Archive of Our Own

It was hot.

Winter in New England had given way to spring. Spring itself felt short and unpredictable. The weather often seemed confused throughout the day as to what season it was supposed to be. Cold mornings, warm afternoons, and evenings that still held the chill of winter, but stretched further into the night with later sunsets.

Without much warning, in the midst of pollen coated everything, the weather turned humid, oppressive, and hot. It was the sneak peak at summer, but before anyone had built a sturdy tolerance for the steady heat. The air felt thick and stuck to you as you maneuvered through your day. It weaved into homes and became a slightly suffocating weight in your lungs when you inhaled.

For John Logan, who enjoyed the coolness of New England autumn and the snow covered winters, it was too soon for the heatwave that was rolling through Briar U. He had not planned on spending hours installing window units last night in his roommates rooms in April. It was too early to have turned the main AC on after rolling into the house that felt like a furnace last night after training. He was already short on time and energy. Heat that sapped your reserves before you had time to adjust to the change was just an insult to injury. Yet, here he was. Melting.

The semester was almost over, but the hockey house was leased through the summer which meant at least he didn't have to move back home. Not yet. He could pretend a little longer. At least the drive from class to the house offered some reprieve with the windows down and the air moving loudly enough to drown out his own thoughts and self loathing he'd been lugging around for months.

Yet, it was a short reprieve. John Logan walked into the hockey house after class expecting relief from the heat before training. He was hoping to heat up something and study. Instead the heat followed him inside. He groaned, tired and sticky, and generally feeling just done with all things. John unceremoniously dropped his backpack by the door. He walked over to check the AC unit and found it running like a fan.

He let out a small, "Well, fuck," to himself and swallowed his frustration. It was fine. He could fix it. He'll just have to stay up and study later.

John sighed. He walked to the fridge and grabbed a cold beer, popping the top and taking a swig. The house seemed quiet. "Tuck! You home?" He wandered the main floor checking if the windows were closed and turned on a fan someone had rescued from the basement. It helped move the stale air around.

He ran upstairs, the temperature creeping higher each stair he took. He knocked on Garrett's door at the end of the hall before opening it and was met with cold air filtering out. Garrett had an AC unit working in his window, but other than the sweet relief of air you could breathe without feeling wet, the room was empty.

Tuck's room was empty and warm. He hadn't turned on his AC, but left a fan running. Although, being from the south, the humidity of New England was what seemed to bother Tuck more than the heat. He and Tuck were not the same.

He checked on Dean next who was home. Passed out in his bed, books and notepads open, his stand up unit running. Dean said he had too many pretty girls using his window to put a normal AC in it. Using the front door or back door was not enough options apparently. Logan shut Dean's door quietly. His friend looked wrung out. Dean clearly was going through something that was twisting his heart a little, but he had yet to divulge any details. Instead we all just exchanged worried looks each time he left the room. Logan let him sleep. They had a few hours before training.

Lastly, he opened his room and was met with the same heat that was living in the hallway. He groaned, "Oh, no. Fuck this." He couldn't live like this. He didn't have extra money for his own air conditioner unit and the few nights that were too hot, he crashed downstairs on the couch for relief. Shutting his door and quickly coming back into the heat of the upstairs hall, he took a swig from his beer bottle, realizing his cold beer was already starting to become lukewarm.

He sighed again. "Well, this sucks," he muttered as he headed to grab his tool box. He knew all too well that shit happens. It just would be nice if for once there was less shit happening. John Logan wasn't sure how much more he could take.

And this is how Logan found himself, sweating and sticky, trying to fix the compressor on the hockey house's main air conditioner. The outside unit was of course in the sun and his sunglasses were cutting down on glare, but everything felt too bright as he worked through all the possible issues. Thirty minutes in the sun, the AC being on the fritz, the exhaustion and stress of finals, and trying to sleep in the heat was just too much. Logan just wanted to be the right temperature.

He could feel his mood getting sharp and prickly in the sun. He could feel his mind wander to all the things weighing on him as he worked. He shook his head a little to clear his mind.

"Think John," he said to himself, "How do I fix this?"

It had power. The capacitor was still good. The fan looked not damaged. He was debating on grabbing a meter to check the fuses. His hands were sweaty as he unscrewed and opened another compartment to look at the connections.

It was too hot for this, he thought. Logan was tired. The end of semester was filled with deadlines. The weight of carrying his decision to not enter the draft in a few weeks was heavy. It was one of the many things he was carrying alone. He couldn't find the words to tell his best friend. Instead his silence was quickly turning into a secret that felt bigger than it should.

Everything felt like shit. His brother Jeff had called. His brother was feeling underwater at the shop and managing their Dad. Logan couldn't find the right words during the call and immediately felt overwhelmed trying to find time to help at the garage more and immensely guilty for not being there enough. He had felt his heart lurch walking into his own kitchen this morning to find Hannah sipping coffee at the counter scribbling in her songwriting notebook. Her hair was mussed and her nose was scrunched and she was wearing one of Garrett's t-shirts... and John felt himself wishing she was wearing his. Which felt human and like complete shit at the same time. He was really tired of his own bullshit and the self loathing of being happy for them, while jealousy lurked around his insides simultaneously. It was some fucked up shit. He was still beating himself up for how he hurt Grace. He missed her. Which was confusing and shitty while he was still trying to free himself from his feelings for Hannah.

It was all a mess. It was confusing. It was exhausting. He was tired.

And hot. John felt very, very hot.

He was so hot everything felt unbearable. It was distracting. Well, fuck. His whole life currently was distracting. Every breath felt shallow and for weeks there wasn't enough air.

John tried to take a deep breath as he could feel the anxiety of everything creep up and steal his focus. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears which never was a great sign. There just wasn't enough air. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and counted slowly to three. He could feel the heat of frustrated tears start to build.

"Absolutely not. Not here. Not now. You're fine. Just fix the damn air conditioner," he thought to himself and for a brief moment, John could feel his heart rate slow and his breathing even out. It was okay. He was okay. 

He let the relief settle in and take the edge off, but the reprieve was brief. Within a minute of diverting his energy from a potential breakdown into productivity, John Logan did something incredibly stupid. His sweaty hand slipped as he was yanking the box and caught on the thin, rusted metal on the bottom of the unit. He felt the sharp pinch of skin being split.

"Shit." he muttered. John needed this like a hole in his head. Actually, oblivion sounded a little nice after the past few days.

Frustration coiled in the back of his neck. It sat heavy. He exhaled and looked at his hand. He had gotten it pretty good. A two inch slice that looked angry already and the blood was starting to pool. He pulled off his shirt and pressed it to the cut. Wiping the blood, ignoring the sting, he thought he saw some fatty tissue. "Oh, fuck me."

John looked around at the mess of troubleshooting the Air Conditioner and his hand. He felt the tears threaten to well up again, but below out a long breath while applying pressure to his wound, "Nope. Still not doing this here. Not now." 

"Okay." he thought to himself, "You're okay." He breathed in, but the air was too hot and heavy and sticky to feel like he was catching air. Instead, he blew out long and slow, feeling a little more washed out than he liked. He pushed out his racing thoughts, the guilt, and the impending thoughts of not having the AC fixed before training and focused: "First, fix my hand, then we'll finish the air conditioner, and then it's just training."

John let himself back inside and started to rinse his hand in the kitchen sink before grabbing a towel to try to stem the bleeding. His shirt had already become pretty soaked through. He leaned against the sink pressing down on his wound despite the pain that has slowly started to creep in once the adrenaline faded. It had started as a dull ache and moved to pulsing.

The first aid kit was somewhere. He just needed to slow the bleeding and stop his thoughts from racing.

The kitchen felt oppressively warm. There was no air moving. His thoughts wandered. 

He needed to pass his final to play. 

He still could be on the ice a little longer if he didn't fuck up school. 

He could help his family.

That was worth giving up hockey. 

Grace's face. 

Hannah humming. 

Garrett's face when he finds out. 

"Enough," he muttered to himself lifting the towel to see. The bleeding had moved from gushing to seeping. Progress. 

Dean looking a little lost.

The AC not working.

A fucking heat wave in April. 

His stupid hand. 

HIs stupid heart putting hope where it shouldn't. 

The more time that passed, the less he could get the bleeding to stop entirely, the more he could feel the small flighty bits of panic start to take hold of his body. He could call for Dean, but the last thing he wanted was a witness when he was on the edge of a breakdown. If he was gonna fall apart it sure as fuck was gonna be in private.

Yet, the universe hates him. There was no other explanation. 

Just when John could feel the panic start to rise to just below his neck and threaten to take over, the front door opens loudly, crashing into the wall, causing John to jump. He winces at how he flinched, pulling the towel away by mistake and watching for a moment the wound still seep.

The kitchen immediately is filled with the sounds of Hannah and Garrett stumbling in, giggling, obviously making out, and being in love... all the way from the front living room.

Because obviously his current state of misery was not enough.

Logan was hot.

He was bleeding.

His hand was throbbing.

He still had to fix the air conditioner.

His future was bleak.

Hannah was here.

He was lusting after a girl who belonged to his best friend in some weird, twisted form of inescapable self torture and loathing.

He pushed away a really great girl because he had no idea how to have her look at him like he was deserving and he felt anything but.

Oh, and he still had to finish his final project for his last class.

Things were peachy. "For Christ sakes," he muttered to himself as he went to change out the dish towel he was using. The bleeding had slowed, but still not stopped. There were butterfly bandaids in the house somewhere. He tossed the used towel on the island for a moment and returned pressure to his hand as he started to open cabinets awkwardly with his pinky finger looking for the first aid kit.

Where is the damn kit?

He was doing good, focusing on the task and ignoring the sounds from the living room. Well, until he accidentally caught the handle of someone's mug of forgotten coffee, the sound of it tipping loudly on the counter startled him, and the liquid pooling out on the counter and dripping down to the floor.

It was just a small thing. A tiny mistake. Not remotely a big deal on its own. Yet, it was heavy enough for John to finally let a stab of resentment and frustration surface. He let out a resounding, louder than intended, "Shit. Fuck. Are you kidding me right now??"

When had he become so jumpy? So clumsy? 

And just like that the giggling in the living room stopped and the house was too quiet for ten seconds before...

Garrett's heavy footsteps could be heard coming this way, "Logan? You alright, man?"

John wrapped the towel around his hand tucking in the ends to hold as he started to right the mug and place it in the sink, "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just spilled someone's coffee."

Garrett poked his head in the kitchen as he was hunched down looking for a new roll of paper towels under the sink.

"Okay. Let me help clean it up," Garrett said, grabbing a spare towel and tossing it on the coffee that had dripped and puddled on the floor. He reached over for another and pulled up the one heavily spotted with blood. "Um, Logan. Why is there a towel drenched in blood on our kitchen counter? What's going on?"

Logan felt himself freeze for a second. His whole body locked up. He didn't even know why. His injury wasn't one of the secrets he was keeping, but he felt shame without really understanding why. He grabbed the paper towels from under the sink, stood up quickly turning around to face Garrett, but caught his back pocket on the cabinet handle. The tug briefly through him off balance and Logan put out both hands to steady himself, wincing when the hand with the cut took some weight. That hurt. Everything hurt.

He just want to lay down and disappear for a few hours. He blew out a breath and it melted into the heavy, humidity sticking to everything.

Garrett looked up. It felt like he was assessing me. Just like when were facing off on the ice. He met my eyes. Logan looked away first. "Jesus. Logan. You're not alright."

Logan swallowed. Feeling nervous. Wanting to get through all the things. "I'm fine. I'm just having a day. It's too hot for this shit."

At this point, Hannah walks into the kitchen. Her eyes glance from me to Garrett and back again. She gestures to me, "You look like shit. Wait. Are you bleeding?"

Logan swallowed down the panic he felt starting to seep in again. Keeping his voice calm and even, "Eh. A little. It's not bad."

Garrett shook the towel he was holding at Hannah, "I don't know if I agree with that description," and tossed it in the corner, "That looks like you were cleaning up a crime scene, man."

He glared at Garrett. Traitor. "Extremities bleed heavy. You know this already," Logan said trying to be calm, but feeling the words tumble out a little faster than he wanted, "I cut my hand trying to get the outside air conditioner to work. I was just looking for the FAK, but then I knocked over someone's coffee."

He was gesturing a little to wildly and to stop his hands from moving, he concentrated on putting pressure on the slice in his palm, "Sorry– I didn't mean to interrupt you guys. I'm going back out to finish."

At this point, Logan was sweating too much, but he wasn't sure if it had to do with the heat anymore.

Garrett, "The fuck you are. Sit down." He pointed to the chairs on the island. Logan felt his spine prickle and immediately decided he did not want to.

He shook my head and told them, "No, it's fine, I just–"

Hannah walked all the way into the kitchen, cutting him off. "Nope. I'm with Graham. Sit and let me see your hand," Hannah, rummaging through the draws for more kitchen towels, "What is the FAK?"

"First Aid Kit."

"That tracks," she says with amusement in her voice. She looks up and straight at me. "You still aren't sitting. Can you please sit down, Logan?" He felt his resistance give a little when she asked.

Hannah was hard to resist. What was wrong with me?

They are happy.

Be happy for your friends. You need to stop. It ruined things with Grace.

This could ruin them and it's not fair. You love your friends.

Yet, unbidden, Logan thought about how it might feel to come in the house giggling and holding hands with Hannah anyway.

I am a piece of shit.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and exhales, still unable draw in the deep breath in the heavy, sticky air. It's like suffocating while breathing and it feels strange.

Why is it so hot in god damn April?

When he open his eyes, Garrett is looking at him like he knows Logan was distracted internally. Actually, when he catches Hannah's eyes she obvioously does too. Logan felt his face flush in embarrassment and casts his eyes down. Looking at the floor is safer. 

Get a grip, Logan. He exhale through through his nose again. All he feels is too hot and his hand is pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. His cut is aching something fierce. The shame settling into his insides, coating everything isn't helping.

Hannah cleared her throat, "Garrett, find the first aid kit." Hannah walked over to the sink and wet the towel she had pulled out of the drawer.

Logan readjusts the towel on his hand, trying to stem the slow flow of blood that had started to slowly drip down his palm. Somewhere in this exchange he had stopped putting pressure on it. He started again. The world was moving too fast. He closed his eyes and pressed down tightly onto the cut. The pain was grounding, but his thoughts, unbidden, start to race a little:

I had shit to do.

We have to go to training.

It was still too hot.

My hand throbbed.

Hannah was bossing him around and I was trying desperately to not like it too much.

Grace hates me and I deserve it.

I still have finals.

Garrett thinks I'm in the draft.

Jeff needs me at the garage.

This is all I get.

I want to do this part better.

It is all I get.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Logan opened his eyes. It was Garrett. Garrett applied some gentle pressure trying to guide him to the chair by the kitchen island, "Sit down. I'll find the first aid kit."

"I'm fine. It's not a big deal."

"Logan. Shut up and sit."

He lets Garett push me into a chair, "I'll find the FAK." He uses airquotes and smirks. Logan uses his good hand to flip him off.

Hannah sits across from him and holds out her hand, "Hand, Logan."

"It's fine." He already knew he was gonna lose this argument.

"Then let me look."

"Are you a pre-med student now?"

"Logan. Stop being difficult."

He breathes out through his nose again. He wants to inhale, but everything is stifling.

The sun, the heat, the throbbing in my hand, Hannah being so close.

He can't pull in enough air to feel like he has enough. It's been days since he felt like I had enough air.

The air conditioner.

My finals.

Grace hates me.

My Dad is a drunk.

I have to give up hockey.

My hand hurts.

Hannah is here.

She's not mine.

I put my hurt hand on the counter palm up. The towel had loosened and you could see some blood seeping.

I am still bleeding. Hannah pulled me a little closer to her and unwrapped the towel, wiping my palm, and pushing down applying pressure. I wince involuntarily and suck in a breath. 

Fuck. That stings. 

Hannah looks at me sympathetic ally, "Hey, Garrett. Can you grab some Advil, too?"

"It doesn't hurt that bad."

My dad is an addict. I don't want to be an addict, too. He didn't mean to think that, but it ran through his mind anyway.

His hand starts to throb. He lets the pain cut through his thoughts and bring him to the present. He needs to stop thinking. 

"Okay, big tough hockey player," Hannah teases with a twinkle in her eye, "You know suffering is not a requirement of being good enough. You don't have to be in pain."

Hannah was applying more pressure to the wound. The pain felt hotter than the weather. She didn't know that the physical pain was drowning out the crushing pain of everything else for a few minutes. It was almost welcome. Almost. Logan just wished it didn't feel like his hand had its own heartbeat. The rhythm of the throbbing had him feeling anxious and his stomach a little queasy.

"It's fine," Logan starts, but his voice sounds a little croaky. He didn't like how she was seeing him. Its already 10,000 degrees in the kitchen, but he can feel the heat creep up his face even higher. I clear my throat and continue, " It's just a pain in the ass. I really just need to close it and fix the air conditioner. It's going to be 90 again tomorrow."

"Got it." Garrett slides the first aid kit over and starts filling a glass of water. He opens the bottle of ibuprofen and pops two on the counter with the water, "Take those."

"It's not that bad."

Hannah looks at Logan and presses harder. An unbecoming noise squeaks out and there is a noticable wince. Hannah looks at him, shrugging, "Sure, Logan. I believe you. Take the damn pills please and stop being a martyr."

Logan sighs again without meaning to. He pops them in his mouth with his good hand and takes a drink of water to wash them down. He downs the whole glass actually. He didn't realize how thirsty he was.

While he was distracted, Hannah lifted the towel and started to clean his hand up, "How long ago did you cut it?"

Garrett had grabbed my glass and moved it out of the way. He let out a low whistle when he caught a look at the slice in my palm.

"I dunno really. Not long."

"More than fifteen minutes?" He asks, concern evident on his face.

"Yeah, probably... but we have training in a few hours and I got to finish and clean up outside– so I really just need to finish closing this so I can get everything done."

Now Hannah sighs, "Okay, well, let's just focus on one thing at a time. This is still bleeding, Logan. It's deep. You need stitches or something."

Garrett, "Yup, nope. You're done. We're going to the E.R. It's an acronym. You should enjoy that."

Logan felt himself bristle.

He knows they are concerned about him. He also felt the world closing in. 

I don't have time for this shit. 

I don't have money for this shit.

I don't want to deal with this shit. 

Logan breathed out slowly. He began to protest. "No. No way. No E.R. I still have to fix the outside unit. I'm not missing training. You guys are making a bigger deal out of this than we need to."

"Logan, I can see fatty tissue. You need a stitch," Hannah said, sofly with a tinge of pleading.

God, I could listen to her talk to me like that all day. 

He stiffened realizing how terrible of a person he really was. Logan shook his head, trying to turn his mind off. It was not helping the situation.

This was getting out of hand, "Yeah, I know. That's why I was looking for the FAK." 

He could feel the panic pulsing a little faster than his heart was beating. He tried to focus on the pulse in his hand. He tried to clear his head. 

He swallowed and cleared his through, "I can close my hand here. "

My tools are outside.

The house is hotter than balls.

Stitches and a hospital visit would be a ridiculous copay that I don't have the money for.

"I've done it before," he huffs, "It's not like I'm losing a limb."

Hannah looks at him llike he's an idiot and presses down a little harder while rubbing her fingers over my knuckles. I grunt. That hurt.

Logan looks at her, "You're being aggressive." Hannah doesn't answer, but looks at him like she was proving a point. She continues to put pressure on his hand while gently running her fingers over his knuckles. It is pain and comfort simultaneously. Logan can feel his annoyance start to slip and panic start to slide back in. 

Hannah is holding my hand.

She's rubbing my knuckles. 

I shouldn't like this.

This is a problem.

Why is there no air?

Everything feels too bright. Hannah and Garrett are talking, but Logan found himself not listening. It was hard to focus.

There still was not enough air.

I am so hot. Why is the weather trying to kill me?

Garrett: "Alright. You're being a stubborn prick."

That snaps him back into focus, "I am not. Stitches are overrated."

"Or a necessary medical intervention, Logan," Hannah counters. Gently, she asks "Are you scared?"

"No."

"Then I stand by my statement you're being a stubborn prick," Garrett says with his arms crossed and glaring a little at me.

Just then, Dean decided to make an appearance in just his boxers, hair sticking up a little from his nap, "Why are we fighting? Who is being a prick? And why is it hotter than hell here?" He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water while taking a long drink.

Logan ignored him. Frustration with Garrett-golden-boy-Graham being in Dad mode and not understanding anything was bubbling, "No, I'm being a prick who grew up poor and having to make due. A $200 copay would eat up most of the odd jobs I picked up this month. I can't afford to make that up. You wouldn't have to have to make those calls, so you don't understand."

Hannah was putting more pressure on his hand again and it ached.

Logan could feeI his face pinch, his eyes threaten to leak, and he yanked his hand from hers. The situation was humilating enough without tears,  "I got it. I got it," He used his good hand to pull over the first aid kit, but fumbled with the latch. One handed, the mechanism won't unlock.

It's so fucking hot.

There are too many people in the kitchen.

Time is running out.

He could feel his heartbeat and his hand throb in matching rhythm. He could feel everyone looking, "We got training later. I got to fix the air conditioner. I have a final to study for."

Dean looks over, "Shit, are you bleeding?"

Logan shoots Dean a look. He did not have time for Dean.

Dean looks at Hannah and Garrett, "What did I miss?"

Logan exhales again, "No one has the time for this."

Hannah, "Logan..."

Garrett, "Again, you're being a prick about this whole thing."

Logan stopped listening. He decided two things: He was ignoring everybody and that he need two hands to open the first aid kit. He brought his injured hand up to help–

"No. Absolutely not. You're still bleeding." Hannah exclaims and snatches his hand back, putting the wet cloth on top of the it and pressing down.

Dean looks up at that. "Dude. What the fuck happened?"

Everything happened.  

Logan tried to pull his hand back again from Hannah. She used her scary voice, "Knock it off, Logan." All in all, it was making it very hard to ignore her and execute his new plan. 

Dean, "Why is Logan bleeding in the kitchen?"

"AC is on the fritz and Logan caught his hand trying to fix it," Garrett said.

Logan could feel himself sweating. His thoughts started to swirl and race. 

There was not enough air.

His hand was bleeding.

Hannah was holding it.

Everyone was looking.

Dean and Garrett were talking. Logan was trying to listen, but the world got a little fuzzy around the edges for a moment and he was desperately trying to snap everything back into clear focus. 

I just have this year before I am stuck managing the family shop.

Before I'm stuck managing my Dad.

I was fucking it all up.

He used his good hand to rub his face.

What a mess... 

Hannah looked concerned. Without looking away from Logan, "Hey Dean. Can you refill that cup of water?"

That cut through the noise in his head, "I'm fine."

Garrett, "You're clearly not fine."

"Rude." 

"Accurate."

Dean placed the glass filled with water in front of me. He had pulled on shorts at some point. When did Dean do that? Logan could feel his thoughts start to drift. He knew Hannah, Dean, and Garrett were talking, but it blurred into background noise. Instead, Logan could just hear his hearbeat in his ears, pulsing loudly. 

My hand hurts.

The AC needs fixing.

I need to study.

Hannah is holding my hand.

Garrett is my best friend.

Grace hates me.

I only have this year.

It's too hot.

There is not enough air.

I need to go to training.

Can I even hold a stick right now?

I'm fucking it all up.

"No, I'm not doing this," He had to get moving. He rubbed my good hand over his face again. "This is just too much," he muttered to himself.

"Hey Logan. Look at me, " Hannah's voice brings me back into the room, "We're gonna do this one step at a time. First, I don't know what you're thinking about, but I just watched all the color drain out of your face. I need you to drink this water. Then we're gonna get stitches. You're not gonna worry about the cost okay. We got you."

"That's not necessary. I've pulled my skin together before." 

Dean sighs. "Okay. Here is the thing: you don't have to pull yourself together by yourself anymore." He tosses a clean shirts into Logan's lap ands puts the glass of water down, pushing it towards him with one finger, "Drink this. You're sweating buckets."

Hannah, firmly, "Garrett is gonna drive you. I am gonna clean up here."

Logan shakes his head. His good hand shakes a little. 

"I can drive myself. It's a cut. I'm not dying."

Garrett walked over and picked up the shirt from my lap. "Nope. Not the play we're running. I'm driving. You're going. That's final." He started to stretch it out to put it over my head.

"I can put on my own damn shirt."

Garrett ignored him. Pulled his injured hand through the sleeve.

Hannah placed the water in his good hand and nudged his to drink. He did. 

Dean materialized outta nowhere. Logan hadn't seen him leave the kitchen. Dean plopped his wallet and deodorant on the kitchen island.

Hannah had grabbed his hand and started to wrap gauze around it tightly with a new kitchen towel in in place.

Logan felt a step behind. Like he just never was goign to catch up. Everything ws moving too fast, "I'm not broken. I can get myself ready."

I don't want to go.

I have to study.

The AC is broken.

I feel a little broken.

I will never admit that.

My hand still hurts.

It is too hot.

We have training.

They need me at the garage.

I'm fucking it all up.

"No, you're not broken. But you are leaking," said Hannah, "One thing at a time. You have to go get help to fix your hand."

Garrett went to start the car. Dean appeared with my sandals and a bottle of water.

Somehow they shuffled Logan to the car before his brain had caught up with their plans. The car was cool and the AC was blasting. He felt like he could take a deep breath in. He was worried if he did the panic might show more... so he didn't. 

Garrett hit a few buttons on his phone. Rage Against the Machine started to play. Logan groaned and leaned his head against the glass. He closed my eyes and thankfully they just drove in silence.

________________________

Chapter 2: Garrett's POV

The ER was busy, but not intimidating. I hate hospitals in general, but I pushed that aside.

You are not eleven anymore. It's fine. 

I got Logan checked in and we sat in uncomfortable seats waiting. We hadn't said much since we left the house. He was being a stubborn prick. His good hand stopped shaking about a minute into the car ride. I don't know if he realized it had small tremors running it through it signaling to everyone Logan was running on pain and emotional fumes. 

For the first minute sitting, Logan's knee bounced and leaned forward like he might bolt. I was gonna be pissed if he did. He needed to stop bleeding and I needed someone in scrubs to assure me that he would. 

Eventually, Logan resigned himself, holding his hurt hand to his chest and leaning his head back against the wall. Within 15 minutes, I heard his breathing change to a steady in and out and realized Logan had dozed off.

Good. He needed it. What a shitshow today was turning out to be...

Once Logan seemed really out, I called Coach and explained. He wanted Logan to check in with the trainer first thing tomorrow before classes. 

I called Hannah who was still with Dean. I could hear Dean on the phone with the landlord negotiating the repair on the Air Conditioner. He was gonna make a shit ton as a lawyer. Hannah had looped Tucker in who was on his way back. The kitchen and Logan's tools were picked up. The boys would be off for practice and Hannah was running to the store with a shopping list from Tucker. 

"Just take care of Logan. We got it covered here."

With that settled, I relaxed a little and started to scroll on my phone. Over an hour into the waiting room, I felt Logan start to stir. He looked less pale, less sweaty, but his hand still was seeping.

He blinked and ran his good hand over his face. He looked a little embarrassed when he registered where we were. "Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. How long did I sleep for?"

"Probably not long enough. You look like hell man. What is going on? It's not just the hand."

I watched Logan's face and his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "I don't want to talk, Garrett. I just want to get through this."

Garrett nodded and pinched his lips together. One thought kept circulating in the quiet of his mind, "How much getting through things was John doing?"

The ER Door opened and a nurse in blue scrubs stepped out, "John Logan." John reluctantly got up and followed her behind the door with Garrett walking just behind.

____________

Chapter 3: Logan POV

When we got back to the house, there was a repair van there. 

I was trying hard not to fiddle with the dressing wrapped around my hand. It still hurt, but it finally was closed and healing. 

I hopped out of Garrett's truck with my eyes on the van, "I can fix the AC."

Dean had come outside, "We know. But you have to study too. The landlord has a guy fixing the AC unit."

"That's not the point," I say. 

Garrett, "You're right. Keeping your hand from opening up again was the point."

I feel my spine stiffen as that one lands and turns, "I know you're right, but I don't care for it."

Dean looked at Garrett, "How bad?"

"I'm right here. I'm fine. The ER was excessive."

Graham, "They glued it. The hardest part was waiting to be seen. Logan slept through most of it. Baby injury, but no hockey sticks for a few days..."

"I'm right here."

Dean, shooed him inside, "We can see. We just don't care. Adults are talking."

I signed. "You guys are assholes."

"Rude."

"Accurate."

"Go inside already. Tucker made burgers and sweet potato fries."

It was still hot in the house, but the reprieve from the sun setting was starting to sink in. Tucker hugged me and made me sit in front of the fan before bringing me a plate. Hannah came over and dropped a glass of water and two pain relievers in my hand, "Take those before your meds wear off." Everyone piled in the living room eating and joking. Just as we were finishing dinner, the AC kicked on.

I exhaled. Tucker slow clapped. Hannah shook her head and went around closing the windows. I leaned forward to stand up, but Dean looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" I asked.

Dean stood and walked over grabbing my empty plate from my hand. "Just sit down. You just went through something traumatic."

"It was not traumatic. I just paid $200 to have my skin glued together because my roommates bullied me and probably pissed off Coach... Actually. Okay. Traumatic fits."

Garret walked by and handed me another glass of water, "Coach was worried, not mad. Drink this. There's no way you had enough to replace everything you sweated out today."

"I'm fine," I mumbled as I finished the glass, holding it in my good hand. My other hand hurts less, but it's probably the meds. I lean back in the chair, "Thank you." I close my eyes.

Hannah walks by and puts her hand on his wrist and squeezes, "I'm glad you're not leaking anymore. I'm sorry we bullied you into medical treatment by a professional." She gently picks up the empty glass from my hand.

I open one eye to look at her. "You don't sound very sorry."

She schools her features into a puzzled look, "Hm. I don't. Go figure."

"I would flip you off, but I'm a gentleman," I close my eyes again and exhale.

Garrett and Dean chuckle as they gather up more dishes and shuffle them into the kitchen. It's just me and Hannah in the living room. 

"Logan?"

I don't open my eyes. The effort seemed overwhelming. "Yeah, Hannah."

"If you need to talk... there's a lot of good listeners when you're ready."

I felt my body stiffen.

That felt too close to home.

I squeeze my eyes shut a little harder. 

Silence that was turning into secrets. 

I swallowed around the lump in my throat.

I'm not ready, but maybe soon. 

Thought for a moment before I nodded and said, "I know. We're on the same team."

She squeezed my wrist again, patted my shoulder, and I heard her walk away.

I must have dozed off for a minute, because I woke up to Dean shaking my shoulder and the living room dimmed. Everyone else must have wandered off, "Logan. You still look a little like shit. Have water, a cold shower, and bed."

The house was finally comfortable. I could breathe without the sticky heat all in my lungs and head. I inhaled, looking at Dean, and rubbing my hand on my face, "You're one to talk. I know you have something eating at you."

He shrugged, "Well, my thing has yet to need medical intervention, so don't worry about it."

Dean pulled me up by my good arm and shoved a bottle of water in my hand. I took a swig as I went upstairs. The heat had held on in the hall, but not nearly as suffocating as it had been earlier today or would be again tomorrow afternoon.

I took a quick shower, keeping my wrapped hand out of the water and doing my best to scrub the sweat of today from not only my body, but my memory.

Fuck. Everything was still pretty fucked.

But the panic wasn't rising above my stomach. Everything was more manageable.

I kicked my dirty clothes in the corner. Did my best to wrap a towel around me and wandered back to my room to change, dreading the heat that was trapped in there. At least I could crash downstairs today.

I opened the door and fresh, cold air hit me right in the face, "What the hell?"

Some of the idiots had installed a window air conditioner.

Dean's voice behind me made me jump, "I think you mean 'Thank you."

Tucker was there too, "I'm sorry we hadn't noticed you were the only one without an AC in their room."

"Get some rest Logan. You look like you haven't slept in a week. I set an alarm in the morning so you'll have time to study before checking in with Coach."

I swallowed. Kept my eyes towards my room. Not sure exactly what I was feeling, but not trusting my voice to say anything.

Dean pushed my shoulder shoving me into my room and tossed a bottle of ibuprofen on my bed before padding down the hallway. Tucker tossed a water bottle and liquid IV pack on my bed, "You need to hydrate," he called as he walked off down the hall.

I shut my door, leaned back against it, and breathed. For the first time in days, I took a deep breath in and it actually filled my lungs. I exhaled in one long, smooth breath.

I felt my chest loosen. Everything was still fucked, but for a little bit the world felt a little less impossible.