November 22, 2020—Tel-Aviv, Israel—Two Days Later #2
He fell asleep that way, with Adrian’s voice the last thing he heard, the sound of his laughter lingering in his dreams.
The next morning, Logan insisted on taking Adrian out for breakfast. They ventured through the winding alleys of Tel Aviv as Adrian led them to a café tucked away behind a tangle of bougainvillea, its petals like fuchsia kisses against the crumbling stone walls.
As they enjoyed plates of shakshuka and baskets of steaming bread, Adrian shared stories about his life in the city, his upbringing in Israel, and snippets of his military service, all while observing numerous men and women in uniform strolling through the streets.
Logan watched him, not just listening but absorbing every word.
But the truth hung in the air, a shadow in the sunlight.
Adrian barely touched his food, and after the meal, as they walked through the city, he leaned heavily against Logan.
His breath came in thin, ragged wisps, and sometimes his words tumbled into silence as he paused to gather air.
When Adrian’s strength ebbed, and his eyelids grew heavy, they did not push.
They found a quiet bench under the canopy of a tree.
Adrian rested his head on Logan’s shoulder, and they sat in the soft hush of morning.
The world moved around them, but they stayed still, a moment caught between breaths.
A while later, they flagged down a cab and made their way back to Adrian’s home. As they stood outside his door, Logan lingered for a moment, reluctant to leave. “I’ve got some calls to make,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But I’ll see you later, okay?”
Adrian’s response was a gentle nod, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, holding the promise of tomorrow. “Okay, Logan.”
“Make sure to get some rest, alright, love?” Logan murmured, enveloping Adrian in a tender embrace, pulling him close.
The warmth of their connection pulsed between them, and he felt Adrian nod against his chest, a soft hum escaping his lips, a melody of comfort and familiarity that lingered in the air.
The rest of the morning and early noon passed in a blur of logistics.
Logan returned to his temporary workspace at his hotel room with Ada Mae, who had become so much more than just his assistant.
Coordinating appointments across time zones was no easy task, and the hours were exhausting, but she never complained.
Her two-year-old son, Henry, toddled around the room as they worked, occasionally tugging on Ada Mae’s sleeve or looking at the webcam and Logan’s face before smiling.
It made the long hours feel a little lighter, a little more human.
In the afternoon, Logan and Adrian headed to the hospital for a series of appointments and tests.
The day stretched on, each waiting room blending into the next, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging to their clothes.
By the time they returned home, the sky had already deepened into evening, a soft indigo wrapping around the world outside Adrian’s small house.
The tests weren’t meant to be brutal, but his body didn’t have the strength to absorb them.
Hours passed under fluorescent lights, needles, questions, waiting, and by the end of the day, exhaustion had lingered.
He moved slowly, his body heavy with fatigue, and the medications they had given him for the pain left him groggy and disoriented.
His steps faltered more than once on the short walk from the car to the front door, but Logan was always there, a steadying arm around his waist, a gentle hand guiding him forward.
Adrian’s movements were sluggish as they stepped through the door, and he sank into the couch with a relieved sigh, his head tipping back against the cushions.
Dean hovered nearby, watching his friend with a worried expression on his face.
Logan crouched in front of him, brushing a strand of hair from Adrian’s face. “You okay?” he asked softly.
Adrian blinked at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. “Mmm, yeah,” he mumbled, a faint, loopy smile tugging at his lips. “Feel like I’m floating.”
Logan chuckled, though a pang of sadness lay beneath it. “That’s the meds,” he said gently, his hand lingering on Adrian’s knee. “You’ve been through a lot today.”
Adrian nodded lazily, his smile fading as his gaze turned serious for a moment. “Thanks for… for staying,” he murmured, his words slurring slightly. “I know it’s… a lot.”
“It’s not a lot,” Logan said firmly. “Never.”
The doctor’s words echoed in Logan’s mind long after they’d left the sterile walls of the hospital.
Pallor, fatigue, shortness of breath, infections, bone pain.
The list seemed endless, a catalog of suffering, and the way the doctor delivered it—clinical, matter-of-fact—felt like a quiet verdict.
Adrian didn’t react much as the side effects were outlined, but Logan noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of his chair, a small, unconscious show of tension.
“It can be all of them, or just a few,” the doctor had said. “It depends.”
Logan hated the uncertainty. He hated that even this glimmer of hope came with the shadow of suffering. But he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. Not in front of Adrian.
Two days ago, Adrian had told Dean about his decision to try, to fight, and Dean had practically glowed with relief and happiness.
Logan suspected Dean’s enthusiasm wasn’t just about the treatment.
He could tell that Dean had realized what Logan already knew: that Adrian’s change of heart had everything to do with him.
That Adrian was fighting because Logan had come back, because Logan was there.
“How was it?” Dean asked, his tone wary but hopeful as his eyes flicked to Adrian’s pale face.
“Fine,” Logan answered quickly. “Exhausting, actually.”
Dean nodded, then turned his attention to Adrian. “You hungry?”
Adrian shook his head, his voice soft and distant. “No, thanks.”
Logan’s heart melted at the exchange. Both Dean and Adrian were speaking English, even though it wasn’t their native language, even though it would have been easier to switch to Hebrew. It was a small, unspoken gesture of inclusion, one that didn’t go unnoticed by Logan.
“I’ll help you to bed,” Logan suggested gently, reaching for Adrian’s hand.
Adrian hesitated, then mumbled, “Shower first. Hate hospitals.”
Logan nodded without hesitation. “Of course.” He gave Dean a small smile before following Adrian to the bathroom, his hand steady on Adrian’s back as they walked.
Adrian moved slowly, his steps unsteady, his body swaying slightly under the lingering effects of the hospital’s medications.
Logan stayed close, ready to catch him if he faltered.
Once inside the bathroom, Logan closed the door behind them with a soft click and turned toward Adrian. Adrian leaned against the sink, his face hollowed by exhaustion, the corners of his mouth drawn in as if bracing for something harder than pain.
Logan turned the shower on, adjusting the water until it was warm enough, with steam beginning to rise like breath from the tiles.
He turned back to Adrian, who stood motionless, fingers hesitating at the hem of his shirt.
His eyes flicked around the room, avoiding Logan’s gaze.
He stared at the faucet, the grout between the tiles, the soft sway of the shower glass doors, anywhere but at himself in the mirror.
There had been a time when peeling off a shirt meant pride; muscles shaped by years in the ocean, skin kissed by the sun. Now it was something else entirely. A slow unveiling of what had been taken.
Logan stepped closer and placed a gentle hand at the nape of Adrian’s neck, grounding him.
“I won’t stay if you don’t want me to,” Logan said quietly. “But I want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all. Just that.”
Adrian looked up, meeting Logan’s eyes, and in them, he saw no pity, only a kind of reverent concern. He nodded once, the movement small but filled with trust.
With trembling hands, he pulled the shirt over his head.
Logan’s breath hitched at the sight of the bruises beneath, the pale skin dotted with signs of the illness that was consuming him.
At the hospital, Logan had caught glimpses of Adrian’s body, the faint bruises, the signs of wear, but now, standing in the soft glow of the bathroom light, Logan could see the full extent of it.
The marks on Adrian’s skin were stark, red-purple bruises scattered like unwelcome reminders of how fragile his body had become.
The muscles that once rippled with strength and vitality were all but gone, replaced by a thinness that made Logan’s chest ache.
“I still surf,” Adrian said quietly, his voice tinged with both pride and resignation.
The words hung in the air, bittersweet, like a wave rising before it crashes.
“Well… up until a few months ago, I did.” He hesitated, the weight of his next words pulling his gaze down to the warm water rippling around them. “I barely can now.”
Logan remained silent as Adrian continued, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability.
“Even after just paddling, I have to stop to catch my breath.” Adrian’s fingers absently traced patterns on Logan’s arm, but Logan could feel the tension in his grip.
“With the cancer, every hit from the board, every fall… it turns into a bruise. And then there are the dots that come…”
Adrian trailed off, his free hand moving to his forearm, his thumb brushing over the faint, reddish-purple spots—petechiae, Logan remembered from his late-night research about leukemia.
Those tiny dots, so small and insignificant to anyone else, were a glaring reminder of the war Adrian’s body was waging against itself.