[ The sound Logan makes when he sees the guy's hand pass through Jean's body (Jean, his Jean, oh God, he's going to heave--) makes it sound as if someone's twisted a knife into his lungs. ] No. [ And it's funny, because in the back of his mind he knows it's a dream -- it's not the first time he's dreamt of this night, of what he was forced to do.
But every time he dreams it it feels... real. The flames burn hot and the night runs cold and Jean's body is in his arms, and try as he might to forget it, each memory has been stitched like thread into the quilt of his mind. Logic tells him he's feeling, but his five senses do not. ]
I have to stay [ the breath he takes leaves him shuddering, his shoulders trembling in the wake of it, and one hand lifts to cup Jean's dead face, to brush fingers through her beautiful red hair to smear it with the darker red of blood ] with her.
[ He doesn't deserve to go, don't you see? He's made his bed and now he has to lay in it. ]
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But every time he dreams it it feels... real. The flames burn hot and the night runs cold and Jean's body is in his arms, and try as he might to forget it, each memory has been stitched like thread into the quilt of his mind. Logic tells him he's feeling, but his five senses do not. ]
I have to stay [ the breath he takes leaves him shuddering, his shoulders trembling in the wake of it, and one hand lifts to cup Jean's dead face, to brush fingers through her beautiful red hair to smear it with the darker red of blood ] with her.
[ He doesn't deserve to go, don't you see? He's made his bed and now he has to lay in it. ]