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The floorboards underneath him creaked as he shifted his weight, leaning on his left side as he tilted his head towards the canvas. Standing up for several hours was starting to get to him, but he couldn’t get quite the same angle of the view outside this window by sitting down–not if he wanted to be able to see what was actually outside.
Logan glanced above his canvas, staring at the trees that were just far enough away to be tinted blue, pale and sinking into the sky. He could easily be tricked into thinking that those sky-touching trees stretched on forever, if he didn’t know what lay just beyond that highest hill. He huffed to himself as he dabbed his paintbrush into the carefully mixed green-almost-blue. Logan supposed he could be forgiven for dreaming about better days when he was crafting this snapshot in front of him.
Shifting on his feet once more, he brought the paintbrush to the canvas, his strokes featherlight as he began to build up the far off trees. He had painted this exact scene at least five times now, this canvas his sixth. They weren’t failed attempts, all finished and complete in their differences and flaws. Each was slightly different; the position more left or right, the trees more orange than green as the deciduous trees lit up in the cooling days, the vibrant greens of the spring that seemed to choke Logan with the reminder of life.
Now, as January stretched on and the ground devoid of snow, it all blurred together. Green pines forgetting they were alive as they blurred into the muted grey sky, leafless oaks and maples overlapping their tired branches, the ground dull and muddy, unable to rid itself of autumn's litter or push grass through the students’ ever destructive play.
It was dull, boring, devoid of anything that should catch his eyes. Still, Logan steadied his heavy hand and painted.
I jus’ don’t get it.
Logan froze, confusion furrowing his face as the voice surfaced with a whisper. It wasn’t his own words, that was for sure. No, it was a memory, barely legible and too faint to grasp onto, to drag out in full, no matter how many times he repeated the words in his mind. A sentence and a forgotten voice, then it was gone.
Maybe it was time for a break. He had been painting since eight in the morning, it now nearing two according to the clock hanging over the door. His eyes fluttered between the trees and his canvas. The mirror sight seemed exhausting suddenly.
His shoulders sunk as he gave into the exhaustion. It was fine, he wasn’t going to make any meaningful progress with a sudden mood like this anyways. Stepping back from the canvas, he gathered his dirtied brushes and began the motions of cleaning up his tools, space, and himself. Even the most careful painter would find paint smeared in places it shouldn’t be, and Logan wasn’t exactly the most careful painter out there. He didn’t mind it though. The actions were tedious, sure, but routine. It was easy to shut off his mind and let his thoughts wander in the self-imposed silence, only to come to as he was pulling his classroom door shut behind him.
He thumbed a thin line of deep red, barely visible against the black of his shirt, as he walked the hallways. It smeared into the dark fabric and stained his freshly cleaned hands, the oil paint ever slow to dry. He just sighed and wiped what he could of the paint onto a relatively clean spot of the shirt. This shirt was long dirtied with thousands of shades of paint before, one more was simply welcomed.
The school was quiet, all things considered. Sure there was that constant hum of electricity, the floors creaked and moaned as people moved about, and muted chatter drifted from behind doors, but it was all… soft. As if the students and building alike had sunk into the quiet mindset of a lazy, cold Sunday.
Logan worked his way down to the kitchen without meeting another soul. He plucked a lone beer from the fridge and wandered his way to the school’s front door, only passing a single student who gave him a nod in greeting before they both ghosted past each other. An interaction small and simple, all too easy for Logan to sink into. Who would have thought that he would have found a school to be the place he could lay down in, close his eyes, and deem it safe for himself?
The cold sank into his bones immediately, clinging to him and finding that ever present chill that rippled from the centre of his being. Logan paused as he drew the front door shut behind him, gathering the deep breaths that allowed him to push past the cold and move down the concrete staircase, each footstep falling heavily against the rock as they always did.
You destroy another coat, ?
His steps didn’t falter as the voice drifted to the front of his mind, his own mouth unwillingly twitching upwards at the pure humor and almost-laughter in the words. The voice was different this time, though still muddled and the name just on the tip of his tongue. Logan knew better than to chase after the memories, to try and dig them up, but he did so anyway. He rolled the words over his tongue again and again as he walked through the frost-coated grass, only giving up once he reached the treeline.
With a hand on the rough trunk of a pine, he glanced behind him. Almost directly behind him, his second-story classroom sat abandoned, an easel just barely visible in the window. He could just picture himself in the canvas; small and simple strokes of blues and browns, a carmel-coloured bottle only just reflecting warped trees. For an instant he could picture others in the canvas. Uniformed men of greens and blues, trekking on through the dark forest as he looked back at something not quite there. Their faces too far off and too draped in shadows to ever make out.
Blinking, he pulled himself out of the strange image, it colder than the air around him. Leaning his shoulder against the tree, he shifted his gaze back in front of him, onto the drink still in his hand. Popping out his middle claw, he used the blunt end of it to pry the bottle cap off. Catching it before it could fall onto the damp ground, he pocketed it, and in the same motion, took a shallow drink of the beer. The alcohol warmed him, if only slightly. The weak beverage surely barely warmed a normal man, and the feeling was simply a flash before it was gone for Logan.
With a grunt, he pushed himself straight. He regretted not swinging by his room and grabbing a jacket before going on this impromptu stroll. Even the smallest reminders of warmth had only served to remind him how cold it was; how cold his bones kept him. He took another sip of his beer and began walking into the forest.
Forests were loud, even in the dead of winter. They were muted, not unlike the school, but still undeniably noisy. Branches creaked and they croaked as ice pushed their fibers apart and as the wind whistled through them. Animals shuffled through the underbrush, shoving away rotting leaf litter in search of something to eat. They shuffled against one another and widened burrows as they squeezed inside, searching for any reprieve from the cold. Logan could not help his muscles from tensing and shaking against the wind.
He wandered aimlessly, weaving through the trees and staying far from the path he knew cut through the forest—for as far as Chuck’s property stretched, anyways. It was a habit of his, when he bit back on the urge to run away but still desperately needed a place away from other people. The forest was constant, familiar and welcoming. His fingers tightened around the beer bottle. He switched it to his other hand as he took a drink, shoving his now free and quickly numbing hand into his pocket.
The path was mostly of his own making. Well, widened by him. Originally trodden by deer and other game, it wove between trunks and atop roots and boulders. Logan was just another creature straying far from the human path, wrapping himself in the forest’s blanket. It wasn’t long before the deer path opened into a large clearing, the late afternoon sun bleakly shining, suddenly undisturbed by frozen branches. Logan paused in the middle of the clearing, chest slowly moving as he carefully took in the scents of the clearing. The pair of rabbits that had passed by hours earlier, the birds that sat snugly in the bordering branches, the days old scents of students who had passed by and lingered.
Things simply converged here. It was natural to gather here, to pause and rest underneath what sun there was in this cold. Logan was a creature just the same as the rest of them, and with a huff and a smile, he gave into it. He could use a moment to sit and pause anyways. Sure he had been doing little that was strenuous, but hours after hours of simply standing there as he painted got to his heavy bones.
Leaf litter crackled and crunched underneath him, softened by the short grass it was slowly decomposing atop of. The grass faded into brown dirt as he approached a tree, back pressing against the rough wood as he carefully dropped himself to the forest floor. The cold snaked up his body the moment he sat, the warm heat of his living body being traded for the ancient cold of this forest. It wasn’t that bad, he wasn’t going to be sitting here forever. Just a moment. To rest his weary bones and finish what was left of his beer.
Letting his eyes fall shut–no point in looking at his surroundings, not when he knew them so well, and his nose served him better than his eyes–he brought the beer bottle to his lips, draining what was left of the beverage. Setting the empty bottle in his lap, Logan crossed his arms across his chest and let his head tilt back against the tree. Cold air cycled through his lungs, slowly and steadily. Take your time, it told him. Slow down, like all creatures in this winter. Just rest for a while longer, then a bit more.
“I jus’ don’t get it.” Victor spoke as he sat heavily next to James, a sneer in his voice as he looked at the sketchbook in James’ hands.
James grunted, more in acknowledgement than anything else. He shifted his grip on his charcoal pencil, picking up his hand slightly as he used his middle finger to carefully blend out the charcoal into the paper.
“I mean, how much of that damn book is filled up with identical drawings? Half?”
It wasn’t nearly that many, but Victor was right. These last few days, he couldn’t help but draw this scene over and over. He didn’t know what drew him to it, but ever since they set up camp here, James kept coming back to it again and again. A rabbit that had sat at the trunk of the tree just slightly too left to be directly in front of him, the winter sunset poorly captured in graphite and charcoal, at least three where he had ignored the sparse few lines of trees and focused on the mountains below.
“Yer wastin’ your time, Jimmy.” James glanced up at his brother as he spoke, Victor minutely shaking his head in disappointment. “I volunteered for the scoutin’ party tomorrow. Join me. Get out of that big head of yer’s.”
Victor grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. He clapped a heavy hand on James’ shoulder, causing his arm to jerk and smear a heavy line of charcoal across the paper.
“What the hell?!” James wiped his head upwards to look at his brother, teeth bared as he snarled.
A chuckle slipped from Victor’s lips, “Whoops. My bad.” He patted James’ shoulder twice more, only slightly lighter this time.
James watched as his brother sauntered away, gaze tracking him for as long as he could as the taller man slipped into the heart of the camp. Towards the mess tent if James were to guess. His brother was always hungry–not that he was often any different–and now that he had been dragged out of his drawing stupor, he could smell dinner wafting through the camp.
He’d get something soon, James decided as he let the last of his frustration slip away. He looked back at his sketchbook, sighing at the sight of the dark gash through the drawing. Slipping his pencil tin out from his pocket, he opened it and grabbed his kneaded eraser before closing it up. Dropping it gently at his feet, James propped his sketchbook back up on his lap–just as he had been before Victor's interruption–and began carefully removing the charcoal. If his eraser was dirty already, this stint of Victor’s ensured he’d have to find the time to wash it before he sat down to draw again.
It was easy to fall back into a daze as he began working on the drawing once more. The erasing and fixing was tedious, but familiar. An easy pathway back into the familiar tunnel-focus of a larger drawing like this. Many of his drawings were doodle-like, several fitting on one page and fading into white or into one another without defined borders. This drawing was more like a picture than any of the others, the scene stretching from edge to edge. It wasn’t that he never drew like this, the stress of war simply made it… difficult to muster up the energy to consistently do it.
“Grabbed the last tray for you, guess I should’ve grabbed a coat too.”
James jerked upward, sitting up straight and craning his head to look up at the person in front of him. The Captain America. Rogers stood loosely, a tray of food in his hands.
Contrary to James, a thick coat was wrapped around him. James braved the winter evening with only the long sleeved undershirt issued with his Canadian uniform. He would have liked to be wrapped up in a coat as well, but it currently sat abandoned with a few too many tears. He didn’t fancy the stares that would come with wearing it. Plus, it wasn’t like the cold would kill him anyways.
The last one? James blinked in realization as the passing time suddenly sunk in. He knew the sun had begun setting a while ago, but what that had meant hadn’t registered for him, too lost in his work. Setting his sketch book in the grass next to him, he moved to push himself onto his feet, only to pause as Rogers sat down next to him.
Settling back into place, he took the tray from Rogers as it was quietly offered. He grunted in quiet thankfulness as he poked at the roast beef, carrots, and potatoes with the fork that had carefully been set away from any of the rehydrated food’s juices.
Silence settled easily between them, at least for a short while, as James scarfed down the food. Once he had smelt it right in front of his face, dared to take a bite, his hunger took over, reminding him just how much he had denied it while drawing. He shoved the food into his mouth and scraped the tray with his fork, refraining from licking it clean if only because of the company near him.
He only held the empty tray for a moment before pushing it away in front of him. A moment’s hesitation more and a glance at the captain next to him before he grabbed his sketchbook and slid it back into his lap. This seemed to be what Rogers was waiting for, from the way excitement spiked in his scent near immediately. He quickly looked away as James turned to look at him.
An amused exhale fell from James at the youthful action. He knew Rogers was on the younger side. The man carried himself well, but couldn’t yet quite match the way the many experienced soldiers around him carried themselves. It reminded James of freshly turned twenty-one men (or close enough to pretend it) stepping into a proper bar for the first time. Most undoubtedly already had experience with drinking, but very few could immediately get used to a bar’s unique atmosphere. They always looked stiff and out of place.
“D’ya want to look at it?”
Rogers turned back to him, visibly brightening, “If you wouldn’t mind me looking.”
“Wouldn’t offer if I did,” James spoke humorously, passing his sketchbook over to Rogers.
Rogers gingerly took the book, eyes roaming over the drawing, soaking it in. James let him look in peace, turning his head to look at the last, weak rays of the sun. This would be it for drawing tonight, it seemed. Unless he wanted to stay up by the lantern light and try to work on it. It wasn’t the most appealing sounding thought, though, not with the reminder that he apparently would be leaving camp in the morning. Scouting missions typically lasted for several days, with the first being the longest. He’d need the sleep.
“It's beautiful, Logan .”
James flinched softly at the name, confusion written across his face. Logan? That was his father’s name. He had barely told these men anything about himself, having only known them for just barely a month. His father’s name should be a mystery to Rogers. How–
“ Logan ?”
Was that Rogers speaking? He sounded panicked, and they were only just sitting around– around– the world around James had begun to crumble around him, sinking into charcoal dark depths. Dust swirling as the world fell into itself, swirling and rushing towards him, swirling and cutting him off from the peaceful evening, swirling and swirling and swirling.
“Logan!”
He pried his eyes open, the world slowly and sluggishly emerging. It was blurred, even as he blinked his eyes rapidly–not as rapidly as they should have been, his eyelids cold and heavy. He squinted at the unfocused figure kneeling next to him, his head rolling against the rough tree trunk behind him.
“Rogers?” His voice was rough and slurred, his mouth struggling to form words properly.
“Oh thank god.” Finally, Scott’s voice registered as the man spoke, relief gushing off of the words.
Scott’s hand slipped off of his wrist, it falling limply without Scott holding it up. The cold air sunk its teeth into his wrist immediately, only worsened as Scott hesitantly stood up, his naturally high body heat no longer accidentally rolling onto Logan.
Something between a growl and a whimper escaped from his throat as the cold crept back into his bones. He balled his fists up tightly, the action slow and creaking, as if his hands had forgotten how to move. Then, the heat was seeping into him again, Scott leaning down once more and grabbing Logan’s arm, throwing it around his shoulder. With a grunt, he tried to heave Logan upwards.
“C’mon Logan, work with me here.” Frustration and worry bleed into his voice, clogging the thick, dark air around them.
With a rattling breath, Logan moved his legs up slowly, then pushed up. He stood, wavering and pressing against Scott. “Shit,” The word was whispered and slurred, Logan tilting as his knee gave under him, Scott only just barely keeping him standing. He blinked, trying to hold his head up. He wrapped his arm around Scott’s torso, a tug and pull from both of them that kept him upwards.
It was dark now, his breath barely visible as it puffed in front of his face. Scott’s visor glinted a piercing red as he looked down at him, the ever subtle glow the only other light in the moonlit forest.
Slowly at first, then rushed, Scott took a step forward, urging Logan on. He led the shorter man through the forest, onto the well maintained trail. Feeling slowly sank into Logan’s limbs. As they moved, his blood was forced to pump through him, reminding his body of the life it had. Scott’s body practically burned against Logan’s, his heat painful against the frost that had sunk into him.
“What the hell were you doing out here?” Some of the worry had left Scott’s tone, his natural, authoritativeness sneaking in its place. He couldn’t get rid of the smell that swirled around him.
Logan just hummed. What had he been doing? He had been painting, then walking, then drawing? No, he didn’t have a sketchbook on him, did he?
“And who is Rogers? Were you coming out here to meet someone? Logan?”
Logan had no words for Scott. One heavy foot in front of the other. Lift his leg, his knee stiff and protesting, then set it down, the cold biting into tight muscles as it made contact with the frozen ground. Just one foot in front of the other, that's all he knew, all he had the energy for.
“Okay, fine.” Scott all but whispered, his voice falling silent as they trekked through the woods.
Logan was cold. Freezing in the way that made it hard to move, hard to think. Memories and words locked underneath a thick, unmelting sheet of ice.
Who had he been asking about?
Just one foot in front of the other. He knew that. He could do that.