Under the Mask

Chapter 6: Squeaky Clean

Summer 1968- The Next Morning

Logan barely slept. He spent much of the night hunched over his old desk. Staring down the blank pages of his notebook, poised to write something, anything, no coherent thought took hold. There was an imprint of a memory that refused to become whole- nothing more than vague impressions left by raw emotion and pure exhaustion. The sounds of clinking glasses, guarded transactions thinly veiled as friendly conversations, and expensive wines poured onto pristine tile played in his mind like a scratched and skipping record accompanying faded, colorless images in his mind. The only two things that rang clear and true were that snake's voice and the scent of spring.

Lavender.

Logan convinced himself he was not in the wrong for how he acted the previous night. The years may have softened that man's sharp edges, but he could never forgive him for what he did, or rather, what he couldn't do. His voice, even dulled with age, dredged up fragments of memories he could only wish to forget. He hoped that by shutting himself away in his study, placing a door between him and that voice that spoke so lightly of the person he wronged, he could focus on the details that mattered. The fingers in his hair, the warm support, the scent of lavender.

But in the hours since he berated and abandoned his dinner guest, all he could do was sit there at the mercy of his mind which only seemed interested in the painful aspects of that night a lifetime ago. He heard a careful knock on his study door not long after he left the table, but couldn't bring himself to answer.

He was crying. And to cause his husband anymore concern was the last thing he wanted.

Virgil eventually prised him from his chair and led him to bed around midnight, but he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. Snatches of memories played incoherently and continuously until the morning sun shone through the window.

His back to Virgil, he could feel him silently shift and leave the bed. He turned back to say something, but nothing came to mind. Quite honestly he was embarrassed. His behavior was childish at best, but once the anger breached the surface, he couldn't stop himself. At his peak, he prided himself in being in total control of his emotions. In his youth, he willingly showed pain and emotion, even if he didn't understand it himself. As he matured, however, his sensitivities hardened, but never quite so much where his loved ones were involved. With Virgil and even dear old Patton, he couldn't help but be swept away by their openness.

Logan turned to his back, watching the sunlight cast shadows from the curtains along the ceiling. Though his anger had cooled, he was left feeling something deep in his chest tugging at him. Was it sadness? Remorse? Frustration? He could feel it catch in his throat. A night of reliving old painful memories left him utterly drained, that much was certain.

His revery was broken by the sound of the bedroom door softly swinging open and Virgil's cat-like steps padding across the plush carpet. He still couldn't will himself to look his husband in the eye.

A sudden weight landed square in his lap, startling him to sitting. He stared down incredulously to find a canister of salt sitting there, the girl on the label smiling up at him. Jaw slack and words not quite forming on his tongue he turned to Virgil who stood there, arms crossed, with a tired smirk.

"Thought you could use a little salt for that tantrum you threw last night. It seemed a little tasteless to me."

Logan closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the canister against his legs. Virgil was right. He acted like a child. Logan's once firm hold on his emotions was slowly slipping away like everything else. His memories, his control. He didn't even want to entertain the thought of what was next to go.