He understood.
He understood all too well.
***
That nightmare may not have been real, but Andrew had real nightmares too.
They never really talked about it, but Logan often woke up to Andrew burying his face against Logan’s armpit and breathing oddly. Taking deep breaths. As if the scent of Logan’s sweat calmed him. Grounded him in reality.
It was heartbreaking and terrifying. Terrifying and exhilarating.
Logan could no longer deny that he loved being needed by Andrew. He liked being relied on. He liked it a little too much to be healthy. The subconscious trust in Andrew’s body language and attitude gave him such a rush, a thrill unlike any other.
He was addicted, in the worst possible way.
***
They had been on the island for seven months when Andrew got sick.
He was weak as a kitten, barely conscious, and his fever was so high his skin felt like a furnace to the touch.
Logan had no idea what was wrong: it wasn’t like he was qualified in any way to diagnose him. He could only observe him helplessly, feeling useless and angry, his chest tight with panic every time Andrew became unresponsive. He washed Andrew’s body with a cool rag and hoped he was actually helping instead of making it worse.
It was the longest week of his life.
By the time Andrew’s fever finally broke, Logan was mentally and physically wrung out, the tight ball of anxiety in his stomach refusing to dissipate completely.
Realistically, he had always known they were unlikely to live a long life on this island. Living in such poor conditions and eating barely edible, badly cooked meals was hardly conducive to a long life. He had always known that if they got sick, they wouldn’t have any medical care or medicine. But this week had driven the point home in a way he hadn’t realized before.
“I hope I’ll die first,” Andrew murmured that night, pressing his face into Logan’s armpit.
Logan tightened his arms around him. “Shut up,” he said hoarsely.
Truth be told, he selfishly hoped for the opposite.
Chapter 11
They had been on the island for eight months when Logan realized that they barely talked anymore. It wasn’t that they didn’t communicate; they did. They just didn’t need words for that.
Their bodies were so attuned to one another at this point that words didn’t seem necessary. Why use words when Logan could just lay his hand on Andrew’s shoulder and turn him toward where he wanted him to look? Why use words when Andrew could just look at him in that particular way before dropping to his knees and swallowing down his cock? Words seemed redundant. There was nothing worth discussing going on in their life. Just them. And since they’d stopped arguing all the time and they both avoided talking about the thing between them, they didn’t really have anything to talk about. Even Andrew’s talking-at-night phase had ended a while ago. Now he seemed to prefer dozing quietly with his head on Logan’s stomach while Logan’s fingers played with his hair.
It wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about this situation was fucking normal.
Or rather, their normal wasn’t what anyone else would consider normal.
They did have something of a routine.
They woke up, he fucked Andrew’s mouth, they ate whatever they could fish or forage, or their tomatoes. (It sometimes messed him up when he thought about the fact that they had been stranded on this island long enough to harvest their second crop of tomatoes.)
After eating, they ran several laps around the island to keep themselves in shape, and then dozed for a while under the canopy of palms, with Andrew on top of him, his face buried in Logan’s happy trail or against his chest. Normal people would probably call it cuddling. Logan didn’t call it anything, but it was his favorite part of the day. Peaceful. Companionable. The closest to happy he’d been since the plane crash.
He was usually awakened by a wet mouth around his cock. After sleepily fucking Andrew’s mouth, he watched Andrew get himself off, running his fingers through Andrew’s hair and stroking his neck and back. Sometimes he sucked Andrew’s cock if Andrew didn’t feel too weird about it that day. Sometimes they didn’t even touch each other sexually—just touched for the sake of it, and that was enough. Then they ate—and then the circle repeated itself.
The routine was almost comforting despite having a surreal quality to it. It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t even sex for the sake of it. It was a need. A necessity.
But it was simple. It was familiar.
It was all they had.
***
Their routine was broken by a huge storm.
They didn’t bother with the shelter—it wouldn’t withstand this kind of storm, so they huddled under a palm tree, Logan’s arms locked around Andrew from behind. Just for balance, of course.
His chin on Andrew’s shoulder, Logan looked at the raging ocean, wondering when the storm would finally stop.