DISCLAIMER: Marvel is a benevolent, if misguided, sovereign.
DATE:  December, 1999.

A Lesson in Breathing

The air is thick with incense. The stunted light creeps in from beyond the domo walls. Insects and stonework buzz in the garden. The wooden floor of the building is solid and hard. The taste of frustration settles on the tongue of the man in its center.

He breathes.

Soft and rhythmic, the slight movement of his chest as the air is pulled in and then pushed out, slowly and steadily. His hands rest lightly, curled, on his thighs; his head is bowed in concentration. He learns patience here. He learns discipline and control, and self-mastery.

At least, that's the idea.

With a frustrated growl, the man's eyes open. His mouth tightens in anger, and his heart quickens in approaching rage. It is a familiar sensation. He can feel it coming, feel his eyes scanning the shadows for something to destroy, something with which to break the elitist serenity of this place. In a heartbeat, he holds an priceless ancient sculpted vase in his hand, ready to hurl it against the wall, when a quiet voice echoes in the domo.

"What are you doing, Logan?"

Logan spins, startled by the presence he should have sensed or heard or smelt. The presence of his sensei.

His mouth curls into a snarl as he fa
His mouth curls into a snarl as he faces the man. "Just gettin' in some practice, ma-" He cuts off short when he hears the blatant impudence in his tone. The man before him is his sensei, his master. He is a hope of peace, the only hope; and Logan will lose his tongue before he says his master's title with disrespect. He lowers his head and softens his voice. "Master. I- I was-" He looks down at the fragile vase in his hand and sinks to his knees; his quiet voice is loud in the small room.

"i don't know what i'm doin'."

The master sighs. For weeks, this has been the case. The student has made much progress, has crossed many bridges, but there is that last step which he has been unable to take. The master walks forward and lowers himself into a meditative posture across from his pupil. They will mend this.

"Logan. Close your eyes." The student obeys.

"Can you smell the air?" Logan frowns at the unexpected question, and then nods. "Tell me what you smell."

He begins slowly. "Incense. Water. Wood, and the cherry blossoms. You."

The master nods. "Yes. Those are the things that make up the air that you breath, and the world that you live in. You must take each in, slowly and masterfully, experience them, understand them, deal with them; and then release them." The student hesitates, then nods.

"Incense is the wind, Logan. It is change, it is the way of life. Breathe it in." The student takes in a deep breath, and releases it slowly. "Water is mystery, what you may not know in this life. Breathe." Another deep, slow breath. "Wood is part of the earth; it is what cannot be effected, what must be accepted without regret." Another breath, without the need of his master's coaching. The master nods. "The cherry blossoms are the fire that may keep you alive in the cold of the night, or wholly consume you." Another breath, and another. Then, eyes still closed, the student asks softly.

"And what are you, master?"

Such an innocent and vulnerable question. So unexpected from this savage man. The master hesitates. He rises and moves to crouch beside his student.

"I . . I am all others. I am the people you love and hate and kill and kill for. I am the most important. Without me, your life is nothing; and if you cannot breathe me, your future is madness." He holds up the pulse of his wrist, in front of his student's face; and Logan breathes deeply, nostrils flaring. He holds it for longer this time, reluctant to exhale. When he does, the breath releases in a rush of warm air against his master's hand.

"These are the areas in which you must contain yourself. When you cease breathing, your body dies. When you cease breathing masterfully, your spirit does. Control your breath. Hold on to yourself."

He allows his hand to float upward, to rest on the crest of Logan's brow. "Incense." Logan takes a strong, sure breath, and exhales calmly. The master's hand moves to his pupil's beating heart, beneath the bare, muscled chest. "Water." Another strong breath. The hand flows down to Logan's hand which rests in his lap, curling slightly around the other man's fingers. "Wood." Another breath. Now, to the tight ridge of Logan's gut, his don ti'an. "Blossom." And another. The hand then rises to Logan's mouth, pressing against his lips, and the master leans forward and whispers against his ear.

"Me."

Here, Logan stumbles. His breath catches shallow; and the master withdraws, shaking his head.

This has always been the hardest part for his student; the loving.

"Logan. Lie back."

For a moment only, the student hesitates. Then, without opening his eyes, he lays back against the hard wooden floor. His master leans over him, and presses a soft kiss against his forehead. Logan lies motionless for a moment, and then draws in a shaky breath. The master flows downward, kissing the other man's chest above the heart. His thumb skims across a nipple; and though his back shudders, the pupil roughly drags in a deep breath. Wrapping his hands around his student's hips, the master moves down further, pressing his mouth against the tight swell of muscle just below the navel. Logan releases his breath with an edge that is almost a growl.

"Master . . "

"Logan." The master moves to the last place, and his mouth moves calmly and firmly against that of his student. Logan is frozen beneath him, is afraid to move, having memorized this dance, knowing the steps by heart and that it won't be long now.

It will come suddenly, he knows, like a burst floodgate. There will be a soft, guttural sound; and then he will be on top of his master, furious in thought and motion, violent in need. He will forget completely about understanding and accepting, will remember only a desire to take. To take.

"Well," breathes his master, "at least you have a plan."

The student gives a despairing cry and shoves his master away, turning his head away toward the hard wood of the floor. The master sighs and draws himself gracefully up onto the balls of his feet.

"Logan, no. Listen to me. You must. You have made a mistake."

After a moment of harsh breathing, the student opens his eyes and lifts his gaze to his master's, wary and questioning.

"Yes, a mistake. For surely you realize that hating who and what you are is invariably always a mistake."

"But you said-" the man on the floor begins.

"What I said, Logan . . is acceptance. Not denial. Not conflict." The teacher brushes an affectionate hand over his student's brow. "Not loathing. Those things serve no purpose."

Logan lies still for a moment, considering, and then asks softly, "What, then?"

The teacher smiles.

He rolls onto his back, against the hard wood flooring, and looks over at his student. "Come here, Logan."

His eyes still cautious, but thoughtful, Logan raises up onto his knees and leans over his master slightly. The teacher chuckles. "No, Logan . . " his hands reach up around his student and pull him down, on top of him, and masterfully absorbs the added weight. "Come here."

Logan lifts up on his forearms and gazes down at his teacher. He shakes his head helplessly. "Master, I don't-"

"Trust me? Yes, Logan, I know." The master runs his hands up his student's sides, gently stroking.

Logan's eyes widen. "No. No, I . . I trust you." He leans forward, into his master's touch, but says soberly, "It's me I don't trust."

Fingertips graze lightly across Logan's muscled back, and a low sound comes from the back of the student's throat. "If you trusted me, Logan," says the master, "you would have faith in me to decide whether or not my pupil is trustworthy."

The student pulls back slightly and looks at his master, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. His eyes hold something on the edge. "Maybe, Master. Or maybe I'd realize you don't know me well enough t'make that call."

The master laughs softly. "Perhaps, Logan. Perhaps you should show me." With that, he strokes his student lightly through the meditation pants, and it begins. With a defeated growl, Logan lowers himself to his master, hands seeking and drawing the willing body up to meet his. He feels his master's hot mouth open underneath his, and he feels it coming, the blind wanting. His master wants it, though, he wants it because it is a part of him, of his air. Logan takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and let's it come.

With a harsh noise of release, he tears through his master's robe, and lowers his mouth to the bare skin, breathing in the dusky scent. His hand and mouth roam across the dark of his master's chest; his mouth lingers on a taut nipple while the hand continues down, down, over the stomach, down to wrap around his master's hardening flesh. The teacher's back arches up, into his student's grasp, and his rough voice pushes out,

"Logan . . Logan. Show me."

Logan's mouth pushes roughly once again against his master's, and his hand travels to his master's tight opening, pushing in. He moves there, working, drawing sounds from his teacher, shuddering to the tune of his master's arousal. Leaning down, he shreds through his meditation pants and brings himself up to position at his master's entrance, and hesitates there. He wants this, wants this, and he's taking it, it's his to take . . . but this is himself, and it's beyond what . . and what does that say . . in the light of day . . what . .

// hating who and what you are is invariably always a mistake. //

his master had said.

// acceptance. //

and

// show me. //

Logan looks down at his master's face; it is patient and edged, truly understanding him, and still accepting him, wanting him. Logan breathes deeply with the knowledge, and thrusts. His master's heat and wild serenity envelop him, he hears a deep cry from beneath him, and he is lost. He burrows into his master's neck, devouring his scent; keeps one hand fast against his master's hardness, and the other wrapped around his master's hip, pulling the yielding body up to meet his thrusts. Pulling back enough to gaze at his master, Logan sees passion and peace stretched tightly across his features as he pounds into him; and suddenly, through his lust, Logan sees the motion become similar to breathing, in and out, honestly and fervently, forever. Again, and again, and again.

As the pleasure builds and careens to a peak in both men, his body is ripped asunder, and his mind explodes in a burst of clarity. Suddenly, Logan sees it all . . it all has a name, and a purpose, and a worth. The incense, the water, the wood, the flowers, the ardent sharing, the teacher, the student . . Logan sees it, and he roars his understanding into the night.

"OGUN!!!"

* *

Slowly, the present seeps back into the minds of the two men on the domo floor. Slowly, the student raises his head, breathing heavily and evenly. The eyes of the two men meet, and they slowly slide against each other, fall away from each other, Logan rolling onto the floor, on his back. Their hands find, and link.

The only sound is breathing. There are no words spoken, because none are needed.