Criss had been finding it harder and harder to pay attention to anything as of late. He’d been diagnosed with cancer, then soon after his son had disappeared and he’d looked for him frantically the entire time, during all of the time in which he’d had surgery that had failed, seriously contemplated suicide more then three times, and nearly been killed by a teenage boy who looked identical to his missing son. Only a few weeks ago, his son had returned but had brought with him an Angel whom he loved. Which only made Criss jealous and bitter since it had taken Logan an entire year to acknowledge Criss as a father figure, and since then he’d only slipped and called him dad one time. His son completely adored this Jibril angel and he’d never adored Criss. And he had another potential surgery set for seven days from this night.
On a better note when Logan had finally come home, Criss had gathered him in his arms expecting for that to only push Logan away but he hadn’t cared, he’d wanted to hold his son. But instead of being shoved away, Logan had clung to him. And called him dad. Logan didn’t call Jibril dad. He didn’t think. But it seemed to him like he had to fight for his son’s affection. And the Angel might be winning. It was breaking Criss’ heart.
It didn’t help that he felt guilty because he wanted to be with Nathan, the firefighter he’d met in the park. And that would put Logan in the exact same position that it put him. Already, with the mention of a student he’d not seen since his surgery, Logan showed he wasn’t going to share Criss willingly. So what happens when Criss brings up Nathan? He was actually frightened by the thought. It wasn’t as if he had a normal child. His son had pathological and psychological problems, he’s smart enough to recognize this. Logan was a murderer. And Criss did not want to risk Nathan’s life.
He turned around, facing the bar, and frowned. How ironic that was, a pyro wanting to be with a firefighter.
His thoughts strayed from that to his son and he found himself comparing Logan to Odin, physically. Seeing both boys. Seeing both killers. So similar that it had sent driven Criss to constant nightmares of his son and this look alike trying to kill him, of Logan leaving him again, tearing adoption papers in half so that he could ditch Criss and go with his brother. Brothers. Criss had mulled it over so often. Logan was an orphan. They had to be brothers. No two people could look so alike and not be related. But if they were related and Odin had parents still, then did that mean Logan still had parents? No. His father was gone and his mother was in a mental hospital. So who was that Odin kid with? Would they take his son away from them? God new that Criss wasn’t the kind of person any agency would want for a foster father. Single male working two jobs. They’d take Logan if they could. No. He couldn’t let that happen either.
His parents had died when he was young, but he’d been old enough to remember them. His father had fallen down a flight of stairs, his mother a victim, like him, to cancer. And their date of death was right around the corner. Three days from tonight. This didn’t make him optimistic about his upcoming surgery and the fact that he still hadn’t found someone to care for Logan, who wouldn’t lock him up in a hospital because of his issues in case he died, didn’t help him feel any better.
Criss scowled deeply at a tree as if it had done him injustice. He was sitting on his Harley-Davidson at the edge of a sidewalk at the entrance to the park, simply sitting there, kickstand down, staring at a distant tree. He’d come with the intentions of taking a walk, but his mind had taken over.
He looked much sicker then he had before, though all of his wounds from surgery and from Odin had healed up into scars. He’d lost weight, paled, and developed dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. His long black hair was pulled into a messy braid and he was wearing a pair of black leather pants, tight fitted and creased with wear, flat bottomed riding boots, a tight white cotton tee-shirt, and a leather riding jacket to ward off the cold. Bumming and scowling.
