#breakaway

Logan leans back, laughing, like he’s going to splay out and look up at the stars the way they so often do—and in their haze, it seems they both forget how full the bottle clutched to his chest actually is. Finn reaches out too late. Whiskey sloshes over Logan’s neck and collarbones, making him startle and yelp and sit up, arms out, baffled.

They break down again. There’s nothing for it.

“Merde,” Logan mutters, setting the bottle down with too much care. He swipes at the few droplets on his arms and sleeves, looks down at himself, and sighs. The flannel comes off with only a bit of struggle. He’s left in a white tee with a gaudy moose on the back, Bienvenue! stretching over its head and between his shoulders. His necklace falls out the soaked neckline when he leans forward to assess the damage.

“It’s not so bad,” Finn remarks.

Logan’s nose crinkles at the side. “Sorry. I know it’s a nice bottle.”

It’s true—Finn used his Christmas money for it. But he bought it just for this. For them. For the roof.

Looking at Logan shake his shirt out, he can’t imagine it would look better in any other place.

“Here,” he says, reaching across the (always too) small space between them, shrugging his own overshirt off as he goes. He daubs at Logan’s arm (hot so hot always so hot) and presses cotton to his chest, drinking in the tang of alcohol on the night breeze. It’s warm, for spring. He can smell the undertones of the whiskey on Logan’s skin.

This close, he can see porch-light reflecting off the dampness on Logan’s neck, not yet evaporated. A bit dribbles down into the hollow of his throat, past the thick cord of his necklace, vanishing into the wet patch above his collarbone. It’s good whiskey. He can hardly imagine how it would be to taste it off Logan. To take fabric between his teeth and drink every drop, then fix his mouth to the warm skin beneath.

Finn looks, and for a moment, it’s devastation.

He looks, and it’s Logan.

Green eyes, calm and quiet and deeper than the deepest sea. A sharp jaw begging to be kissed, to be bitten. Lips curled in what would be a wry grin if it wasn’t so him. He doesn’t flinch. It’s so much worse. They’re so close like this. They’re always too close.

“Finn.”

Finn fights the flutter of his eyes and feels the breath in his lungs go still. Logan’s voice around his name—not Harzy, ‘arzy, mon ami—and nobody home. Nobody’s home, not really. Just Percy, and Will, and maybe Dylan. A couple of the guys who haven’t left for break. Maybe even Cole, but he’s supposed to leave in the morning, he wouldn’t be out tonight, wouldn’t see if Finn finally collapsed under the tingling gooseflesh weight of that voice on his name. Yours-and-yours-and-yours, his heart beats. He would roll Logan onto his back, he thinks. Right here on the shingles. He’d kiss him until he couldn’t taste the alcohol, just Logan and spit and body and Logan. They really didn’t have that much. Not at all. He’d die for just a moment of it.

“Harzy.”

‘arzy.

Does he want Finn’s heart on a plate? He’ll give it to him now, with a shot to chase it. Oh, god, he can’t take another moment of this rib-clenching want in the night and his name. He wants to make Logan laugh like that again, loud, free, just to kiss it from his lips.

Logan looks sober. And sad.

Finn wants to apologize. His mouth is numb and empty. “Is that better?” he asks, ragged.

“Ouais,” Logan whispers back. The silence, the silence. Please please please please. “We should go inside. You’re drunk.”

Finn shakes his head. Please please pleasepleaseplease.

“I’m cold.”

He could cry. He could fucking cry. Would Logan break if he did? “I’ll get a blanket.”

That’s the thing of it all, that’s the fucking thing, is he can see it all over Logan’s face and his wildfire eyes and the unhappy curve of his mouth. He wouldn’t tell Finn no, if he took the cord of his necklace between his teeth and sucked it clean. He wouldn’t push him away if his neckline followed, and god knows he wouldn’t tear Finn a new one for kissing whiskey off his skin. He loved it when Finn took the sea-salt off him like that in France. He fucking loved it. The way he smiled—the way he held Finn.

Logan’s gaze flickers over his face. Finn braces for it. Digs his skates in hard.

“Okay.”

That’s…Finn stumbles over his own thoughts. He blinks. Logan’s expression does a funny thing, not quite agony, not quite a smile. He nods, once, just a dip of his chin.

“That would be nice.”

“Okay,” Finn says, too quiet to his own ears.

Logan takes the whiskey bottle by the neck and moves it away from the edge. “Okay.”

Finn slips in through their window, somehow. He’s not hammered but he feels like it, sweaty-cold with a pounding pulse. He scrubs both hands through his hair and folds them at the back of his neck, pushing hard on the pressure points there. He rests his head on his desk and tries to remember how to breathe. Cool wood. The sounds of a late, late dinner for one downstairs, and a party three or four streets down.