Buttoning up his new shirt he retrieves a couple of crushed beer cans from his bag, swapping them for full ones from the fridge.
There's something he should probably say. He knows it and Jean-Paul all but demanded it. But for the life of him he can't come to words that either do any justice to his thoughts or offer any distractions to the void that has opened up between them.
There's lumber in the truck, he tries. I'll be back to unload it when everyone's awake.
I can get it, Wes offers without hesitation. The tall man seems eager to do anything in his power to make himself useful. He can't quite tell what Logan makes of the fact that he's still there in the cabin, keeping quiet watch on the sleeping inhabitants and monitoring the comings and goings for any sign of trouble. He had not seemed eager to agree with Wes that the best place for him was somewhere far from their reaches, and yet it's evident that he's regarded as something of a stranger. He thinks that if Logan truly believed there was any reason to think he'd cause immediate harm to Kurt or any of the rest of them, the man wouldn't hesitate to tell him to leave. Perhaps there's some assurance in the simple fact that he's allowed to remain where he stands, at least for now.
But if that all relates to a certain amount of trust not yet lost, it doesn't do as much to comfort Wes as he'd like to believe. Logan looks strong. He's rarely seen the man for more than a few minutes bearing even so much as a solitary scratch, but somehow that makes the picture he holds in his mind's eye all the more brutal. To put it against the living canvas of the man before him is a grim reminder of what Wes is capable of. What he's done to others. Not since Grady's death has he spared so much time thinking about the brutality of the life he's been made to live, and the pain that he might have left in his wake.
The most abhorrent people can still be loved. Any amount of affection Wes has ever felt in his life must be proof of that. And for that reason he knows he's taken the lives of people who were missed and mourned. The idea of someone like him taking Logan, too, is too much to bear, and he feels his throat constricting around the air in his lungs, and his eyes prickling with hot, sharp tears.
You're not just something disposable, you know? That's not how I look at you. I shouldn't have said what I did about thinking you'd heal. It doesn't matter. What I did was sick.
It's never hard to tell when Wes is playing alchemist again. The scent of things like sage and sweet grass and cedar and lemon is enough to make him think someone's cooking when he's muddling botanicals and oils into some combination of products. But this time whatever that combination is hits Logan's scent memory with a boatload of something warm and wintery and nostalgic.
Pulled out of bed, he pads across the floor and lets his nose lead him right to Wes.
"What is that?" he asks, drawn from the door way to the younger man's work.
He's managed to pack home a good number of the supplies he typically keeps at the barbershop, relying mainly on the guilt-ridden doting of Grady to help with the haul. Wes gets the sense that his husband's shame runs a course more deeply than the indiscretion he's become rather accustomed to, but he's yet to discover the complete truth of what the man is keeping from him. Nevertheless, it's nice to have something to turn his attentions to as the month wears on and the symptoms of the flu persist infuriatingly. Little by little, Wes has found himself on the mend, and the scent of dried lichen and mottled teaberry leaves reaches his nose with a new pungency as he experiments.
Logan's movement at the doorway draws his attention, and he sets down a dropper and an unlabeled bottle and dusts off his hands. I'm trying to make a lotion for Jean-Paul, he admits thoughtfully, pointing out one ingredient and then the next. This is for inflammation, and this is for pain.
The sight of Wes tinkering with all those things laid out before him puts a smile on Logan's face. "It smells like something... or somewhere I should remember," he mumbles. His eyes narrow as he reaches into the annals of his memory and comes closer, sniffing the air over that table of ingredients. "Some place relaxing."
His hands rest on Wes' shoulders as he watches the man work, but ultimately he shakes his head. I can't remember. But I like it. That smell.
Maybe without even realizing it, Wes has not always been the most empathetic of what it's like for a man to have so little access to his memories. It's not the first time he's heard from Logan that something strikes familiar in a way he just can't grasp, but the past few weeks have put that consideration into a brand new light. More than ever before, he can relate to the frustration and the desperate grasp of knowing that something is lurking out there, just beyond the reach of his mind.
In the stillness as they both breathe in, Wes reaches up and threads his fingers into Logan's. He tugs the man's arms down, urging him a step closer and configuring them into a brief hug that puts his back at the man's chest. Then, he lets go and turns to face his partner more completely.
Not yet, he admits. I don't want to tell Jean-Paul, in case it's all wrong. As with so many things around them, what could be beneficial might also end up dangerously harmful in the wrong doses.
When the anxiety of not knowing what lies before you, also likes behind you, it creates a sort of hyper-vigilance that Logan's never been able to shake. Still, it rarely seems worth the time, to him, to let himself sit in that discomfort and fear of such intangible things when there are real, tangible people all around him who could benefit from immediate help.
As such, things for Logan are never a problem. Until his problems catch up with him.
But here in this cabin, in the quiet after October, those things seem miles away for a change.
What do you mean, all wrong? he asks. Like in case it doesn't work? He squeezes Wes against his chest until the man wants to turn to him.
You wanna try it out on me? I don't mind. I like the smell. Makes me sleepy.
In case the amounts aren't right, Wes clarifies. If it doesn't work, that's okay. I just don't want it to have the opposite effect. Even the plants he feels familiar with are a gamble in this place that can bastardize anything more quickly than any of them can anticipate. It's the same with everything that Wes has created thus far, though in times past he has more often used himself as guinea pig. Mishaps have been fortunately few -- particularly since the inclusion of what little magic he knows have helped -- but this seems too important a prospect to leave to chance.
For a long moment, Wes lets the admission hang in the air and waits. He doesn't expect that Logan will revise his position. If anything, he expects the man might be even more insistent to be used in that manner. But with all that's happened between them, it seems unfair not to warn him, and even more cruel to simply expect that he would be willing.
If the scent is any indication, he hopes he has it right. Are you sure? Wes asks anyway. Any part of you that aches? He knows his partner doesn't bear his scars visibly, but any site of pain could only be better for the test.
A couple days after their last conversation, Wes gets an invitation. It's just hand-written and entirely plain, but Blake's writing will be more than obvious by now, the somewhat messy scrawl only really readable when he wants it to be.
When's the last time you were served breakfast in bed?
Arrive at 9:00 PM. Bring a change of clothes.
He's hoping that Wes will take the suggestion with the tone intended, mostly because Blake's not necessarily looking to hook up so much as treat his friend in these otherwise trying times. There's that looming sense — the idea that things are very up in the air — and for Blake's part, he wants to take advantage of every opportunity to connect with people while he's still certain he can.
On the flip side of the invitation is Blake's address at Prospero, where he's come to find works best for entertaining. It probably also helps that he doesn't have to ask Bruce to participate or otherwise leave his own home if he doesn't want to be involved (as he often chooses). A strange arrangement, but it works for them. He knew there was a reason he kept his condo.
Assuming Wes decides to show, he'll find the lights on, the door unlocked, and a spiffy-as-always Blake fussing around his immaculate condo.
Wes has almost completely forgotten about the string of texts and his own rather forthcoming admissions when he receives the invitation. Despite the persistent low mood that he's worn like a suit of armor since returning to Deerington, he manages to find a smile. In some ways it seems to him entirely like Blake. Of course the man who scoured the town for the means to introduce his favorite song would present this with such archaic formality.
He doesn't think twice about obliging, though it does take some consideration to determine exactly what Blake might mean by a change of clothes, and just what in his limited wardrobe could possibly be suitable for both the occasion and the environment they've all suddenly found themselves in. The extra garments aren't the only thing he packs. Despite near-famine conditions, Wes manages to rustle up a bottle of Logan's gin.
When he arrives, he knocks on the door and then enters without further preamble. Wes stamps on the floor before sliding out of his boots to further announce his arrival, and follows the shifting shadows on the wall towards where Blake is puttering around.
Blake had known ahead that anything he left up in the air would be questioned and overturned in Wes' head like a waterwheel, so he's glad when the guy actually shows up. Hell, he even glances at his Fluid, surprised to be without seven questions waiting for his inattentiveness.
Hello, handsome, he signs upon seeing the taller man, a soft smile gracing his features. It requires him to stretch in order to press a kiss to Wes' cheek, but that's never bothered Blake before, and as he breaks contact he's careful to run a hand down the other man's arm just to have that contact.
As usual, everything around him is immaculate. It's almost as if Deerington never quite finds a way to touch what Blake's got in 404 Prospero. Maybe it's by luck or maybe by design, but either way it's the kind of respite Blake refuses to take for granted; he knows from a long history of this shit to know how lucky he is to have anything at all, let alone all he actually has.
I hope you weren't too surprised, he adds, figuring he can get away with being a little coy.
His nerves are quick to settle when Blake approaches him with such open generosity. It feels like they've been pushing and pulling at each other for a long time now. Disappearing underground and seeking each other out, trying every available trick to insist that they both stay present inside a town that seems bound to destroy them all. Wes is glad that Blake seems to have given up the insistence that he's bound for solitude. He catches his friend's fingers as they trail down his arm and gives the man's hand a familiar squeeze. "Hello," he mouths back. The word is utterly silent, but the scarred corner of his lip turns up in a lopsided smile.
I didn't think you would do all this. He gestures around the immaculate apartment with a note of that genuine surprise that Blake seems intent to brush off. It does feel a bit like stepping into another world, though. If not for the windows facing the outside world, it would be easy to forget where they are and everything that's transpired in town in just a matter of weeks. Wes waggles the bottle of gin and places it on a nearby countertop like an offering or a trade.
What can I do to help? Even though he's sure Blake might shoo him off, he's quick to offer. It reminds him of a time more than a year ago when this was more of a routine between the two of them. The lessons at B&B's, trading language for cooking and the patience they'd shown one another.
Suitably charmed by Wes and his ability to look like a mountain of a man with a gentle fluff of a soul, he grins and waves him towards the cabinets where Blake goes to reveal the glasses. He's not entirely sure what they should be drinking out of, but then again, he also doesn't think either of them care all that much in the end either.
Are you hungry now? he asks when he has the other man's attention. He's expecting a no because Wes is notorious for barely eating (if ever), but far be it for Blake to pass on the ability channel an old Italian grandma. Or are we straight to bed with drinks? he teases, a grin spread across his face.
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He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
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Never in his life has Wrench enjoyed the opportunity to have so many conversations. Just to be noticed and appreciated is something he could not have expected for himself some months ago. And so for the tall man, the lessons represent so much more. They aren't just a means of sharing a piece of knowledge he has that might serve Deerington as a whole. He gives something of himself to them each time. As much as Wrench hasn't consciously considered that, he's not able to disassociate the two. Commitment to the language is tantamount to a commitment to him. Lack thereof hits him deeply.
Wrench has felt some wariness of Blake since learning about his career before this place. Nevertheless, he's approached the reciprocal nature of their lessons with relative ease and has been mostly eager to learn the skills the other man has imparted. Those weekly sessions have been a bright spot thanks to Blake's generous nature, but he's noticed the difference lately. And while Deerington has a way of wearing at a person's psyche, it's hard not to think that maybe the other man has discovered something about him he'd rather not have known.
He feels the impact before he can raise warning, but Wrench stands solidly as the cream sloshes all over Blake. It draws a faint, wordless grumble from the man. A sound much too little and much too late. Wrench searches the space for a rag to offer.
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Huffing, Blake reaches out and takes the towel to mop less fruitlessly than before (but still fruitlessly), already trying to decide how long it'll take him to go home and change. Peeling out of his sweater, tossing it aside and into the trash, he's left with a gray t-shirt clinging to his skin, and dark trousers obviously stained. Even his socks and shoes aren't untouched, it seems, and as he stares down at the mess, he can't help but grumble more. No "thank you", no "I'm sorry", just a pissed off and unhappy Blake swearing quietly under his breath, inconvenient enough for their current arrangement.
Dipping down, Blake uses the towel to mop up the mess, but even that isn't going as planned. He's chasing the liquid, probably a good pint between him and the floor, but every time he moves his shoes trail more everywhere, and eventually the frustration becomes obvious.
He stands, barking out a sharp "fuck" before throwing the sodden towel. It splatters against the hood over the flattop and slides to the floor as Blake tosses his hands into the air and stalks out to the front room.
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There's no more room in his heart to hold any more guilt. Not today, and especially not over something so plainly accidental. Spilled milk and all of that. Wrench watches as Blake bats at himself with the kind of force he might expect to see the man wage against a monster in this place, clumsy and ineffective against such a mess. He looks for something to use to help, but he's barely made it out of his place when the man flings the towel and stalks out of the kitchen. Something in Wrench snaps like a string, and he feels a swell of frustration in his chest.
He's fucking trying, after all. Why can't anyone see how hard he's trying? And why should he keep trying if there's not enough good deeds in the world to make up for the life he's lived so far?
He's not far behind Blake, but Wrench stops at the first table in the main room of the café. He pounds his fist against the top of it, insisting the man's attention from the noise it makes. It was an accident! What's your problem?
They've come a ways in the past several weeks, but most of that might be over Blake's head.
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He shakes his head, not getting it, not even trying. Home he signs back, pointing to himself and then turning away again. Circling once, he's looking for his jacket, not wanting to go out into the cool air without something better than a t-shirt.
It's uncommon these days, but Blake can be thoughtless. He doesn't consider that Wrench may be taking this as personally as Blake, nor does he think there's any way the guy could have as much beef with Blake as Blake has with him. All accidents aside, there's more here than meets the eye and that's certainly not helping their communication issues.
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Maybe he ought to leave too. Maybe it's just plain stubbornness that makes him take a seat instead. But while Blake circles the restaurant in search of his coat, Wrench slides into a vacant booth and sits there like a customer waiting with barely-restrained impatience for his turn to be served.
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Pulling on his jacket finally, he fusses with the sleeves and collar, having no luck in keeping himself from transferring some of that dampness over. All he can think about is how very little he wants to deal with any of this: with the stress between him and Bruce, with the future Tony had planted in Blake's head, with Jean-Paul being reckless and no one else bothering to call him on it, with Dean being gone and his family left behind, with all of that and more. So much more.
Expression souring, he casts one last glance at Wrench and barely stops himself from flipping the guy a bird for not taking the road already. He wants badly to hold on, to be mad, and he's succeeding better than a person like him should. It's not him, not truly, but Deerington facilitates such things pretty readily these days.
He's just about to walk out when a shadow passes across the door and lingers in the low light outside the restaurant. The time of year means the sun's not up yet, but for Blake there's no mistaking the face — the half a face — looking through the glass. The man, taller than Blake but similarly colored, shares enough of a resemblance even in part (no pun intended) it should be obvious he's family. Suddenly finding a change of clothes doesn't feel quite so desperate. The door doesn't open, neither side seems to want to make that move, and Blake, hoping to wait out the zombie version of his dead father, miserably returns to the argument he was having with Wrench.
J-P he signs on his way back, getting well ahead of any questions. He repeats the letters, points at Wrench, and then adds asshole for good measure. It's a little aggressive considering, but Blake isn't feeling much for pulling his punches all of a sudden.
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from network thread | https://deerfeed.dreamwidth.org/159371.html?thread=22121099#cmt22121099
Working while the rest of the sleep proves the best way to keep his own thoughts under control and still enjoy the more comfortable feelings that resonate through that cord that connects them.
It's early morning still when he ventures into the cabin. Treading barefoot across the wooden floor to ensure he's not walking anyone much in need of sleep.
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When he's not finding ways to escape, he's looking for things to pour himself into. The barbershop, his experimenting, the smoky downstairs of Pixie's, and one more warm bed than usual. It's not self-destruction, but it's something like burning bridges to a man who's never much had to stay in one place for as long as he's found himself settled here. He still comes back to the cabin -- it's his home after all, and who else would have him? -- but his desire for sleep has mostly worked itself out by the end of the month.
Which is why he's on the couch early in the morning, bare save for his shorts and looking particularly disarmed with his knees to his chest and a book spread against his thighs. He catches the movement before he pairs it with the man, and stands with all the intent of a man prepared to defend the other residents of the sleepy little cabin.
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He looks a Wes a long moment before holding a finger to his lips— the universal sign for silence— before going on to the washroom and closet. Rummaging around until he finds a shirt that might be his. It fits if nothing else.
Go back to sleep, he says straightening himself out as he changes his socks and empties a few things quietly out of his bag.
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I wasn't sleeping. He gestures to the book he's abandoned on the coffee table as proof. The already well-loved copy of Winesburg, Ohio Kurt inscribed and presented him for Christmas sits propped open halfway through, set aside in a rush at the first threat of potential danger. Now Wes feels foolish and exposed. He hesitates to sit, not wanting to make himself comfortable in a place he'd promised that he'd leave as soon as Logan arrived. But standing makes the man feel foolish, and he squares his shoulders and tries to look sure of himself. Like something worth having.
There's coffee, if you want.
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I'm not staying, he says before he can even let himself consider otherwise. There's wood on the porch. Buttoning up his new shirt he retrieves a couple of crushed beer cans from his bag, swapping them for full ones from the fridge.
There's something he should probably say. He knows it and Jean-Paul all but demanded it. But for the life of him he can't come to words that either do any justice to his thoughts or offer any distractions to the void that has opened up between them.
There's lumber in the truck, he tries. I'll be back to unload it when everyone's awake.
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But if that all relates to a certain amount of trust not yet lost, it doesn't do as much to comfort Wes as he'd like to believe. Logan looks strong. He's rarely seen the man for more than a few minutes bearing even so much as a solitary scratch, but somehow that makes the picture he holds in his mind's eye all the more brutal. To put it against the living canvas of the man before him is a grim reminder of what Wes is capable of. What he's done to others. Not since Grady's death has he spared so much time thinking about the brutality of the life he's been made to live, and the pain that he might have left in his wake.
The most abhorrent people can still be loved. Any amount of affection Wes has ever felt in his life must be proof of that. And for that reason he knows he's taken the lives of people who were missed and mourned. The idea of someone like him taking Logan, too, is too much to bear, and he feels his throat constricting around the air in his lungs, and his eyes prickling with hot, sharp tears.
You're not just something disposable, you know? That's not how I look at you. I shouldn't have said what I did about thinking you'd heal. It doesn't matter. What I did was sick.
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Pulled out of bed, he pads across the floor and lets his nose lead him right to Wes.
"What is that?" he asks, drawn from the door way to the younger man's work.
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Logan's movement at the doorway draws his attention, and he sets down a dropper and an unlabeled bottle and dusts off his hands. I'm trying to make a lotion for Jean-Paul, he admits thoughtfully, pointing out one ingredient and then the next. This is for inflammation, and this is for pain.
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His hands rest on Wes' shoulders as he watches the man work, but ultimately he shakes his head. I can't remember. But I like it. That smell.
Tried them out yet?
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In the stillness as they both breathe in, Wes reaches up and threads his fingers into Logan's. He tugs the man's arms down, urging him a step closer and configuring them into a brief hug that puts his back at the man's chest. Then, he lets go and turns to face his partner more completely.
Not yet, he admits. I don't want to tell Jean-Paul, in case it's all wrong. As with so many things around them, what could be beneficial might also end up dangerously harmful in the wrong doses.
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As such, things for Logan are never a problem. Until his problems catch up with him.
But here in this cabin, in the quiet after October, those things seem miles away for a change.
What do you mean, all wrong? he asks. Like in case it doesn't work? He squeezes Wes against his chest until the man wants to turn to him.
You wanna try it out on me? I don't mind. I like the smell. Makes me sleepy.
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For a long moment, Wes lets the admission hang in the air and waits. He doesn't expect that Logan will revise his position. If anything, he expects the man might be even more insistent to be used in that manner. But with all that's happened between them, it seems unfair not to warn him, and even more cruel to simply expect that he would be willing.
If the scent is any indication, he hopes he has it right. Are you sure? Wes asks anyway. Any part of you that aches? He knows his partner doesn't bear his scars visibly, but any site of pain could only be better for the test.
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were served breakfast in bed?
Arrive at 9:00 PM.
Bring a change of clothes.
He's hoping that Wes will take the suggestion with the tone intended, mostly because Blake's not necessarily looking to hook up so much as treat his friend in these otherwise trying times. There's that looming sense — the idea that things are very up in the air — and for Blake's part, he wants to take advantage of every opportunity to connect with people while he's still certain he can.
On the flip side of the invitation is Blake's address at Prospero, where he's come to find works best for entertaining. It probably also helps that he doesn't have to ask Bruce to participate or otherwise leave his own home if he doesn't want to be involved (as he often chooses). A strange arrangement, but it works for them. He knew there was a reason he kept his condo.
Assuming Wes decides to show, he'll find the lights on, the door unlocked, and a spiffy-as-always Blake fussing around his immaculate condo.
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He doesn't think twice about obliging, though it does take some consideration to determine exactly what Blake might mean by a change of clothes, and just what in his limited wardrobe could possibly be suitable for both the occasion and the environment they've all suddenly found themselves in. The extra garments aren't the only thing he packs. Despite near-famine conditions, Wes manages to rustle up a bottle of Logan's gin.
When he arrives, he knocks on the door and then enters without further preamble. Wes stamps on the floor before sliding out of his boots to further announce his arrival, and follows the shifting shadows on the wall towards where Blake is puttering around.
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Hello, handsome, he signs upon seeing the taller man, a soft smile gracing his features. It requires him to stretch in order to press a kiss to Wes' cheek, but that's never bothered Blake before, and as he breaks contact he's careful to run a hand down the other man's arm just to have that contact.
As usual, everything around him is immaculate. It's almost as if Deerington never quite finds a way to touch what Blake's got in 404 Prospero. Maybe it's by luck or maybe by design, but either way it's the kind of respite Blake refuses to take for granted; he knows from a long history of this shit to know how lucky he is to have anything at all, let alone all he actually has.
I hope you weren't too surprised, he adds, figuring he can get away with being a little coy.
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I didn't think you would do all this. He gestures around the immaculate apartment with a note of that genuine surprise that Blake seems intent to brush off. It does feel a bit like stepping into another world, though. If not for the windows facing the outside world, it would be easy to forget where they are and everything that's transpired in town in just a matter of weeks. Wes waggles the bottle of gin and places it on a nearby countertop like an offering or a trade.
What can I do to help? Even though he's sure Blake might shoo him off, he's quick to offer. It reminds him of a time more than a year ago when this was more of a routine between the two of them. The lessons at B&B's, trading language for cooking and the patience they'd shown one another.
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Are you hungry now? he asks when he has the other man's attention. He's expecting a no because Wes is notorious for barely eating (if ever), but far be it for Blake to pass on the ability channel an old Italian grandma. Or are we straight to bed with drinks? he teases, a grin spread across his face.