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logan doesn’t understand him. and, really, he does try. he’s been trying to understand him for as long as he can remember and still comes up nowhere.
this morning, kurt is doing a crossword puzzle, paisley housecoat wrapped around him like a blanket at the kitchen counter. the old oven bustles absently, the scent of cinnamon tinging the air. the kitchen timer is broken. logan wonders if kurt is aware.
“your cinnamon rolls are gonna burn, elf.”
“what?”
“they’re done.” he sniffs once, then again. “they were done ten minutes ago.”
“schiesse,” kurt jumps from his chair, a splash of his coffee spilling onto the edge of the crossword, throwing on his custom-made oven mitts and taking them out. he stands with his hands on his hips, surveying them. “i think they’re alright.”
“the batteries in the timer exploded.” logan says passively, flattening out his newspaper.
“well, then, i’m glad you were here.”
he peers over the headline to see that he’s smiling at him now, oven mitts bunched together at his hip as he leans on the counter. he just raises an eyebrow. kurt, undeterred, sets to making the icing, leaving logan to read his article and wonder why he was smiling at him at all.
(he hums while he mixes the butter and icing sugar, some song logan idly recognizes a line from. caroline talks to you softly sometimes, she says, i love you and too much.)
he doesn’t understand why he smiles the way he does. smiles at him. of all people. they’ve just finished playing pool, (kurt won, because of course he did,) and he’s laughing, his canine fangs catching the light every time he turns towards the dingy overhanging lamp. logan can’t remember saying something funny, but it almost doesn’t matter; kurt nudges him with his shoulder, grin sharp as ever.
“oh, don’t look at me like that, schatz. i’ll make it up to you.”
he winks. it makes logan smile. he can’t for the life of him figure out why. kurt jumps up onto the edge of the pool table to sit, tail idly waving back and forth. he seems to always feel the need to perch. logan finds it amusing.
“yeah? how?” his face hurts from how much he’s grinning and he doesn’t seem to care. he just leans against the pool table, propping the cue up against the wall, watching kurt’s own smile grow as it’s mirrored.
their voices seem to bounce off of every wall, and yet are so contained to this little rec room in the corner of the mansion. they can’t be the only ones awake, but it feels like they are. logan wonders if this is what kurt means when he talks about heaven, a corner of home with your favourite person when it feels like nothing else matters.
“i can think of a few ways.”
he does.
he doesn’t understand why he kisses his hands after they spar. it’s an empty sort of ache, his claws— he hardly notices anymore, even though there’s scars in between his knuckles that seem to never heal. but kurt notices; he notices the way he flexes them with a hidden wince, the way his hands shake just a little. he always notices.
at first he thought it was some sort of gesture of respect; he’s odd in many ways, especially with his swords, always bowing and kissing hands and whatever else you’re supposed to do when you start a fencing match (or meet a pretty woman.) and, sure, maybe he’s just a little touchy— always wanting to be near logan, to be close to him. sitting right next to him on the couch. touching his shoulder. nudging his side.
but this is different. he doesn’t know how to bring it up.
“why’d you do that?” it’s out before he thinks about it, kurt’s thumb still brushing over his knuckles, a lingering warmth from where his lips were moments before.
he just blinks at him, looking up, fingers loosely connected when he drops his arm but doesn’t let go. “do what?”
logan glances down at his knuckles, at the ache— at kurt’s fingers around his, blue contrasting the white scars. “touch my hands like that. what’s wrong? didn’t hurt y’a, did i?”
his eyebrows draw together, shaking his head quickly, as if distressed that he would ever think that. “because you were hurting,” he says, tracing the scars with his thumb, “you know, you . . . rub your hands. flex them. it hurts. i can tell.”
“they always hurt.”
“yes. exactly.”
he’s just staring at him now, trying to make heads or tails about his train of thought, something he’s never been particularly good at. and, as per usual, kurt looks back at him like he’s the world, upset that he doesn’t see it— there’s this guilt stirring in logan’s stomach. he doesn’t belong. he kisses his hand again. logan lets go, and kurt doesn’t chase him, but part of him wishes he did. (he doesn’t understand that, either.)
he doesn’t understand where he finds his faith. it’s not a new concept, kurt’s relationship with god and logan not understanding that relationship founded on the basis that he has none of his own. but that doesn’t mean it isn’t curious.
he figures he’s some kind of metaphor— kneeling at the foot of their bed, hands clasped in front of him, lips moving a million miles a second in near silent latin. pointy ears, spaded tail and all. rosary beads to boot. (they’re all a bit curious, really, and a catholic demon doesn’t top the charts. but it makes logan wonder just a bit more than usual.)
”what’re you prayin’ for tonight?”
not something he hasn’t asked before, but not something he asks often. he waits until kurt blesses himself and opens his eyes to break the silence. (he learns, still. he learns.)
kurt hums, rising to his feet slowly, “health and good fortune for my friends, my family. for you. and for kate to return home safely from her mission in cairo.”
logan grunts, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans in the doorway. ”what about you?”
his eyebrows furrow slightly, and he turns to look at him, eyes slightly more bright in the dim lighting. “huh?”
”what about a blessing for you?”
at this, kurt smiles, taking a few steps forward to squeeze logan’s shoulder. it’s that same smile he always gives him, the one logan doesn’t understand because he doesn’t deserve it. (there’s this warm feeling, always lingering, setting logan’s skin alight whenever kurt is near him. it’s not something he’s used to feeling or ever has the words for. something in this smile gives him the impression that kurt knows, but if he does, he never mentions it.)
”i don’t need any.” logan has a thousand-and-one ways to disagree with him, but the look on kurt's face says he believes it more than ever. “i have more than enough.” i have you. he doesn’t have to say it.
he takes him out into the snow because he’s never really been and the mansion is low on firewood anyway. to be fair, kurt kind of invites himself, jumping out of his seat when logan mentions it— he has a few things to say about his poor choice in jacket, but at least he puts on a scarf. (the tips of his ears peek out from underneath his earmuffs. he figures he should let that be, too.)
in all practicality, he’s not the best trek buddy; he gets held up by the snow-covered trees, the faint sound of owls, the crunch under his boots. logan likes the snow because the cold bites at him in a way that he doesn’t immediately heal from, reminding him of home. kurt likes the snow because its powder covers everything and softens the noise of the world.
“have you ever noticed how the snow sparkles?” he asks, walking backwards as he trails behind logan on the path, staring up at the night sky. he can’t tell falling snowflakes apart from stars.
“no,” logan says, because there’s no point in lying.
they’re coming up to the chopping stump, where logan puts his axe to good use and kurt sits pretty on a nearby stump, arranging the pieces of firewood into triangular rows. every time he spares a glance at him over his shoulder, he’s staring in awe at something— the bushes, the fir trees, or just the sky again. he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, reducing him to more of an enigma than perhaps he should be.
“what’s so interesting about it?” he asks, breaking the silence on their way back, kurt’s tail doing most of the heavy lifting. “the snow, i mean. s’just . . . cold.”
he hums. logan doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling. always. “it’s beautiful,” he says, looking out onto the rolling hills that surround the mansion, “and i have never noticed it before.”
“that’s it?” he doesn’t mean to sound so stupefied.
kurt laughs. (he’s always laughing. logan is never funny. there’s so much about him that he doesn’t get.) “yes, logan . that’s it. sometimes that’s all it is. it’s the little things, you know? like stars. and baked goods.” he pauses, the crunch of his boots stopping with him. logan turns around once he realizes; he’s staring at the sky again, golden eyes lit up with wonder.
he notices logan watching him. smiles. he looks so underterrably happy, just to be out in the snow. just to be with logan.
“this is my blessing. to notice the little things.”
he thinks he understands what he means, even if it’s just for a moment.