WHO: Logan and Navy, Logan and Ethan
WHAT: Logan makes some things clear to the man who hurt Ethan.
WHEN: 4 February ( middle of the night )
He is many things—football star, high school heartthrob, all-around good guy—but peel back all of those layers and there is only one thing left: Logan Norris is angry.
As fucked up as it may be, the recent tragedies that had befallen Riverside had made him feel normal in comparison. But then he’d seen Ethan—broken and bruised and begging him not to do anything stupid—and he knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun the beast any longer.
“How did you find me?” Navy hisses. Or, as much as he can with his face pressed against the coffee table and blood in his mouth. One of his arms dangles uselessly by his side, shoulder clean out of its joint, while the other hand remains crushed under Logan’s foot.
He shoves the man’s face harder into the broken glass, ignoring the choked out cry of pain as he leans in. “I’ve got friends in low places,” he answers. “You’re not as untouchable as you like to think you are.”
“Fuck you.” Navy responds. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, kid. You and everyone you love.”
There are several sharp cracks as Logan grinds his foot down, fingers snapping like twigs under his boot. He imagines the compass on the back of Navy’s hands shattering under the force, and something—dark and twisted and unholy—within him sings with the thought.
“Not if I kill you first,” Logan retorts, voice laced with venom, the edges of his syllables sharp and aiming to hurt. “The police wouldn’t even care. In fact, they might even give me a medal for helping clear the streets of scum like you.”
His grip on the back of Navy’s head falters for the briefest of seconds when the man starts to laugh, the laughter unceasing even as Logan yanks his head back only to slam it against the table again. “You think you have what it takes to kill someone?” Navy sneers.
Logan thinks of the time he almost cracked Lori’s skull open with his fist, of the way dark purple finger-shaped bruises covered Merrick’s hips more often than not when they were together, of Ethan having to pull him out of fights before he did any permanent damage, of the flicker of fear in Holly’s eyes whenever she was forced to patch him up—not of him, but for him, and for all the terrible things he is capable of.
He releases Navy, takes a step back and crouches so that they’re eye level as the man slumps back against the couch. “I can and I will kill you,” he promises, making sure to look Navy right in the eyes, unblinking, to convey the truth of the statement. This time, Navy doesn’t laugh. Clever man. “You stay the hell away from the people I care about, got it?”
The look that Navy shoots him is nothing short of pure hatred, but he nods anyway.
“Good,” Logan says, and then swings his arm back and pops the man right in the jaw hard enough to knock him out, stepping over his unconscious body. He’s about to leave when he spots a familiar duffel bag, half-hidden behind a display cabinet filled with various tchotchkes. A quick check reveals that it is indeed Ethan’s—the poorly stitched dick on the strap, courtesy of Logan during football camp the summer before junior year, is a dead giveaway—and that the bag is filled with cash.
He grabs the bag without thinking, slinging it over his shoulder before finally leaving.
The more distance he puts between himself and the man he almost beat the death, the more his anger fades, twisting into shame and self-loathing. Fear starts to creep in as well; he knows he should’ve listened to Ethan when he’d told him to leave it be, that there will be consequences for his actions tonight. But it’s too late to take back what’s already been done, and truth be told, it’s been a long time since Logan has felt as alive as he did when he was holding a man’s life in the palm of his hands.
It’s a dangerous path to go down, one that he’s tried his best to keep from slipping onto for as long as he can remember. The stain on his soul grows bigger, and Logan wonders what tonight has cost him—but he doesn’t regret it. Maybe he will, come light of day, once he’s washed the blood off and feels like himself again, but right now, watching the dark windows of the Jenkins house from where he’s parked, he thinks his humanity is a price he’s willing to pay to keep the people he loves safe.
He means to drop the bag of cash off and leave, but he doesn’t count on Ethan being awake, ducking at the last second and just narrowly avoiding taking a baseball bat to the face. “It’s just me!” he whisper-yells, flicking the bedroom light on before Ethan can take another swing at him.
“Fucking hell, Logan,” Ethan swears, rubbing a hand over his face as he props the bat next to his bedside table. “I thought you were—”
“Navy?”
He can pinpoint the exact moment Ethan registers what he’s said, unable to miss the flash of panic in his best friend’s eyes. Ethan’s gaze drops to the duffel bag at his side, and then to the blood on his knuckles. “Logan, what the fuck did you do?”
“Does it matter?” Logan replies with a shrug.
“Yes, it fucking matters!” Ethan hisses, eyes growing impossibly wider. “Do you have a death wish? Guys like Navy don’t fuck around, he’s going to—”
“I almost killed him tonight,” Logan interjects. “I could have. I wanted to.”
Something in Ethan’s expression softens—it looks too much like pity, and Logan burns with the shame of his confession. “You’re not a killer.”
Logan laughs at that, but the sound is sharp and mirthless. “No, I’m not,” he concedes, “Not yet, anyway.” Ethan frowns, and he opens his mouth—probably to disagree—but Logan doesn’t want to have that conversation; not ever, preferably, but definitely not here and not now.
“Thought you might want this back,” he says suddenly, holding the duffel bag out to Ethan.
Ethan remains quiet for a long moment, finally deciding to acquiesce to Logan’s unspoken plea, not protesting the abrupt change of subject. “I don’t want the money,” Ethan says simply.
“Then burn it,” Logan returns immediately. “Or donate it to charity, whatever. Doesn’t matter what you do with it as long as it’s not in Navy’s hands.”
Another long moment, and then Ethan reaches out, taking the duffel bag from him. The silence between them stretches, coils itself around Logan’s neck like a noose. He can’t stay, can’t look at Ethan in the eyes, afraid of what he might find there; he’s not sure which is worse—Ethan’s judgement or his sympathy, and he's not in a hurry to find out.
“I’m going to go,” he announces, pivoting on his heels and starting to head back the way he entered. “Sorry about scaring you.”
He’s almost out of Ethan’s room when the sound of his name stops him in his tracks, and he glances over his shoulder, still not quite able to meet his best friend’s eye. Ethan doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then sighs at the realisation that Logan’s withdrawn into himself, gone someplace that no one can follow, although he mutters a quiet thank you anyway.
There’s a lot Logan can say in response to that: you’re welcome, or anytime, or did you really think I’d let him get away with what he did to you? In the end, he says nothing, only nodding in acknowledgement of Ethan’s gratitude.
“tienes que contarme todo lo que paso en mi ausencia ¿fueron divertidas las navidades allá? ¿pasó algo interesante? lo que sea.” el moreno estaba prácticamente saltando en el asiento del restaurante en donde había citado a ethan, ansioso por hablar con alguien que conocía de tanto tiempo, con alguien en quien sabía podía confiar. “lo que sea, eth, no te guardes nada.”
status: closed for @outsldcr
location: raiden’s garage
nisa’s seated cross-legged on the couch in rai’s garage, bass in her lap as she tries to piece together the bassline from “the chain” through trial and error. and just when she is getting frustrated with how many errors she’s making, she hears footsteps, immediately perking up. while she’s half-expecting it to be rai coming back, her bright smile doesn’t waver when ethan appears instead. “hey, e.” she greets. “rai had to run to the bar to help his dad out. he doesn’t think he’ll be too long. come.” she says, patting the space next to her. “sit.”
“WHAT EXACTLY DO you mean by that?” the woman asked, pointedly as she rested a hand on her hip, brow raised in offense as the worker at the counter told her that they wouldn’t accept her money. it was all cash, of course, but it was valid and just as good as anybody else’s, “it doesn’t matter how i got it, money is money right?” but the worker didn’t budge and she scoffed, taking the bills back and putting them in her purse before turning back to the person who just walked in, “i wouldn’t shop here if i were you, apparently, they are very picky on the type of money they accept.” and for good measure, she turned back to the worker for a flip of her middle finger before rolling her eyes and pushing out the front door. “burn in hell, asshole!”
