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In the time between Colorado and that night at Logan's apartment Keegan had tried to keep up to date with him. When Logan didn't respond, he sent pictures. Photos of the sunrise or the sunset, of the dogs he worked with, of Colorado skies and California streams, sometimes captionless, sometimes denoting that he hoped Logan was well. Even when Logan simply looked at them and didn't reply, he kept reaching out. A warmth offered with no caveats while Logan left him out in the cold.
So when a week passed without Keegan replying to Logan the dread set in.
He tried not to worry; made a conscious effort to come up with excuses on Keegan's behalf as to why he would drop off the radar, but it never felt right. He mentioned it to David, trying a little too hard to be nonchalant as his hands formed the words, and his brother reassured him, unaffected as he explained that Keegan was just like that; he disappeared sometimes and he always came back—maybe a little worse-for-wear at first, but he always came back. He insisted that Keegan just needed time, that it was fine, but no matter how much Logan would try to deny it to himself, he knew Keegan.
He knew he ran warm, and that he tended to eat at strict times to keep his schedule straight, that his least favorite part of training dogs was crate training because the whining broke his heart, and that his Colorado upbringing meant he learned to ski as a kid while Logan learned to swim. He knew that he preferred his coffee with cream and sugar in it but worried about inconveniencing baristas so he often drank it black, and that his grandparents were Southern, so sometimes it bled into his speech patterns. Above all else Logan knew, with more certainty than his own breath, that Keegan answered his texts. Maybe not right away, but he did answer them.
And so Logan worried. He didn't take it personally, wouldn't dare, and not in the self-deprecating way that he was often so fond of, but in the fact that he knew Keegan had his own fight going on. So he held onto his patience and thought often about what he would say when he saw Keegan at the next meeting—the ways he would dodge apologies that didn't need to be given, what he could tell Keegan that would smooth over any guilt and move them along back to the moments that Logan basked in until the next week came and the sun rose again.
But Keegan didn't show. That's when the alarm bells turned into air-raid sirens.
The calmness that overtook Logan the moment he decided to go check on Keegan was one he hadn't felt since his last deployment; the kind of acceptance that came with risking ones life over and over again. A stillness in the preparation for a battle, a deep breath in the name of bracing. Logan stood on the threshold of his front door for some time staring out at the hallway in front of him, the edge of his keys digging into his palm as he gripped them. He inhaled in a long, drawn-out stutter as he lifted them, the ghost charm curled between his fingertips. A reminder that he had once been someone entirely different and had been remade in the sterile field of a hospital and the warm hands of his brother. That he could survive things that felt insurmountable.
Logan stepped out of his apartment, clicked the door shut behind him, and inserted his key to slide the lock into place. Regardless of what he would find at Keegan's place, he was prepared; he had been given a mission that he'd briefed himself for countless times as he'd prepared to leave. There was no chance he'd allow failure.
The journey to Keegan's apartment was relatively uneventful— David had set him up with an Uber profile months ago to encourage potential ventures back into the world, and thankfully he was able to disclaim his mutism and sign language usage. The driver was polite, but didn't try to make conversation and instead chose to play music and focus on driving while Logan gazed out the window and fought off flashes of every way said driver could attack him and how he would get out of the situation. His therapist called it an obsessive habit he used to try to feel in control of his environment. He called it survival instinct and told her to take it up with the U.S. Military.
Keegan's building was smaller than Logan's, built up rather than out— he thought back to the fact that Keegan had a spare cane waiting for Logan's use back in Colorado and wondered when he moved into the apartment. Had the stairs caused issue for him? Did he have someone to help him navigate mobility after he left the Navy? Regardless of how devastating Logan's reality had been when he was discharged, at least he had David— he couldn't stand the image of Keegan figuring out life after the military on his own. Perhaps he had retreated to Colorado until he was ready to face the world again.
He ignored that tugging thought, the flash of desire to retreat to Colorado with Keegan, the mountains looking a lot like the way Keegan said "I've got you." Awe-inspiring and unmoving.
Logan checked his phone at least five times as he climbed the stairs, both waiting for Keegan to text with an explanation and a disclaimer not to worry and to make sure that when Keegan had given his apartment number he had written it down correctly. It'd happened a few weeks ago, Keegan reassuring him that if he ever wanted company and to escape his own apartment walls he was welcome whenever, to just drop by even if they both knew just how unlikely that was.
Second story, two right turns, third door down, directly next to the emergency exit stairwell. When Logan reached the correct door it was far too still. There was no light seeping out from under the doorframe, no sounds from the other side to indicate someone was living their life. The hall was static, the building eerie in its quiet, like a vacuum had formed on the spot where Keegan had been brought to his knees. Logan's knock was a shot in the dark.
It went unanswered.
Logan knocked again. Paused. Waited with shallow breaths, straining to hear any sign of movement on the other side of the door. Keegan's truck had been in the parking lot. Unless something had come up and he'd left with a friend, of which Keegan didn't have many, he was inside that apartment. Logan knocked again, firmer this time, telling himself that all he needed was confirmation that Keegan was breathing; he'd leave the moment he saw that he was fine.
He could feel the silence in-between his own heartbeats, the draw of air into his lungs far too loud. It was only after a few moments that he heard the lightest shifting of weight on the other side of the door. A single footstep. A pause. The door unlocked, then swung open slowly.
Keegan stood on the other side of the doorway, battle-worn and exhausted. The circles under his eyes had grown impossibly darker, like spilled ink across the creased parchment of the furrows that framed his eyes. His hair was a blatant mess, black as night skies and sticking every direction, the light scruff he often kept on his face now overgrown. The hoodie he was wearing was wrinkled, his sweatpants crumpled as if he'd been still in one position so long that his clothing had formed to it. One hand on the open door, he choked out, "You came?"
Logan took one step closer and reached out, a hand landing on Keegan's arm, eyes void of expectation, simply calm as he looked up at him. The breath Keegan took in response was bone-rattling, his entire body deflating in on itself with palpable relief, his head bowed as he closed his eyes and swallowed. His fingertips dug into the wood of the door, then let go. He moved backwards to let Logan in.
He entered the darkness of the space readily, paying no mind to any of his curiosities of the apartment he hadn't been in before. Instead, he quickly spotted a lamp in the corner and pulled the shade to block out most of the light before flipping it on. He stepped over scattered clothing items and began to make his way to the kitchen, Keegan following close behind muttering stilted apologies that wouldn't come out right. "I'm sorry. I know I haven't been—I didn't mean to miss the meeting, it just… time got away from me. And I know that's not fair. I should've— it's not an excuse—" Logan turned and placed both hands on the sides of Keegan's arms, just above his elbows. He simply met his gaze, then guided him backwards the few steps to get him to sit on the couch.
Keegan dropped down without protest, eyes locked onto Logan the way they had been since the moment he'd arrived. "Okay." He breathed out. "Okay." Keegan dropped his head into his hands, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes.
Logan left him to dig in his kitchen cabinets with an audacity that wouldn't have possessed him in any other circumstance. He uncovered some teabags rather quickly, though there was no indication of how long they'd been sitting in the drawer that had been their home. Mugs were relatively easy to find; on a normal basis, Keegan was a quite organized person. The mug came together quickly; hot water poured over the teabag, steam rising from the ceramic of a black mug with a vintage logo of mountains on it, Durango, Colorado stamped over the top.
Keegan hadn't moved a muscle in his absence, shoulders hunched to his ears. Carefully, Logan lowered himself to sit next to him, their thighs brushing together as Logan reached out to pull one of his hands away from his face, guiding him to hold the mug. When Keegan raised his head, he paused for a long moment, looking down into the tea like it could give him whatever answers he was seeking. When he looked back up at Logan, his eyes were slightly red. "Thank you." He choked out, voice breaking slightly.
All Logan did was sit. He let the silence press back in and sat still in it, turned slightly toward Keegan, their knees leaned against each other. Keegan held the mug between his two hands, eyes closed, jaw constantly working with the effort of containing whatever emotions were threatening to suffocate him. He didn't drink it, but he was inhaling the steam of it, letting the smell of black tea wash over him and hold him to reality. "I, um," Keegan started, attempting unsuccessfully to clear the rasp from his throat, "haven't been… doing great." Five words felt like a war.
Logan tilted his head down into Keegan's field of view to get his attention before he signed, Want to talk about it?
Keegan shook his head firmly, blinking a little too much as if it could keep back the images that were flashing through his mind. "No. I can't."
That felt familiar, deep in his gut, as if he was feeling the impact of every time he signed the exact same thing to David on the cold, tile floor of his bathroom and on the slightly-stiff couch of his therapist's office. Keegan closed his eyes again, but kept his head tilted toward Logan— he needed that reassurance that if he just blinked open Logan would be right there, on the front lines of defense at his side. His hands shook around the mug, sending tiny ripples out across the liquid, his teeth grinding together.
The feeling of Logan breathing beside him felt like an anchor. He focused on the movement, on the barely-detectable sound, on the way that nothing had ever been so solid to him before, had never felt so real. If he could articulate it all to him, let it spill out of his mouth and let the weight leave his body, he would've. But there was razor wire around his neck and the words sat thick in the base of his throat, just before his vocal chords. But Logan was there, breathing beside him, and his silence was anything but choking—it was something reverent, the way it always had been. It made him want to try. "I— um," Keegan took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes closed. "It's been… a rough few days."
Logan had mimicked his posture, leaned himself forward with his head tilted so he could see Keegan's face— letting him brace against the onslaught of his own brain without letting him hide anymore. Keegan finally looked over at him, eyes swollen. "That shit… doesn't ever really leave you. But you know that."
And Logan's eyes were soft in a way that Keegan hadn't really seen before, the depth of understanding a force he was drowning in. He wanted to fall into Logan, to fold himself small enough to fit in the spaces between his ribs and retreat there until the world wasn't so cruel. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and tried continuing. His jaw stuttered as the words refused to come, his mouth open, eyes searching for answers. Logan lifted his hands, Take your time. Don't have to explain.
Ever since Keegan's release from the Navy all anyone had wanted was for him to explain himself. Why he was leaving a nearly-spotless career in the Navy after "one bad mission," why he was recovering so slowly, why he refused to leave his apartment for weeks at a time, why he became so cold, why? But Logan sat there looking at him like his presence was enough, like if Keegan chose to never explain himself again, if the words didn't come, he would stay anyway. A fraction of the tension eased from the harsh line of Keegan's spine.
In the breathing space of silence there was a light commotion out in the hall; the scuffling of someone opening their door and fumbling with the process of getting out. There was quiet talking, words indiscernible through the walls of the apartment, the tone placating in nature. A higher-pitched voice replied, shriller— a child, Logan presumed. The voices grew in volume until the child began to cry, a sharp sound akin to a scream. He assessed and dismissed it just as quickly as it entered his conscious attention. It was then that he registered how stiff Keegan had become, his eyes distant. And instantly, he knew.
"When I was… we, uh, were sent overseas. Got surrounded on recon, took some cover… we were trying to figure out how to get out and—" Keegan's voice cracked as he shook his head, his eyes locking onto the side of Logan's neck. Logan sat up, his brows creased with concern; the took the mug from Keegan's hands gently, setting it on the coffee table. "I didn't even know they had snipers in position already. And he was just a fucking kid, y'know?"
There was nothing Logan could do. Nothing would take away or change whatever Keegan had replaying behind his eyes at that moment. "And I tried—" He was crying now, choking on his own tears, "I heard the shot and I- I tried to stop the bleeding, but we had to get to exfil. We weren't getting out if we didn't make it to exfil…" Keegan kept shaking his head like the denial could save him.
It couldn't. He slipped further with each shaky breath he could hardly fully draw in before it was escaping in a short burst again. "He wasn't supposed to die— I'm sorry." Keegan put his head in his hands.
The wracking of his shoulders from the force of his sobbing was a vision Logan would never be able to wipe from his mind. It would follow him in the weeks to come and the desperate, sharp pain that came with it would bury itself deep in his side. He swallowed and considered reaching out, but thought better of it at first. Keegan's mumbling was muffled by his hand over his mouth, the breadth of his forearm covering his eyes, the fabric of his shirt stained dark with his own tears. Logan watched every time he tried to regulate his own breathing, no doubt using tricks his therapist had taught him over the years, only to fail and take a sharp gasp of air that wouldn't satiate his need for oxygen. In between every desperate failure to breathe was an apology, a muttering of, "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." Logan finally broke, making his motions as obvious as possible as he scooted just an inch closer and reached out to place a hand between Keegan's shoulder blades, rubbing his hand back and forth.
And when Keegan looked up, when the blur of tears started to finally leave his vision, it was like he was there again. The overwhelming thrumming of his heartbeat in his chest, the overstimulation of his own pulse in his neck, could hardly account for the fear that shot through him the very moment he became convinced that Logan was grievously injured.
His hands were on him in an instant; he couldn't see blood, couldn't see evidence of any harm that had come to him, but he was absolutely convinced it was so. He was pulling the collar of Logan's shirt down, looking for where the bullet might've entered or left, hands searching for the texture of blood that he was positive was already coating his hands. The more he found nothing, the more he panicked. He was failing Logan. He couldn't find his injury and he was dying and it would be Keegan's fault, the way it always was.
Words were emerging from his lips before he even realized they were forming, "Didn't- didn't realize they were there, I'm so sorry. Was so focused on the fucking mission I didn't even realize. You were supposed to make it out- Logan, you were supposed to— I'm sorry, kid." He was running out of air with every word, suffocating himself with his own ramblings. Distantly, he could see the motion of Logan trying to lift his hands, trying to soothe away the overwhelming feeling Keegan had that they were both going to die, but Keegan couldn't see past the tunnel vision and his own hands on Logan's neck.
And he couldn't fucking find it, couldn't find any entry or exit wound, couldn't figure out where the blood was coming from. Maybe he had gotten it wrong. Maybe he'd been clipped in the side, just as Ajax had mere months prior, maybe the bullet had found its way into that heart that Keegan had admired for so long or the lungs that caught on breaths whenever Keegan guided him down steps even if he didn't know why or the warm give of his waist— he knew exactly how long Logan had if any of these were accurate and it wasn't enough time to tell him.
Just as Keegan moved to drop his hands down, to insist on checking Logan's side for whatever was going to kill him, Logan caught his wrists. He brought his hands up to his face, pushed the pads of Keegan's fingers into his skin and just stared. There was a clarity to his eyes that should've been impossible with the impending doom that Keegan intrinsically knew to be true. He blinked once, twice, and realized with dawning horror that there really was no blood splatter on Logan's face, no evidence of any damage. The cushion of his thumb brushed over the scar that stretched from just under the corner of Logan's mouth, jagged up to the side of his temple— a scar he re-memorized every time he saw his face. He could feel the tenseness of the muscles in his face, could feel the way his mouth pressed in at the sides. Keegan exhaled, the inner corners of his brows creasing upward, "Logan?" He whispered, as if he couldn't believe it.
Logan's eyes were searching his, looking for any signs of surefire lucidity, but Keegan wasn't quite there. He wasn't hunting for damage anymore, but the fallout of the adrenaline rush crashed through his body like a freight train. His hand slipped from Logan's cheek to the back of Logan's neck, pulling him forward as Keegan tucked his chin over his shoulder. His breaths were heavy, still fighting to find reason in a sea of illusionary threats, as he closed his eyes and let the weight of Logan's head on his shoulder ground him. The moment he had his eyes closed an image flashed through his mind of himself holding Logan's corpse and they flew open again; he stayed absolutely fixated on his breathing, the rise and fall of his back. He was trembling, his hold on Logan just a little too tight, but he couldn't change it in that moment. He was clinging to an anchor that he felt could slip away at any moment.
Logan's arm came up to wrap around Keegan's shoulders; he eased a bit more weight onto him, having felt the exact moment Keegan started catching his breath, even if it was just a bit. They went through a few shifts, spacial negotiations in the wake of it all, Keegan's grasp remaining on him just as desperate as it had been since he'd started the battle. Logan ended up practically in Keegan's lap, one leg thrown over the thick of Keegan's thigh, the other folded in toward his lap, arms draped over his shoulders, chin tucked against the flesh of Keegan's throat. Keegan's arms were wrapped around Logan's back, his fingertips nearly bruising in their grip on Logan's sides, his mouth pressed into a thin line on Logan's shoulder as he stared down at the expansion and contraction of his lungs with eyes that refused to so much as narrow.
"I-I'm sorry, can I…" Keegan unwound one of his hands, reaching between them to bring it up against Logan's neck; fingertips to his pulse.
Logan leaned into it, nearly imperceptibly so, a gesture of welcome permission and intrinsic understanding. Keegan inhaled, shaky but relieving nonetheless. That breath was the one that finally got oxygen to his brain, that began beating back the dark vignette haze around the corners of his vision that had helped convince him that he was back on the other side of the world on the verge of watching another person he cared about die due to their proximity to him. Logan brought a hand around to hold Keegan's wrist; he didn't pull his hand away, didn't adjust the pressure against his neck, just brushed his thumb back and forth against the protrusion of his wrist bone and took even, steady breaths.
The exhaustion of it all flooded through with every beat of his own heart, slowly making its way through his veins to flush into his very core and drag him down. Logan didn't complain, even when Keegan slumped forward, the tension in his muscles easing so that he was resting against Logan. He felt the very second Keegan realized what had happened, the reaction he'd had, and that Logan was there—uninjured, unmarred by the horrorscape of Keegan's memories—steady and warm against him and waiting for him to come back out the other side of what he'd seen.
Dried tears on Keegan's face made him feel as if he had aged a thousand years, the swelling in his eyes an appropriate heaviness to represent the things that his own brain had just shown him over and over again. He pulled away, still just hardly a foot away from Logan as they untangled their upper-bodies, wiping at his face. He wasn't panicking anymore, just weary and almost embarrassed. "Sorry. I, uh, don't know why…" Keegan shook his head again, much slower than the previous times he'd been trying to save himself from the spiral.
Logan's hands came up again. It's okay. I don't mind.
Keegan huffed, not even a dry laugh making it out quite right. "I just physically accosted you."
Logan pulled Keegan's hands away from his own face to get his full attention. Slowly, and with intention, he repeated himself, I don't mind.
Keegan nodded jerkily. "Okay." He said quietly, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. "And… you're okay?" He just needed to hear it from Logan and the way he signed things that always made them feel like a non-negotiable truth.
Logan gave a barely-there smile, which was practically blinding on Logan's own scale, and a small nod. I'm okay. You're okay.
Keegan drew a long breath in, clenched his fists and let the way it all hurt wash over him. Images still flashed through his mind, but they were more distant now, the kind he could acknowledge and push away, even if their outlines remained like the afterimage of a skeleton on an xray. Logan squeezed his shoulder before slipping out of his grasp, something Keegan barely pushed down his protests against, and shuffled into the space of the living room. Keegan didn't see past the way he was still trying to clear the physical evidence of his breakdown from his face. When the couch cushions sank with the weight of him again, he looked up.
Logan was holding Keegan's phone out, the lockscreen beaming light out at him expectantly. Perhaps Keegan should've questioned it more, but he didn't and input his password without another thought. Logan tapped through his phone for just a moment before he turned the phone back around and held it out for Keegan to take. Logan had pulled up his mother's contact, the picture of her smiling face on the contact photo enough for Keegan to fold in on himself and fall back against the cushions as he hit the dial button. "Thank you." He murmured as the phone rang.
Logan let him talk to his mom; let him explain in choppy words that he'd been having a bad week and just wanted to hear her voice. He didn't catch the other side of the conversation, wasn't trying to, but he could hear in Keegan's tone the way he was slowly unwinding from the tightly coiled spring he'd been just thirty minutes before. Logan knew better than anyone that the sound of his mothers voice could cure anything, could make him believe in things he'd been long jaded about— he no longer had that privilege, but there was a warmth in the knowing that Keegan did and he didn't take it for granted.
Meanwhile, he busied himself. Remade that cup of tea that had long gone cold which he delivered to Keegan, who looked up at him with wide eyes that Logan nearly recoiled from; he'd never had so much raw appreciation directed at him before and he had no idea what to do with it. The call lasted a short fifteen minutes, long enough for Keegan's mother to talk him through the warm monotony of her last few days in Colorado and for his breathing to completely even out. He bid his goodbyes with a gratitude and plethora of reassurances that he was fine, that Logan was there with him, he wasn't alone.
When he hung up and looked up at Logan where he'd perched on the arm of the couch, Keegan's head fell back against the top of the cushions. "Thank you," he said, voice soft, "for everything."
Logan lifted one shoulder in a shrug that seemed to imply an obviousness to the things he had done. I've got you.
Keegan could've cried if he hadn't already returned—to the extent that mattered—to his right mind. "How'd you know… exactly what to do?"
Been there. A million times.
Keegan exhaled. "David helps you, then?"
Used to.
And Keegan was sick at the implication; the idea, the image of Logan going through something similar with no one around to help hold him together, the idea that he had been giving Keegan something he so badly needed to receive. "If you… when you need, you call me, okay? You shouldn't have to deal with that shit on your own."
Logan shrugged again. "I'm serious, Lo'. I don't care what time it is. Call me—" He paused, swallowed. "Please."
I will.
Maybe Keegan didn't quite believe him, and maybe Logan didn't quite believe himself, but it was an offer put out in the air— a gesture that couldn't be withdrawn, the meaning of which they would decide together over the coming stretch of their friendship.
Eventually, Keegan got weary of sitting in the silence and threw on a documentary about deep-sea squid. Neither of them were really watching, letting the audio of it float in their orbit while they were lost in their own thoughts. For just a brief moment, Logan was tempted to slip out the moment he watched Keegan's head droop forward and his eyes slide shut; it was muscle memory that belonged to another version of him, one of the millions of lives he'd lived before that one. Instead, he stayed.
"I'm not letting you try to convince me that it's normal to have three cups of coffee in one sitting."
High caffeine tolerance.
"Oh, I'm sure your therapist loves that. Don't you get psychoanalyzed as soon as you let slip any ridiculously repetitive behaviors?"
Logan nodded, then shrugged. Her problem, not mine. Could be worse.
Keegan barked out a laugh at this, head thrown back. "Yeah, can't argue with that."
They were walking down the street back to Logan's place, having diverged from their routine of exchanging house-visits in times of crisis to grab lunch. On all the drives past that street when David would drop him off, Logan would see a small, local deli and think about asking to stop, to try something new. He never did. But the moment Keegan asked if he wanted to get lunch Logan had remembered the place and agreed. They'd gotten in the truck and when Keegan had asked if he'd had any preferences, handing over his phone so Logan could program his GPS, it felt like an opportunity.
It'd been worth it; the sandwiches and the risk of asking. The place had been quiet, only a few other people milling about, and they'd been able to keep the conversation lighthearted and entertaining despite both of their tendencies to start to drift to reflections on the past that were often wholly unhelpful. The walk to Logan's place was relatively short, manageable even with both of their limitations, and the weather lovely enough as spring crept in that Keegan had gotten away with commenting it was too nice to drive that last stretch as an excuse to eke out just another handful of minutes with Logan.
The freedom of the start of spring—a breeze in the air, the plants just coming to life, the barely-there chill that kept you present in the moment—looked good on Logan. Keegan often thought that he was someone that needed to be kept in the light, that as much as he appreciated the way that his features softened in the low-light of their apartments, he really did light up with the world around him when given the chance. Even as Logan's hands flashed through letters, articulating his rant on how his caffeine consumption might've been bad but David was secretly much worse and not even Casey could change that, the thought consumed Keegan's thoughts down the street and up the stairs of Logan's apartment building to the very moment they stopped outside his apartment.
And in that moment it would've been so easy to kiss him; Logan's back to his apartment door, looking up at Keegan expectantly in that still space of a goodbye yet to happen. He could've leaned down in an instant, could've put his hand to Logan's jaw and reframed the way he'd held him just days before, could've tried to rewrite that motion of clutching his face and tracing his thumb over that scar. Sunlight filtered through the trees that blocked the breezeway from street view, dappled rays cast on Logan's face in a way that was painfully unfair; it twisted something nasty in Keegan's chest, the pit in the heart of him that said he didn't deserve more chances after the losses that stemmed directly from his own failures.
To kiss Logan in that moment felt akin to putting a target on his back, drawing him into a prophecy of association with Keegan that he had seen play out too many times before. The pause became far too noticeable; it was evident in the way Logan's forehead creased in confusion, the tilt of his head to the side. And maybe he lifted his hands to say something, but Keegan would never find out. Instead, he swallowed hard, gave Logan's arm a brief squeeze and, taking the stairs down two at a time, left Logan standing on his own doorstep without another word, hands frozen halfway through the question of do you want to stay?