Not Less Than Everything
Chapter 5
by
Rex Luscus
DISCLAIMER: All poetry belongs to the estate of T.S. Eliot. Wolverine, Nightcrawler and the X-Men belong to Marvel Enterprises, Inc. Duh.
ARCHIVING: Just ask.
NOTES: A big, sloppy thank you to Lorelei and Dark Hedgehog for all their help with this monster. I'm serious when I say it wouldn't have happened without you. You guys are the shit. < G >
Oh, and thanks to Graham Greene. I think this story is some sort of homage to him, though I didn't realize that as I was writing it.
So I'll admit what I felt for Kurt wasn't all pink hearts and kittens. And I'm no stranger to love - I don't need to be told that it's as contradictory as any other human feeling, and just as destructive. It's funny, though, because I'd always thought that love was, if nothing else, at least something you could live with. But it ain't, as it turns out. At least not with him it wasn't.
The only thing I've experienced quite like it happened to me during my time at the front in the second War. It was spring, but an ugly spring - "breeding lilacs in the dead earth" as the guy in my book says. Dead earth really, because there was nothing but mud - tons of it, everywhere. Three years of trenches and mortar shells had left the whole front a sea of bare dirt, and in spring the rains turned it to mud - tons of it, everywhere. It got in your hair, in the seams of your clothes, in your shoes, even between your teeth. The creases of your skin turned gray with it. You stopped being able to smell anything but it. Every tiny little space filled up with it. And one day, slogging through the mud near the front line, I heard a shell come whistling in much closer than usual and I had only a second to say an empty little prayer before my buddies and I were blown in all directions. I came down with my face right smack in that thick gray sludge, and when I tried to move I realized it was covering me like a wet, heavy shell as I lay, strangely calm, in that way I only ever felt just after a blast.
It was as if I had come out of deep meditation - there was very little sound and the world was just kind of still; I felt nothing, thought nothing, knew nothing except now, eternity, peace. And as I lifted my head I saw a new crocus a few inches away. It was easy to forget it was spring, but there it was, growing up out of the mud, the stalk still a perfect, tender shade of yellow-green, the leaves as soft as flesh, the little violet bud just beginning to open.
As I looked at that little bud, the delicate petals packed together in a whorl seemed to go on forever, like the spiral of a galaxy, and I felt this incredible longing, this love too big to do anything about. Because what *can* you do with a love like that? I wanted to touch every membrane-thin petal, to pierce to the center of the fleshy, delicate knot - or devour it, crush it in my teeth and taste its insides. I wasn't sure which. I just knew that I had to *do* something - but there was nothing I could do. Anything other than simple looking would have killed it.
So I just lay there, looking at it, filled with this strange ache, paralyzed. And eventually, I started to hear the screams and moans of the guys nearby who'd been wounded by the blast, so I pulled myself out of the mud, away from the flower, and went to help them, because that's what you do in a war.
Weird as it may sound, making love to Kurt was a little like that. No matter how much I did it, it was never enough. In the wasteland of ugliness and decay that was my life up until him - years of poisoned memories and good things turned to rot - he was something beautiful and pure. When I was with him, I felt this *itch* that no amount of sex seemed to satisfy. What I felt for him was just too big. I didn't just want to be inside him - I wanted to be *inside* him, inside his skin, possessing his body like a demon. That itch took me over, like a paranoia, always keeping me running, reaching, grasping.
There were days with him, granted, that were just good. We were close to each other the way we'd once been close, as close as two guys could ever be, and I didn't need more than he could give me. What I wouldn't have done for more days like that - but you can't force that kind of thing. Most of the time, I just burned for him, anxious and dissatisfied and worried about what he was feeling. That last part was the worst.
~~~
I got away from that little brownstone as fast as I could. I was sick, scared, barely seeing as I ran. Couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but sickness, hollowness. So instinctively I turned toward the mansion, toward Ororo.
Ever since we'd talked, I had hated her silent judgment, but now, all I wanted was her wisdom and her fairness. I could give this horror to her and she could make it bearable somehow. She could judge me to her heart's content; all I wanted was someone to make sense of everything. To protect Kurt from me, to protect me from myself - to keep me human.
I found her in her attic nursery, dressed in a yellow sundress, white hair braided down her back. She was standing with her back to the door in the midst of an abundance of green, guiding tiny rainshowers over each one of her plants.
"'Ro," I said, breathless, practically falling at her feet. "'Ro. Help me."
She turned away from her plants and came over to me. "Logan! What's the matter?" she asked, regarding me with concern. Then she must have noticed the death and desolation in my eyes because she suddenly got a lot more scared. "What has happened? Has something happened, Logan?"
"No, darlin'. Not yet."
She heaved an audible sigh of relief, then gestured for me to sit down. "I'm sorry," she said with an embarrassed chuckle. "Sometimes I worry..."
"That I'm gonna fly off the handle an' kill someone?"
"It's just that you had that look, Logan. Like you'd done something ... unspeakable."
"I did." I watched her start again. "I mean, I could. It's that - fuck, darlin', I ain't makin' any sense."
"Take your time."
We sat silently together for a moment. Then I tried to explain to her.
"Saw him again today. It was ... bad. Bad, that's all I can say. I got angry." I stood up and started to pace, unable to keep still. "He was just bein' so goddamn - so goddamn - I couldn't stand it anymore. It's cowardice, 'Ro, pure and simple cowardice. All I wanted ... well, you know what I want. But all I wanted right then was a ... was just a straight answer."
Her eyes followed me as I paced. "And he couldn't give you one."
"Nope. I got angry. Lost my temper. Yelled a little."
"It happens. That's hardly something to be upset about."
I stopped and turned to face her. "You don't understand - I got mad. I mean I got Mad. And I realized, 'Roro, that I could kill him. I have it in me. If I ever let myself lose control, ever let things get too out of hand ... just like that, I saw it happening ..."
I watched her face as I babbled, searching it defensively for some sign of judgment. But there was only sadness and worry there. Here was someone else I didn't deserve, I thought miserably. All Ororo ever wanted was the best for everyone and all I had for her was suspicion and ungratefulness.
I realized I'd trailed off. "And what kind of help do you want from me?" she asked finally, still sitting calmly with her hands in her lap.
"You just gotta make sure I never do it, 'Ro!" I said, practically shouting at her. "Protect him - Christ, if I ever hurt him, I'd rather be dead - I'm an animal, I should be locked up -"
"You are *not* an animal, Logan," she said softly, getting to her feet. She was a full head taller than me, and I felt her unbelievable presence like the charged heaviness of a looming thunderhead. "You are a man, and you know that. You do not want to face it right now because it is hard to be a man. Knowing right from wrong is a heavy burden. And love is a difficult burden too." She took a step forward and put her hands on my shoulders, slender and steel-strong. "But if you really do love him, and I think that you do, you will let him go, because it is what he wants, and that is the difference between man and beast: a man can think beyond himself. A man can love."
I avoided her eyes. "I could kill him," I murmured.
"Yes, you *could*. But you will not. Look within yourself, Logan, and find your love for Kurt. Hold onto it, because it is what makes you human."
I nodded. I hoped to whatever was holy that she was right.
"I know that right now, you feel it like a fire," she went on, "like something unsatisfiable. But there is a way to satisfy it. Let him go, Logan. *That* is the truest expression of your love for him, not something you could ever do with your body."
I stared at her and nodded again, numb. I thought about that little crocus I'd fallen in love with sixty years ago in the mud. What had happened to that feeling, that strange feeling like a hot bubble growing inside me, squeezing my heart? Had the bubble just popped? Or was I still burning, somewhere in some forgotten corner of myself?
Could I do it? Could I really give up, not just lie to myself but truly *give him up* and accept my loss, and I mean *really* accept it? I had my doubts.
"I'll never get him out of my mind," I said. "I'll never have any peace."
Her smile was sad and a little tired. "Letting him go is the only way you ever *will* have peace."
She was right. Had I had peace while we were together? Maybe at the beginning. But it hadn't lasted - I hadn't let it.
I was somewhere between hating her for betraying the only dream I had left, and falling at her feet and worshipping her wisdom. Either way, I felt miles away from her. I felt miles away from everything.
"Damn, I freakin' hate this," I muttered miserably.
"I know." Her voice was compassionate - she was trying to reach out to me. "I know what I'm telling you is bitter medicine. But it is right."
I nodded numbly, gave her a mumbled "thanks," and turned for the door, leaving her standing in the midst of living green.
~~~
Some time after our first real "lovers' tiff," as I bitterly came to think of the incident with Sammy, I took off for a while. I needed air, I needed solitude, and most of all I needed discipline - I was addicted to him, and that's the kind of weakness that can destroy a man from the inside. I didn't escape him, though - even thousands of miles away from him in the wilderness, all I could think was how much I missed him, and how many different things there *were* to miss about a person. I missed his body, his voice, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his weight on my arm in the middle of the night. I missed the sound of his laugh, and I even missed his teasing - even though I could have sworn I hated it when he was around.
The trip, as far as I was concerned, was a failure. I was in love with a man who had once been my friend - and now he was my enemy, because he had the power to take himself away, and there was no way to be sure he wouldn't use it.
So I returned, humbled and afraid, mad at myself for being so relieved to be near him again. I got home late, and went straight to his room without bothering to stop at mine. At his door, my hand paused on the doorknob, then lifted to knock.
I don't know why I did that. I *never* knocked at his door - there wasn't anything he could be doing that I wasn't allowed to see. It didn't feel right this time, though, walking in on him like I owned the place. Every step that took me closer to him felt awkward.
Even his gentle voice telling me to come in didn't put me at ease. I opened the door and saw him sitting in his bed, naked to the waist and curled up by his lamp with a book. Against the white bed and yellow glow of the lamp, his shadowy body was like a rip in the world, and his burning eyes, innocently scanning a page of his book, seemed like they were peering out from a world of light beyond.
As soon as he saw who I was, joy broke out over his face - one of those heart-stopping smiles that had haunted my dreams the whole time I'd been away. "You're back!" he exclaimed, dropping the book into his lap and sitting up. "Mein Gott - why didn't you call? I was - never mind. I was nothing. I'm glad you're home."
I came to the edge of his bed and sat down, leaning against his knees, just wanting to feel *some* part of him touching me. He opened his mouth to say something but I'd leaned in and kissed him before he could get anything out. I pushed the book out of his lap onto the floor and took his head in my hands, eager to get down to business.
He didn't protest the abruptness of it; he was used to this kind of thing from me. And I didn't want to hear his voice right now. I didn't want his questions about where I'd been, or his concerned fussing over me. All I wanted was the silent security of his body - the rhythmic tense and yield of muscles under cool, slick fur, the sweet, elemental taste of his mouth, the yearning heat of his cock. His body I could satisfy - and hopefully do a good enough job of it that his gratitude would keep him from demanding anything more.
I leaned into him like I was falling, forcing the kiss deeper, drawn down helplessly by the electric surface of his flesh. My hand found the front of his shorts on its own, and then it was impatiently tearing them away. His hips surged into my touch, slicing the livid, silky length of his cock across my palm. A growl of triumph escaped my throat.
He hadn't tried to say another word. His eyes were screwed shut, his body already controlled by arousal, no longer his own. Whatever he was thinking - or thinking of saying to me - had blown away like a handful of dust, and the only things that mattered were my teeth on his neck, and my fingers raking his scalp, and the straining, contesting forces of our excitement grinding together.
My hand fumbled around in space for the lamp switch, almost knocking over the thing when I found it. In the dark, I slid him further down the bed so that he was flat on his back, pushed the blankets away with my foot, and moved my mouth down his chest, fingers sliding through fur to find a nipple. I knew every inch of him by heart - how every part of his body tasted and smelled, and each little quirk of muscle and bone, like the perfectly flat diamond-shaped area right below his sternum where the fur gathered in a swirl. He sighed as I let my tongue explore that little area, as he always did. I kissed my way further down, between the soft swells of his abs, into and out of a shallow, hairless navel, and the smell of him got richer, muskier, until at last I buried my nose in the thatch of dark indigo hair at his groin, letting my whiskers tickle the hard shaft against my cheek.
He made an urgent little noise and arched his back, his groin coming up to grind against my face. This was where I wanted to be, this was peace - nothing but darkness and the smell of his body filling everything, strong and heavy and warm. This was my home, as much of a home as a man has a right to wish for, the hot, living crux where thighs and body joined, the end of all searching and wanting. I hauled myself up onto my elbows and sank to close my mouth on the head of his cock, salty animal taste and slippery flesh like molten glass and everything I ever wanted.
His hips came up with an eager cry. I propped my forearms on his pelvis to keep him from taking over, and dipped my head to swallow more of his cock. Without seeing, I let my hand wander across his belly, such a sensitive place for him, with a light touch that made the muscles there jump and shiver. His hips shook with the strain of not being able to take what he wanted, and as I let my head sink, I felt him buck under me again. So much power, the only kind of power I needed - but the kind that made me want to be generous with it, to be merciful. I sucked him hard, from tip to root and back, then worked the head relentlessly, impatient to satisfy him.
I let go of his hips and he thrust hard into my mouth, hands flying to my head, groaning deep from his belly. He was needy and raw-nerved, exactly like I wanted him, as only a man is when he hasn't been touched for a month. And I knew he hadn't been touched - sometimes I worried about how much it mattered to me, though, that he let only *me* touch him this way. But now, with his cock in my mouth and his frantic moaning filling my head, the question seemed worthless, a technicality for a more banal moment.
He came hard the first time. The second time took longer with both of us not so desperate. The third time wore him out, and we lay twisted together in his bed, sweaty and exhausted, listening to our uneven breathing, not talking.
Just as I was about to drift off, his voice in the darkness startled me awake. "Logan," he said softly, "I don't understand...why didn't you tell me you were going?"
I groaned. "What, I have to tell you everything I'm gonna do now?"
"You've never left without telling me, Logan. Never. Not even before..."
"Before..."
"Before...this, you know, happened."
"Before I started plowin' ya, y'mean?"
He sighed in irritation. "You can do whatever you like. I'm used to your running off occasionally to be alone. But you've always been quite frank about it. You've never...*snuck* off like that. You just disappeared one day - what was I supposed to think?"
"You weren't supposed to think anything. I ain't in the habit of explainin' myself - you don't like it, that ain't my problem."
We had untangled ourselves as the argument escalated, and by now we were on opposite sides of the bed. He sighed again. "I was only worried, is all," he said. "I didn't know if something was wrong, if you needed my help..."
"I need your help, I'll ask for it, Elf," I grumbled. "Calm down. I'm here now, ain't I? Let's just...come back over here, will ya?"
Reluctantly, he crawled over and settled into my arms again. "Please," he said softly, "just tell me you're going next time. That's all I ask."
I didn't reply. I tightened my arms around him and willed myself to fall asleep.
Three months later, I walked into his room and found him packing. You know the rest.
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