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Logan hasn’t exactly been having the best day.
He’d slept through his alarm, barely made it to class on time and slipped into his seat with ungelled hair and a mis-buttoned blazer just seconds before the tardy bell rang. Murdoch’s stern glare had only sharpened when Logan had failed to turn in homework -- he could’ve sworn their paper wasn’t due until next week.
Calculus had been just as much of a struggle. Since he’d woken late, he hadn’t had time to prepare his usual thermos of coffee. His head hurts as he stares at the numbers on the board, as the complicated equations swirl around until nothing at all makes sense. He’s called on in class, and his fists clench when his classmates snicker at his incredibly wrong answer.
Lunch nearly kills him. He grabs what he thinks is a roast beef sandwich from the line, manages to get all the way back to his table with it before Derek points out the purple sticker on the plastic, clearly labeling it as peanut butter and jelly. Logan already has the sandwich halfway to his mouth, a hairs’ breadth away from chomping down on a very untimely death. He swears, tosses the sandwich in the garbage and looks back at the lunch line. It’s grown exponentially in size since he’d left it, and it doesn’t look like he’ll have time to get a new lunch before his next class. Derek offers him a side of pasta salad, but it isn’t enough to keep Logan’s stomach from grumbling all through physics.
Despite his near death experience, Warblers rehearsal is what pisses him off the most. They’re voting on a solo for their upcoming concert, a Taylor Swift song Logan knows he’d absolutely destroyed in his audition.
But it’s not Logan who gets it.
It’s Blaine .
Blaine doesn’t even like Taylor Swift.
Logan’s fuming, as he makes his way back to Stuart. He’s sick of the popularity contest the Warblers have turned into, misses the days when the vote was about talent , instead. He’s upset about missing his assignment for Murdoch’s class, hopes it won’t drop his GPA enough to affect his admission to Harvard and Yale. He’s still hungry, still has a headache from the lack of caffeine, and worst of all?
Julian won’t answer his goddamn phone.
Logan understands why , of course. Derek’s birthday is next week, and Julian had fought with his directors to film longer hours so he could finish his scenes in time. Logan knows Derek will appreciate it. He wants Julian back himself, too, of course. But the longer hours mean it’s been impossible to get a hold of him for more than a few minutes at a time, and Logan misses him.
He tries calling again, as he steps through the Stuart doors. It goes to voicemail after a few rings, and Logan sighs and hangs up without leaving a message. Julian has enough to worry about, doesn’t need to listen to Logan rambling about his shit day.
His bookbag hits the ground with a loud thud as he tosses it aside, and Logan stares at it a moment. He knows he should pull out his books, should get to work on that paper even though he’ll get points off for the tardiness. But he just can’t focus on that right now. He needs a goddamn nap.
But when he turns around, he finds someone’s already had that idea.
Strewn across his bed is Julian, fully clothed and on top of the blankets, curled up on one side with his head pillowed on an arm. His travel bag rests beside the bed -- he must’ve come straight here from the airport.
Logan smiles softly. His headache doesn’t hurt quite so badly, his hunger isn’t quite so strong. All he wants now is to curl up with his boyfriend and close his eyes for a little while.
Julian stirs slightly when Logan joins him on the bed, his eyes half-opening as he’s pulled into Logan’s chest.
“S’prise,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, “Miss me?”
“I did,” Logan says, leaning in to press a kiss to Julian’s forehead, “A lot, actually. Derek’s sick of me complaining.”
Julian hums, “I’m sure you’ll find something else to complain about soon enough.”
He yawns, stretches a bit and then shifts closer, his limbs curling around Logan’s body.
“How was your day?” Julian asks, even as his head dips down into the crook of Logan’s neck, as his eyes close again.
Logan stares down at his boyfriend, at the soft brown curls falling over tired eyes and the way Julian’s fingers clutch the fabric of Logan’s shirt, at the soft rise and fall of his chest.
“It’s great, now,” Logan says, wrapping an arm snugly around Julian’s waist, “Welcome home, Jules.”