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Thomas used to love looking at the stars.
When they were little, he and Thomas used to sneak out at night, or early in the morning, when the dew clung to the tender grass, dampening their bare feet. Logan can still remember the way they laughed, muffling their giggles behind their hands, eyes shining in the low light of the moon. It was so easy to laugh back then.
“Shh,” Thomas would giggle, trying and failing to school his chubby features into something serious. “They’re gonna hear you, ‘Sity.”
But Curiosity – the child Logan, Logos, Logic once was – just laughed and tapped Thomas’s nose. “They can’t hear me, silly. Just you.”
(It always was, and still is. Thomas will always be the only one for him.)
And Thomas would pout, sticking out his tongue and refusing to take another step until Logan grabbed his hand and started running, pulling Thomas, shrieking with laughter born of pure joy, in aimless, wandering circles. And they ran and ran and ran, crushing the dew-soft grass of Thomas’s backyard, until they couldn’t take it and collapsed in a heap of childish giggles, sprawled over each other.
They would quiet then, laying in the damp, hand-in-hand as they caught the heavens in their eyes.
Thomas would always reach out, as if to touch them, but of course he never could.
“Tell me about them,” Thomas would say, with all the gravitas of a child.
And Logan would trace out patterns against the pitch-dark night, telling him about heroes immortalized into the tapestry of the sky, about worlds beyond theirs, crashing and colliding on a grand scale and shooting out sparks of energy, matter, life, about things that burn so, so far away but still shine, just for them.
It didn’t make sense, in hindsight, how Logan could pick up Thomas after he had fallen asleep, how he could walk him inside and lay him down carefully, and fluff his stuffed animal so it’d be right there when he woke up. He was a metaphysical being, less than a human. He shouldn’t have been able to tuck Thomas in and risk kissing his forehead, just like he saw Thomas’s father do to his mother sometimes, before sinking out, back into the intangibility of the mind palace.
Yet, still, he did, once upon a time.
It didn’t work like that these days.
It hadn’t for a long time.
Maybe it starts with school, and Thomas grousing his way through every times table and flash card. Maybe it starts with the friends he makes, and the way Thomas stays up late to text them, brushing aside Logic’s gentle voice telling him he’ll be exhausted in the morning. (He’s different with them, and Logan thinks that he hates them, just a little. He’s always been the jealous sort.) Maybe it starts when Thomas is pimple-faced and angsty but still so beautiful, still so beloved – laughing over pictures of boys with Roman, and when Logan tries to interject, to tell Thomas he needs to get started on his homework, Thomas tells him to fuck off without even looking up.
So Logan does. He stays at Thomas’s side during school, quietly telling him what to note down. He keeps him from giving all his money to charity at Patton’s behest and from dropping out of college to pursue theatre, as Roman insists. He grounds him during panic attacks as Virgil huddles in the corner, sobbing where he thinks no one can see. He silences Remus before the worst of his rants burrow like so many parasites into Thomas’s brain, and he steps aside with nothing more than a short nod when Deceit is truly needed.
But he’s insubstantial as stardust whenever he does; nothing more than a suggestion or a murmur tugging at Thomas’s mind. It’s easier that way. There’s only so many times you can stand the person you love, the person who’s everything to you, sighing and steeling themself whenever you pop up.
So he stops popping up, and, eventually, Thomas stops calling him.
Well, no. That’s not quite right. For all that Logan prides himself on his self-control, even he is prone to moments of weakness.
Because sometimes, Thomas will stop, late at night, in the few feet from his car to his door, or he’ll find himself on a plane with his head pressed against the window, or he’ll be staggering home, drunk with laugher, arms around Joan and Talyn, and he’ll look up.
No matter what, it’s the same sky that Thomas and Logan held hands under, all those years ago.
And sometimes, Logan’s resolve breaks. And sometimes, he rises up. It’s always a surprise and not to see how his body has changed. A surprise because the new features feel strange on him, heavy with age. Not because they’re the same features he’s seen so often, every time he sees Thomas. Every time he closes his eyes.
And sometimes, as Thomas looks up at the stars, Logan will look at him – at the broad slope of his shoulders and the sandy brown of his hair and the edge of his face as he cranes his neck towards the glowing sky. It’s different when they’re both physical (or close enough) because Logan can stand close enough to feel him, deep in his bones, feel that comfort and joy and rightness that comes with everything that Thomas is. It’s different when they’re both physical (or close enough) because Logan can stand close enough to feel, but not to touch.
Never to touch.
Thomas shines; he burns bright as he always has, beautiful and distant as the stars they used to love together. Just like a star, Logan knows he’s too far away. Even if he wasn’t, stars can burn at almost ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Logan couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t even dare get close enough to try.
And maybe Thomas can feel him too, during those sometimes, because every once in a while, he’ll turn around. But Logan is always gone by then, of course. Besides, most often, Thomas simply stares into the endless sky.
What it comes down to, Logan considers as he lays in what passes for a bed in this insubstantial place, is that it sucks you can’t pick who you’re in love with.
Because it’s been thirty years, but he’s still in love.
The videos change things, in some regards.
He has to show up again, as himself and not just an inclination, a chemical impulse in Thomas’s mind. He takes his time beforehand, pulling out a sky-blue tie and smoothing his hair until there isn’t a single strand that dares stray from its place.
He almost manages to convince himself Thomas looks happy to see him, that his soft brown eyes widen and he wets his lips unconsciously. But pretend is Roman’s domain, and Logan prefers to leave the lying to Deceit.
The videos do continue, however, and with every one, with every moment he spends with Thomas – Thomas who is as distant, untouchable, beautiful as the cold stars – he finds himself falling back into bad habits.
He’ll appear, unprompted, in Thomas’s room, leaning over his desk and murmuring to him about schedules and routines when Thomas pulls out his planner. He’ll voice his praise, loudly and perhaps too warmly when Thomas meets another deadline, successfully navigates another business negotiation. He’ll show up when Thomas is drooping on the couch, eyes struggling to stay open, because surely he can’t miss watching the office bloopers for the ninth time.
“Come on,” he’ll say, coaxing his star to stand. “You’ll perform sub-optimally if you interfere too severely with your circadian rhythm.”
He doesn’t touch Thomas, however much he wants to gather him in his arms and lay him down on the bed, fluffing his pillows and tucking his old quilt around his shoulders. Logan knows how skin-to-skin contact influences the brain’s hormones, how it forms and strengthens attachments.
Logan doesn’t know if he could stand to feel any stronger than this.
“Are you ever going to tell him?” Roman asks, quietly, once Thomas is fast asleep, and Logan has turned out the lights and drawn the blinds.
“No,” Logan says, simply. “I see no point.”
“No,” Roman echoes, and it is a sigh, tempered by a gentle fondness. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
Thomas calls for him more often, and Logan cannot resist his summons.
At first, it’s for the videos. Then, it’s for advice over budgets and business decisions and scheduling. Then, it’s for silly decisions Logan knows he could solve on his own (“Do I watch Animal Planet or Doctor Who?” Thomas asks, smiling, then insists he stay, just so they’re both certain it was the right choice). Then, it’s for no reason at all.
“I was lonely,” Thomas says or “I felt like it” or “I saw an article you would like” or “I bought more Crofters”.
He doesn’t say the only thing Logan is waiting for. He doesn’t turn to Logan, love shining in his eyes, and say “because I wanted you, Logan.”
Yet, still, Thomas, his star, is here, close enough to feel if not touch, and Logan is happier than he has been in a long time.
The question comes after a video has wrapped filming, after the echoes of the other’s laughter and banter have faded from the air and Logan is left, quietly standing there in the hopes Thomas will let him stay with him, just a little bit longer.
“Logan,” Thomas says, softly.
Logan likes the way Thomas says his name – carefully, like every syllable has to be put precisely into place.
“Logan,” Thomas says, “what… are you? Any of you?”
Logan frowns. It’s unlike Thomas to fail to retain such basic information. “We are parts of your personality, Thomas.”
“Right, right, but…” Thomas waves a hand impatiently. “How much of you is me, and how much is… you.”
“All of me,” Logan says, “and… all of me, I suppose.”
Thomas huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Right. That’s… that makes sense, I suppose. I just…” He wavers, twisting his fingers around each other. “You all have your own feelings, fears, passions, I know. But I was just wondering if you’re… if you would ever have interest in someon–” He cuts himself off with a painful-sounding click of his jaw. “Never mind, I just… Never mind.”
Logan has never been good with words. He doesn’t understand the duality, as everyone else seems to; he can’t weave twisting phrases like Deceit or Roman, but even he can tell something else is hiding behind Thomas’s question.
“You know you can trust me with any question, Thomas.” Logan adjusts his tie – night-blue now, and he feels a sentimental fool whenever he thinks it. “I’m here for you.”
“Yeah.” Thomas smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know.”
It’s late that night when Thomas calls him, but proximity has weakened Logan’s resolve, the heat of his star melting away his carefully constructed walls.
He’s surprised when his feet land in dew-damp grass, and even more so when he finds Thomas, knees hugged to his chest, staring up at the sky like he’s trying to read an answer up there.
“Tell me about them,” Thomas says, with all the gravitas of the man they’ve both become, somehow. “Please.”
And Logan traces out patterns against the pitch-dark night, telling him about heroes immortalized into the tapestry of the sky, about worlds beyond theirs, crashing and colliding on a grand scale and shooting out sparks of energy, matter, life, about things that burn so, so far away but still shine, just for him.
It doesn’t make sense, in the moment, how Logan can lay here beside Thomas after they have fallen into the tender grass, how he can feel Thomas’s heat, warm and glowing in the night-dark. He’s a metaphysical being, less than a human. He shouldn’t bend the dew-damp grass as he turns his head to see his star. He shouldn’t want to reach out, gather Thomas close, and press their lips together, just like he saw Thomas’s father do to his mother sometimes.
It doesn’t make sense, why when he looks over, he sees tears falling from Thomas’s eyes, even though they do not close; they do not stray from their sky.
“Thomas,” he says, and the name is sweet, so he says it once more. “Thomas. Are you quite alright?”
“I was going to ask you,” Thomas says, “if you can fall in love.”
The sky above them is large, but even it cannot contain the sudden swelling in his chest – of fear and excitement and trepidation and wonder and doubt, and most lethal of them all: hope.
His hands are shaking, but his voice is steady: “I already have.”
For a moment, there is nothing but his words hanging before them, strung up with moonbeams. Then:
“I’ve missed you,” Thomas says, and, in the darkness, his hand finds Logan’s.
“Oh.” Something wet gathers in the corners of Logan’s eyes. “I’ve missed you too.”