Logan's ability to heal itself of illness and injury is something that Wes has observed more in the theoretical than practical. On the whole, the older man has gone to lengths to keep the rest of them at bay as his body knits together any signs of injury. For Wes, that means he's rarely gotten the opportunity to see the progress up close. Instead, he's noted the weathered planes of skin, unmarred by the kind of damage he's known Deerington to inflict on his partner. He's marked Logan's capabilities in a lack of proof and wondered privately what it must feel like to bear no scars of the places one has been.
Now, he can't help but watch. It seems miraculous, the way skin and sinew emerge anew and stitch over the proof of what he's done. Wes thumbs the area almost disbelievingly, but finds the skin there as even as the rest of Logan. When their eyes meet in the mirror, he passes the breadth of his hand over the man's back and shakes his head.
I don't think so. Fingertips graze across an uneven bump to the left of the older man's lower spine. This one is entirely encased, though, and he grits his teeth and presses thoughtfully. Feel that? Something's under there. It's all the way in. He grips the back of Logan's neck reassuringly, then urges the man's head to bow. With another little breath Wes steels himself, and slips the blade of the knife in.
There's method to his martyrdom most of the time. Even beyond Deerington where self-abuse could so easily turn into threat to those around him, learning to avoid raising the suspicions of normal people and how not to traumatize school children has made him skilled at keeping injuries out of sight until the viscera is thoroughly swept under his skin. In some ways it feels like having nothing to show for one's self. Or at least, not enough to excuse any complaints. On the other hand, no one wants to see it.
Every hair up the back of his neck prickles with that strange tingle of anticipation when Wes scruffs him there. His grip curls around the edges of the sink as the blade splitting him threatens to deflate the breath in his lungs and he lets his chest burn fighting to keep it in. As if a little oxygen fuels the fire that blade ignites in his nerves. Letting it flare to dangerous heights until the sweet relief of all things dislodged from his skin extinguishes the flame.
After a time, a person learns to work around the flinches and outcries. To ignore desperate pleas and double down to get the job done. It's a kind of love, too, strange as it may seem. A willingness to inflict the kind of pain it takes to ensure healing in the end. To be the sadist and the punisher. Logan barely twitches. Wes has met a lot of hard men in his day, but it takes more than most are capable of to maintain composure under the hot blade of a knife. To stand sober and let someone tear their flesh from their muscle.
Rapture feels like a dream he can't quite recall, but the comfort with the blade is just the same. His hands are much steadier, but when the piece of glass stays lodged deeply, he pulls out drawers in search of a pair of tweezers. By the time he's located the tool and turned his sights to Logan's back once more, Wes is shocked to find the cut healed over. With a grumble of annoyance he opens him again, and peels the wet shard free. He drops everything into a bloody heap in the sink and curls his arms around Logan's middle, kissing his neck.
It's hard to describe it as pain really. Not because it doesn't hurt. It never doesn't hurt. But because once you've endured worse longer at the hands of people who intend to leave a mark the whole scale resets. You have live life finding new ways to define where hurt begins.
That's when the lines between opposites get blurry.
When it stops, he lets out a sigh rolls his shoulders, until they give a deep satisfying crunch. But Wes' chest at his back keeps him from going any farther. He's right there when the burning pain is still singing in his nerves. Applying kisses like a salve and mixing the hot sting of torment with the warm comfort of a firm body spooned against him.
His neck cranes around until Wes is at the end of his nose. Insisting with a nudge until his mouth can reach him. A half step back presses him closer into the tall blond and he drags Wes' hand off his stomach down the front of his pants.
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Now, he can't help but watch. It seems miraculous, the way skin and sinew emerge anew and stitch over the proof of what he's done. Wes thumbs the area almost disbelievingly, but finds the skin there as even as the rest of Logan. When their eyes meet in the mirror, he passes the breadth of his hand over the man's back and shakes his head.
I don't think so. Fingertips graze across an uneven bump to the left of the older man's lower spine. This one is entirely encased, though, and he grits his teeth and presses thoughtfully. Feel that? Something's under there. It's all the way in. He grips the back of Logan's neck reassuringly, then urges the man's head to bow. With another little breath Wes steels himself, and slips the blade of the knife in.
no subject
Every hair up the back of his neck prickles with that strange tingle of anticipation when Wes scruffs him there. His grip curls around the edges of the sink as the blade splitting him threatens to deflate the breath in his lungs and he lets his chest burn fighting to keep it in. As if a little oxygen fuels the fire that blade ignites in his nerves. Letting it flare to dangerous heights until the sweet relief of all things dislodged from his skin extinguishes the flame.
no subject
Rapture feels like a dream he can't quite recall, but the comfort with the blade is just the same. His hands are much steadier, but when the piece of glass stays lodged deeply, he pulls out drawers in search of a pair of tweezers. By the time he's located the tool and turned his sights to Logan's back once more, Wes is shocked to find the cut healed over. With a grumble of annoyance he opens him again, and peels the wet shard free. He drops everything into a bloody heap in the sink and curls his arms around Logan's middle, kissing his neck.
cw: sex
That's when the lines between opposites get blurry.
When it stops, he lets out a sigh rolls his shoulders, until they give a deep satisfying crunch. But Wes' chest at his back keeps him from going any farther. He's right there when the burning pain is still singing in his nerves. Applying kisses like a salve and mixing the hot sting of torment with the warm comfort of a firm body spooned against him.
His neck cranes around until Wes is at the end of his nose. Insisting with a nudge until his mouth can reach him. A half step back presses him closer into the tall blond and he drags Wes' hand off his stomach down the front of his pants.