Work Text:
The whole damn idea of soulmates is pretty damn stupid, but Logan knows he’s even stupider for bothering to care.
Well, it’s not that he cares cares, but sometimes—especially when he’s around pairs who’ve found each other—it just fucking gets to him.
Not really in the way that Jean and Scott make stupid googly eyes at each other all damn day, or how Alex and Darwin disappear for hours on end doing who the fuck knows. He doesn’t give a shit about that sort of bond. It’s more like when he sees Chuck’s and Magneto’s eyes always race to find each other in a crowded room, or when Azazel brushes a finger along Janos’s shoulder blades as he walks past.
Hell, Logan doesn’t even know what any of that shit actually is, but if he had to parlay a guess, he would call it security. Would be nice to know that a pair of eyes was looking for his own sometimes, or that there was someone waiting for a touch. Not that he wants someone to be all sappy with or anything, because that’s just useless, but, god dammit, sometimes he wishes there was someone out there on the planet who he knew would always give a shit.
And days like today, Soulmate Day, make everything feel shittier.
Logan’s well aware that Soulmate Day is just another one of those stupid greeting card holidays manufactured to make people spend money they didn’t need to spend, but, unfortunately, the Professor is all about that stupid shit. Even the students who are too young, who haven’t yet had a name manifest on the inside of their wrist, seem to like cutting out enough paper hearts to deforest the Amazon, joining the rest of the matched pairs in a whole goddamn day of nauseating celebration.
Logan takes a sip of his beer. He’s on a stone bench deep in the garden, and the sky is slowly deepening into an inky indigo, speckled with stars. The rest of the mansion’s inhabitants are enjoying whatever dinner Magneto cooked up for the occasion, yammering on and on all about how great it is to have soulmates or be soulmates or whatever the hell they talk about on this day. He tried to join last year, for Chuck’s sake, but then everyone got all somber and weepy when the conversation turned to Logan and they all remembered he had no name on his wrist and never had and never would.
Apparently, it’s more common than people know, to be born without a soulmate, but Logan’s not really one for statistics or keeping track of shit like that. He doesn’t want to feel like a statistic, anyway, and has been alive long enough to know when to resign himself to fate. And it’s fine, really. Better not to have any soulmate than to have one and watch them get old and die while he stays the same forever.
But that doesn’t mean he’s trying to pretend like it doesn’t bug him, just sometimes.
A stark crackle of leaves under a foot has Logan tensing. He’s pretty far into the massive garden, tucked away from the main path, and he’s ready to scare off whichever student dares to disturb his wallowing, and then he realizes that it’s not a student. It’s McCoy.
“Oh, Logan! I’m—I didn’t know you were out here, I’m sorry, I can—” stammers Hank and Logan’s not sure if the dude’s just being as awkward as he always is or if he’s going overboard. Beast’s always got a look on his (human) face like he’s just walked in on his two friends fucking.
“Y’er fine,” Logan grunts, mostly because he’s not in the mood to deal with any more floundering from the gangly, nerdy dude. There are a few people in the mansion who he’d snarl at to shoo away, but Hank’s not one of them. Dude’s usually pretty quiet, never tries to foist Chuck’s corny events on him. Hell, if there’s anyone in the mansion Logan tolerates, it’s probably McCoy. Mostly because he doesn’t speak unless he actually has something to say.
McCoy nods and shifts his eyes to the side, like he’s searching that brain of his for something to offer up. When nothing comes, Logan speaks again. “Not up for Chuck’s little party?”
Hank shrugs those pointy shoulders of his. “I don’t have an issue with it,” he says. “But, it’s not my favorite day, either.”
Of course, Logan thinks. McCoy doesn’t have a name etched into his wrist, either. Logan always forgets that he’s not the only adult at the mansion who Fate forgot about when assigning partners.
A breeze rolls languidly across the garden, carrying the scent of freshly-trimmed roses through the air. Logan’s stomach rolls momentarily, and then he leans over to pull two fresh beers from the cooler beneath the bench.
“Take it,” he implores as he holds a can toward the scientist.
Hank appears hesitant for a long moment, and Logan’s just about sure the dude’s gonna turn down his offer and scamper away toward his lab when that long-fingered hand finally snatches the can away.
“Thanks,” Hank murmurs, and Logan nods as he cracks open his own can, scooting to one side of the bench.
Hank sits.
The unpaired men sit there in strained silence for a few minutes, nursing their drinks and staring aimlessly about the space around them. Logan halfway feels like he should say something, anything, but he’s not really the open book type and he’s got a feeling that anything he could say would sound pretty fucking stupid. He knows Hank isn’t a small talk kind of guy, either, and Logan suddenly regrets obligating them both to sharing a drink. He could have let Hank go, and then they could have gone back to their separate avoidances. Would have been easier. Better.
And then Hank says: “I don’t mind it.”
Logan cocks a brow and turns his head, just a degree. “Being unpaired?”
“Yes,” nods Hank, and Logan can see that his brow is furrowed up all small underneath those thick glasses of his. “Paired people have way less of a say in their lives.”
Yeah, Logan’s heard all the platitudes, too. “Course,” he agrees, and takes a swig of his drink. “It ain’t so bad, making decisions on y’er own.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Hank says, and when he turns toward Logan more directly, Logan realizes just how young the dude looks. Pale skin and blue eyes and rosy lips, like a drawing of a kid from one of those books from the 1950s. “I’m not just talking about the freedom to move or pursue a career or hobby. We don’t have to be with anyone that the universe chose for us.”
Logan rolls his eyes. He’s beginning to lose his patience. “Yeah, ‘cause we have to be with no one,” Hank grunts. “Ain’t chosen for someone, and no one ain’t chosen for us.”
“Exactly,” Hank agrees, and when Logan rolls his eyes again, pushes his glasses up his nose. “We get to choose who to spend our lives with, in whatever capacity. We have the freedom to be with someone or find someone else. To decide how to spend a relationship. To be friends or lovers.”
“Ain’t that the whole point of havin’ a soulmate?” Logan grunts, and turns away to frown at the honeysuckle dancing in the breeze. “Not havin’ to guess. Shit’s all figured out for you. Don’t gotta dance around, tryin’ to wonder if you should be with someone or not.”
Hank nods. “Sure. But, I think there’s something to be said for having to figure it out on your own, is all,” says the tall scientist, and now, Logan can see that he’s getting all awkward again with his darting eyes and fidgety hands. “Never mind,” he mumbles. “Just my thoughts on it.”
Logan pauses to think for a moment. He’s never really considered it a good thing, being unpaired. Sure, he doesn’t always think of it as a bad thing, and sometimes, he knows that it’s convenient as hell to not be bound to someone else when he wants to take off on his Harley and wander the country for a few months.
But, figuring out what the hell to do when meeting another unpaired person? It’s hard. Logan’s even tried to date a few times, and each time, he got too caught up in the questioning and it all went to hell before long. Since then, he’s just assumed that unpaired people have to get really fucking lucky in order to find someone else.
“How d’you know, though?” Logan asks then, glaring at his beer can. “How d’you know that the person you’re with is the person for ya? You could spend your whole damn life with the wrong person.”
Beast shrugs again. “I don’t think it matters. It doesn’t need to be complicated. If you like being with them, and they like being with you, couldn’t you two just be together and not worry about it?”
Huh. Yeah, Logan’s not sure he’s thought about that, either.
“Most people are taken,” Logan reminds Hank.
“Only 83 percent,” Hank counters. “That leaves over a billion people. A billion people who you can choose to be with, all on your own.”
Logan can’t help but notice how willfully determined Hank looks, how…confident, despite that perpetually worried expression. Hell, it’s tampering down Logan’s long-evolved cynicism, even if just for a minute.
“How…d’you even start, though,” Logan murmurs, because it’s been so long since he’s ever really thought about being with someone else, since he’s considered it a possibility. Lots have changed about society since then, too. “I mean, paired folks just look at each other and know. Don’t even know where to start.”
“I think,” answers Hank after taking another long drink, “that you know when you like spending time with someone. And then, maybe, you ask that person if they want to spend more time with you. If they say yes, you can go from there.”
Logan’s now looking directly at Hank, staring at those eyes behind thick lenses, eyes that are both innocent and knowing. He already knows Hank is smart as hell—Chuck insists the man’s one of the smartest on earth—but Logan never knew that he even thought about things like this. Always seemed too caught up in his latest project, or too worried about something else.
He’s an interesting guy, Hank. Logan supposes he’s always known that to an extent, but, hell, looks like there’s probably a lot he doesn’t know about the guy, too.
“Wanna spend some time with me?” Logan blurts, and when Hank’s eyes go wide and cheeks flush scarlet, he can feel his own stomach twitch with something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.
“Oh,” Hank says as he pulls at his sleeves. “I never…I mean…”
“Ain’t gotta be complicated,” Logan interrupts, and even as the color in Hank’s cheeks deepen , a small smile tugs at the corner of those lips.
“Yes,” answers the man finally as he looks back up to meet Logan’s eyes. “That would be nice.”
Logan can feel a smile of his own inching across his face. “Alright. One down, a billion more to go, I guess.”
And when Hank throws back his head and allows a peal of laughter to ring through the rose-scented garden, Logan realizes that, yeah, being unpaired probably isn’t so bad.