Christmas in Paris

Kissing was better sober. She'd had a lot of experience both ways, and that was the answer she'd come to after all this time. The only thing was, it was easier drunk. It wasn't so hard now. "Was that your master plan then? Get me drunk and take advantage?" she teased. Naughty, naughty. That wasn't very gentlemanly at all. "How uncouth."

"There are cheaper ways to get a girl drunk," he returned, casting a glance toward the room. As the moment faltered the wind broke through his consciousness, and his skin was painted white with goosebumps. "While we're on the subject, the view's been...viewed." A glance to the other side, to the building with dozens of black windows, and he felt strangely watched. "Let's go back inside." He began to back towards the door, but a hand craned to her waist, pulling her along.

Well, she supposed that was true. Jane grinned at the sidelong glance. If he was that eager to get out of the cold, then she guessed she couldn't complain. It'd be warmer in bed. She let him lead her along by the waist, stepping back into the warmth and comfort of the suite. "Shy?" she asked with a coy edge to her voice, eyeing the curtains. Jane turned to face him again, his hand still on her waist, her hand drifting up his chest. "You seem to be in a rush."

"I've only got an hour left on the room," he said, rather straight faced, but his face relaxed and he laughed. "I'm kidding, sorry..." Her hand was drifting up his chest, and so his own hand followed her movement, downward, fingers grasping her pants, and his other hand reached for the wine bottle next to him on the nightstand. French wine, from Paris itself. He drank it straight from the bottle.

She broke into a small, bubbly laugh. He'd gotten her for a second. "You're a dork," she breathed, not letting her gaze leave his face as his hands glided down. A love hotel might've been preferable, even if it wasn't quite as subtle as taking her to the honeymoon suite. Jane watched him down a few gulps straight from the bottle, as classy as ever, but when he set it down, the hand on his chest reached up and grabbed him roughly by the collar and pulled his lips to hers.

Jane kissed him again. There weren't anymore pretenses of modesty, no restraint, just all her passion.

OOC: u wanna timeskip/end this or do u wanna rp them fucking u gaylord

OOC: We can skip, I still need to RP Logan being an emofag.

Logan kissed her, and gradually made it over to the bed, placing the wine back on the nightstand. This was happening, and on that cool December evening, as Christmas began to pronounce its coming, Logan knew very well he was dying. And at that moment, he couldn't have been happier.

It was amazing. Midnight had come and gone, or at least he thought, the events that had transpired feeling like they had lasted an eternity. He rolled over, by Jane's naked form, and silently hauled himself up in the blue darkness. He slipped on some underwear and an overshirt, and grabbing something from his bag, stepped out onto the balcony.

It was cold earlier, when he had initially kissed her, but out there in just a T-shirt and underwear, barefoot walking onto the stone, it was surprisingly nice. The wind had stopped, and he looked out onto the foggy lit streets, where a few drunk partiers shouted "Happy Chriss-maahs!" into the air. He smiled back at him. He looked at what was in his hand.

A pill bottle.

He stared down at the label. They were sleeping pills, but he wasn't much of an insomniac. He took one, but paused, and looking into the bedroom, caught a glimpse of Jane sleeping.

What was he planning to do? Leave her alone with his dead body in the middle of France? What was he planning to do? Was he going to let himself deteriorate or end it himself? Was he strong enough for that? Which one would be more traumatic for those who cared about him. He breathed in shakily. In that moment, the rise and fall of his chest seemed so normal. In the passion of the night, the rise and fall of his chest seemed so normal. He wanted to believe that somehow, someway, they'd made a mistake. That he was fine. That all the evidence of his disease that he had witnessed did not exist, and that he was a normal, well-functioning human being.

Did he exist anymore, now that he no longer had a life that was salvageable? Did he ever exist?

He looked down at the bottle one more time, and let it fall from his hands. He watched it plummet to the streetside below, and roll into the gutter. Calmly and quietly, he walked back inside.

His phone was alive. He looked to see a text message, one labeled 'Mom.' That was right; it was probably afternoon in Seattle. He thumbed past the lock, and read the simple message it displayed.

You've been approved. You're on the donor list!

Logan did not know how to process this. He kept his thumb on the screen, reading it over and over silently, until his eyes grew too heavy and he smiled at it. And he grinned. He laid down next to Jane, pulling the covers over him, and looking a bit into the back of her head, closed his eyes.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered to Jane. He whispered to himself. He whispered to everyone. He whispered to no one.