Logan wakes with the sunrise, the light slicing through the curtains and hitting him square in the face. Any other dawn, he'd be waking up alone, tasting liquor and sadness after a night of chasing memories.
This one, he's not alone--and he tastes hope in the back of his throat, getting stronger with every minute. He rolls over slowly, not wanting to wake his bedmate. Remy. He'd remembered, some, in the middle of frantic, almost frenzied sex... sex which had almost immediately gentled when he groaned Remy's name. The look on the other man's face--hope, amazement, and happiness--started that small flare of hope in his chest, a flare that still hasn't died.
Logan reaches out to brush a stubborn lock of auburn hair from Remy's face; as his fingers touch the other man's skin, his eyes open, focusing immediately on Logan. Logan tenses, waiting for Remy's response.
"You're still here," the other man says, something like wonder in his voice. "And I'm not dreamin'."
"No," Logan says, his hand sliding down to cup Remy's face, "you're not." The kiss is light, peaceful, carrying the taste of dreams and something else--Logan realizes that Remy tastes like hope.
Remy smiles. "You taste like smoke and darkness, Logan--but good darkness, like fur, like a blanket wrapped around you in the night."
Logan's not sure why he answers as he does--dawn and the birth of a new day, perhaps. "You taste like hope, kid. Mine, yours, I dunno. But I want more of it." He kisses Remy again, gently.
"You've got it, Logan. You've got *me*," Remy says quietly, and then shifts to curl himself against Logan's chest, his eyes slowly closing and breath evening out.
Logan waits until he's asleep before pressing his lips gently to Remy's hair. Hope. In his arms, in his heart... and outside, the sun rises on a new day.