Work Header

Lariat-like Inclination

Work Text:

[ Raindrops. Replicating sugarcubes half- drenched in oil, delicately raced until the Earth's trickling tears united and crosshatched each other, interlacing and falling to compose a monochromatic winter's breathtaking simplicity; a frozen double-helix of sparkling dna that would put the absolute best of summertime lemonade or celebratory champagne to shame. ]

[ Well, it was positively freezing, but an announcing sight all the less that at least for a moment, ceased his cordovan-oxfords' relentless irregular tap-dance. ]


He was suddenly recalled to an arguably cliché (yet it gave him a morning aura of peace) childhood scenario, a young Thomas surrounded by numerous menacingly mocking ivory towers… 

..Compiled of nursery building blocks. 

Logan steadied his audibly shaking breaths. Inhale, exhale. Simple!

Slowly, a somewhat rhythmic rise began to stir amongst his thumping chest; he felt as if his ribcage were as uncertain as those stacked objects of infancy. 


Common physics and any hope of outward normalcy surmounted him in this defying brief passage of time, which earned Logan a few quick eye-dashes directly from the driver's rear-view mirror. Shit.

Rapidly snapping back into focus, the world stopped shaking just long enough for him to realize--

"Oh. Of course, my apologies." It was an evident cry for help, why could no-one fucking see that idiotic passing thought in the first place; sympathy was irrelevant and highly distracting-- and even if he did get what he so desired, he'd only feel even worse about himself, and his spec-worthy existence; "impacting" someone or some thing was a purely comprised-of-melancholy laughable fantasy at best! Not to mention the painfully formidable end result-

Surely without Logan they were nothing, right? 

Without Thomas he was nothing.

Without Logan, Thomas was-


Gritting his teeth behind pursed lips, an additional fallacy in the face of his semi-professional faux "prim & properly" suited attire, he paid the $7·40 fare attempting to reinstate his crumbling, barely collected state from mere minutes before, and dutifully as rehearsed, stepped outside the Floridan taxi now dimmed from mist.


Acutely swiping back his cowlick, despite how  it would *inevitably* spring back into place to annoy him as always- 

Rubbing his eyes for good measure, even though everyone would see his fatigue *eventually* if not upon the instant-

and as per routine, resettling his dark Warby-Parker's; he inhaled the teeth-chattering cold morning air that tasted like a wintry night. This was going to be an arduous hell of a day, once again.


In a world that's always revolving, it was the shadowed-workerbee, who on the constant, continued to trail behind the morning sun. Daylight wasn't going to 'wait up' for the likes of Logan, yet he equally loathed and loved the universal cut-&-dry rush-attitudes of Earth.

It was the only thing faintly tying time together, no matter how tight the ropes around his fate were to be.


So he thanked it.