[ The yeses in Logan's head bleed away into satisfaction. He kisses back, free hand moving to grip the back of David's neck as soon as his claw's retracted. ]
You are, huh? [ It's muttered quietly into his mouth. ]
[ yeah, he asserts, mental voice warm and content as he kisses him again. he presses another to the bridge of logan's nose, then sits up a little to nuzzle into his temple.
on logan's knee, the stick figure shakes its head, then unfolds into a sliver of wood again, falling away. ]
[ fascinated, david peers down at the emerging flute, hands sliding over logan's shoulders and into the neck of his shirt, flattening against his upper chest. ]
Do you know how to play?
[ a kiss to his ear, teeth catching briefly at the curve. ]
[ Having succeeded in the grooves of the outside, Logan's claw is given up in favour of a smaller, more precise knife to hollow the insides out. ]
Hell, [ he's breathing easy into David's touch, tilting his head a bit into the feel of lips on his skin ] if I didn't heal, I'd be deaf by now from practising.
[ he laughs a little, fingers flexing, gently curling against bare skin. ]
My adoptive mom tried to make me learn piano. She gave up pretty quickly, though. [ no musical talent. none. he also can't carry a tune in a five-gallon bucket. (it doesn't stop him from singing in the shower and/or bath.) ]
[ But David isn't wrong. Funny, the things you pick up at war -- but bunker time is longer than people think. ]
Mother made me play the piano, too. [ He flips the flute, works on hollowing it from the other end. ] Said it'd make me gentler for when I hit marrying age.
[ He looks back, brow raised. ] You didn't like it? Piano.
[ it doesn't matter how often he hears about logan's life before, about his mother, about his upbringing.. it always startles him a little. logan's lived so long that sometimes, it seems that he's a fixture in time-- that he's always been what he is now.
but.. he wasn't. once upon a time, he was a scared little boy, just like david had been. a scared child who'd been mistreated, who'd lost everything, who'd been forced to fend for himself for far too long.
he tightens his arms around him faintly at the thought, protective all over again. ]
Mm, no musical talent. I couldn't even learn it, really. My telepathy kicked in really early, so I just.. couldn't focus. Too loud, too many voices.
[ The change in David's grip has Logan's lips curving up in fondness, in understanding. Gratitude. (It's so fucking weird, having someone want to protect him.)
He turns his head to kiss his arm, then leans his cheek against it like a pillow as he works on the holes to the flute. ]
I could teach you. [ He pokes a small circle of wood out, lifting the flute to blow the excess wood shavings away. ] Just focus on my mind.
Nah, [ david denies, gently dismissive. he doesn't have any talents to speak of and he knows it. his mutation's the one thing about him that's exceptional. ] I'd like to hear you play sometime, though.
[ the mental image is kind of hilarious and also incredibly endearing. this flannel-clad, cigar-smoking, rough-edged romantic with his hands on the ivories, playing beethoven or something. ]
Well, [ he huffs ] I've had 200 years to earn 'em.
[ Pop, pop, pop. Logan finishes the last of the holes, and after some fine shaving with the knife to smoothen the edges, he holds it up at eye level to inspect his work.
There is still more that he cuts off -- thin wisps of wood that fall away light and gentle. Then he blows again, cleaning it up. ]
Shouldn't be that surprising, though. Every 19th century nobleman cliche was true for me, you know.
It's weird sometimes to think that I'm basically dating Canadian Downton Abbey.
[ one of these days, he's going to have to get logan in a suit. maybe if he tells him he wants to go to a ballet or something. (not that david's ever been to or been interested in ballet before, but it'd be worth it to see logan in a tie.)
he nuzzles into the crown of logan's head, resting his chin there after. ] I guess if things had been just a little bit different, you would've wound up married to some prim girl and had a half-dozen kids.
Half-dozen? [ Logan laughs, but the word kids sticks. He pulls the blade back into the knife and blows through the mouthpiece of the flute -- a soft, high note plays. ] Shit, I probably would've stopped at two.
But I like this. [ He likes what has become of his life and who he's sharing it with. Logan's hand lifts to curl into David's forearm where it rests over him. ] You.
Yeah, [ david agrees warmly, happily even, lips pressed to the top of logan's head and smiling a little stupidly. he's in love, happy, with someone who wants him just the way he is-- and logan is perfect.
he hesitates a moment, lifting a hand to gently brush over the flute, the gesture idly curious. logan's good at this-- good at a lot of things after two centuries. ]
Did.. [ he trails off, smile fading as he tips his cheek against logan's crown. ] .. you want kids? I mean, before. Or now, even.
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Mmmusic?
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[ The shiver is felt, so Logan shifts, nuzzles the side of David's knee. The low sound continues.
He flicks another bit of wood out. ]
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on logan's knee, the little figure taps him as if to tell them both to behave. ]
Uh, mountain.
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He huffs, more of a laugh than petulant, and keeps his temple still against David's knee. ]
Hill.
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[ he presses his ankle against logan's hip, hand sliding down from the other man's nape, tracing the top few bumps of his spine beneath his shirt. ]
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Cute.
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Yours.
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But he manages a growled: ] Happy.
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You are, huh? [ It's muttered quietly into his mouth. ]
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on logan's knee, the stick figure shakes its head, then unfolds into a sliver of wood again, falling away. ]
I love you. What're you making?
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He's forgotten for a moment. ]
It. [ A laugh. ] A flute.
I can make other things. [ His claws pushes out again so he can work on shaving more. ] And.
I love you, too.
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Do you know how to play?
[ a kiss to his ear, teeth catching briefly at the curve. ]
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[ Having succeeded in the grooves of the outside, Logan's claw is given up in favour of a smaller, more precise knife to hollow the insides out. ]
Hell, [ he's breathing easy into David's touch, tilting his head a bit into the feel of lips on his skin ] if I didn't heal, I'd be deaf by now from practising.
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My adoptive mom tried to make me learn piano. She gave up pretty quickly, though. [ no musical talent. none. he also can't carry a tune in a five-gallon bucket. (it doesn't stop him from singing in the shower and/or bath.) ]
I feel like you're more of a guitar man, anyway.
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[ But David isn't wrong. Funny, the things you pick up at war -- but bunker time is longer than people think. ]
Mother made me play the piano, too. [ He flips the flute, works on hollowing it from the other end. ] Said it'd make me gentler for when I hit marrying age.
[ He looks back, brow raised. ] You didn't like it? Piano.
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but.. he wasn't. once upon a time, he was a scared little boy, just like david had been. a scared child who'd been mistreated, who'd lost everything, who'd been forced to fend for himself for far too long.
he tightens his arms around him faintly at the thought, protective all over again. ]
Mm, no musical talent. I couldn't even learn it, really. My telepathy kicked in really early, so I just.. couldn't focus. Too loud, too many voices.
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[ The change in David's grip has Logan's lips curving up in fondness, in understanding. Gratitude. (It's so fucking weird, having someone want to protect him.)
He turns his head to kiss his arm, then leans his cheek against it like a pillow as he works on the holes to the flute. ]
I could teach you. [ He pokes a small circle of wood out, lifting the flute to blow the excess wood shavings away. ] Just focus on my mind.
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[ the mental image is kind of hilarious and also incredibly endearing. this flannel-clad, cigar-smoking, rough-edged romantic with his hands on the ivories, playing beethoven or something. ]
You're just full of surprises, babe.
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[ Pop, pop, pop. Logan finishes the last of the holes, and after some fine shaving with the knife to smoothen the edges, he holds it up at eye level to inspect his work.
There is still more that he cuts off -- thin wisps of wood that fall away light and gentle. Then he blows again, cleaning it up. ]
Shouldn't be that surprising, though. Every 19th century nobleman cliche was true for me, you know.
'cept the things that required going outside.
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[ one of these days, he's going to have to get logan in a suit. maybe if he tells him he wants to go to a ballet or something. (not that david's ever been to or been interested in ballet before, but it'd be worth it to see logan in a tie.)
he nuzzles into the crown of logan's head, resting his chin there after. ] I guess if things had been just a little bit different, you would've wound up married to some prim girl and had a half-dozen kids.
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But I like this. [ He likes what has become of his life and who he's sharing it with. Logan's hand lifts to curl into David's forearm where it rests over him. ] You.
If my life got me here, it was worth it.
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he hesitates a moment, lifting a hand to gently brush over the flute, the gesture idly curious. logan's good at this-- good at a lot of things after two centuries. ]
Did.. [ he trails off, smile fading as he tips his cheek against logan's crown. ] .. you want kids? I mean, before. Or now, even.
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