February 3, 2022—Seattle, Washington—13 Days Later #4
Dean chuckled. “You know how it was, me, Adrian, and Tom got that place together. Then Tom moved in with his girlfriend. And Adrian...” A beat. “Well. He left.”
There was no bitterness in the words, just history.
“After that, I asked Alon if he wanted to move in. Maybe he needed a break from his parents. Maybe I just... needed someone around.”
A soft, almost breathless laugh.
“I’d see him every month or two when he was on leave. And somehow... it just happened. It became more.”
Dean’s voice had gone quiet again. Not uncertain—just full.
And the look on his face told Logan everything. There were no questions left.
“Damn, man,” Logan grinned, joy sparking through his chest. “That’s... that’s really something.”
Then his grin turned mischievous. He couldn’t help himself.
“Please,” he said, hands raised in mock prayer. “I am begging you—let me be in the room when you tell Adrian. I have to see his face when he finds out his best friend is banging his baby brother.”
Dean’s face went slack. Emotionless. For half a beat.
Then—
“You son of a—!”
Logan was already on his feet, laughing, turning on his heel and sprinting down the hall as Dean launched after him, feet pounding, curses flying in sharp, echoing bursts through the quiet corridors of the hospital.
The past three weeks had been a blur of recovery and stolen moments.
Alon was healing. His body was still sore, his strength slow to return, but each day brought a little more color to his skin, a little more steadiness to his step.
He no longer stayed overnight in the hospital.
Instead, he crashed into the spare room at Logan and Adrian’s apartment while Dean took the couch.
Or at least, that’s what Dean told them.
Logan had no doubt they were sharing a bed. He wasn’t an idiot.
And every time Dean casually mentioned sleeping on the couch, Logan made sure to raise his eyebrows, smirk knowingly, and make the most exaggerated, ridiculous faces—especially when Adrian was around.
It had become something of a ritual—Logan teasing Dean, Dean refusing to flinch, and Adrian caught somewhere between confusion and amusement.
But the first time it happened—the very first jab—it was over coffee.
Adrian had only just come out of isolation. It was early, the world still gray through the windows, and the three of them had gathered in Adrian’s hospital room.
That’s when Logan struck.
“How’s the couch treating you, Dean?” he asked innocently, sipping his coffee with exaggerated calm, eyes gleaming with mischief.
Dean, too proud to take the bait, barely glanced up. “Fine.”
“Oh, yeah? Not too stiff? Not too cold? No back pain from those terrible cushions?”
Dean’s jaw tightened, fingers twitching around his mug like he wanted to throw it across the room.
“It’s. Fine.” He hissed.
“Huh.” Logan tilted his head, all mock innocence. “Weird. I could’ve sworn I heard the guest room door open in the middle of the night. And close. And then open again. And closed. Any idea why, Dean?”
The glare he received could’ve melted steel.
“And this morning when I was getting water… I didn’t see you on the couch… where did you sleep?”
“I was probably in the bathroom,” Dean said dryly, as his look suggested that he was thinking of a burial place for his body.
Logan winked at him when Adrian was not looking. “That must be it…”
Adrian, blissfully unaware of the full implications, raised an eyebrow. “Why are you annoying him?”
“Because it’s fun,” Logan grinned, and Dean muttered something under his breath that definitely included a curse, which only made Logan laugh harder.
Riling Dean up had become one of his favorite pastimes.
“Have you noticed that Dean’s being weird?” Adrian’s voice was hoarse one afternoon, thin from fatigue but still sharp, still full of that old, suspicious edge as he picked disinterestedly at his lunch.
Logan froze for half a beat.
Adrian sat slumped against the pillows, pale in a way that gnawed at Logan’s stomach. His skin looked translucent under the fluorescent lights, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were etched too deeply to ignore. Still, there was a spark behind them—that glint of observation that never left him.
“Like... he barely leaves Alon’s side,” Adrian continued, pushing his spoon in lazy circles around the tray.
Logan shifted in his chair, gaze dropping. “Maybe it’s just... the situation, you know?” he said too quickly, too casually.
Adrian didn’t press—not yet—because in the next moment, his body tensed, his face paling further as his stomach rebelled against even the thought of food.
Logan knew the signs.
Adrian swallowed hard, trembling fingers setting the spoon down like it was made of lead. His whole frame tightened, bracing.
“Ad...” Logan leaned forward, his voice low, coaxing. “You have to keep eating.”
Adrian shook his head weakly. “Can’t.”
The word barely made it past his lips.
Logan sighed, heart aching, and reached out, cupping Adrian’s face gently in his hands. His thumb brushed across the sharp line of Adrian’s cheekbone, where there should’ve been softness.
“Just a little more,” he whispered. “For me?”
Adrian closed his eyes. A long, quiet breath. Then, slowly, he nodded.
He picked up the spoon again. Small bites. Painfully slow. Each swallow looked like it took everything he had, but he did it—not for the hospital, not for survival. For Logan.
Because somewhere, deep in the tired shell of his body, the fight was still there.
By the time he finished, he was shaking.
His hands trembled in his lap. His legs were weak. But Logan knew that if they didn’t keep moving—if they didn’t push—the strength wouldn’t return on its own.
“Come on,” Logan murmured, rising to his feet. “Let’s walk.”
Adrian hesitated. His teeth sank into his bottom lip. He knew it would hurt. Everything hurt.
But after a long breath, he nodded.
Logan reached out again, arms steady, unwavering, wrapping around Adrian’s waist as he pulled him upright with care. The moment Adrian placed weight on his legs, pain shot through him, a sharp, searing ache that pulsed through his joints like fire.
His jaw locked. His breath hitched.
“I’m here,” Logan whispered.
Adrian’s fingers clutched at Logan’s arm, knuckles white, muscles trembling with each step. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else—useless and burning. But Logan’s grip didn’t waver. He held him like a lifeline, guiding him forward through the ache.
“Just a few more steps,” Logan said softly. “Then you can take a shower.”
Adrian let out a breathless, broken laugh. “You make it sound like I’m running a marathon.”
Logan smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “To me, you are.”
And Adrian, despite the fire in his limbs, despite the bone-deep fatigue, took another step.
And another.
Because Logan was there.
Because love, in its quietest form, was movement.