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jowritesthingss · 3 years

Text

of being known (and loved)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): LoSleep (Logic | Logan + Sleep | Remy)

Rating: Teen (for very mild swearing and innuendo)

Content Warning(s): Logan’s coming to terms with being quoiro, so there are very vague sexual mentions/innuendo, just FYI, but nothing graphic

Length: 4,539 words

Brief Summary: Part of the @sanderssides-secretsanta gift exchange! This is my gift as Secret Santa to the lovely @demigodbookdragon ! Features the requested prompt of Logan coming out to his partner(s) as ace and/or quoiromantic, as well as one of the requested pairings—LoSleep!

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

Logan Sanders. Logic to one Thomas Sanders, voice in his head and vision in his view, informing and (according to Roman) annoying twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year, so it goes. And yet.

Logan Sanders. Who is Logan Sanders, really?

If there exists anyone out there who knows the answer to this question, Logan would really like to know, because he himself isn’t quite certain. Logan Sanders. Logic. Voice of reason. The smart one. The nerd. And yet.

Who is Logan Sanders?

And who could ever truly know Logan Sanders, if he doesn’t even know himself?

Logan Sanders enjoys order. He likes to know where things begin and end, to keep neat and tidy and color within the lines. He likes to present a clean image, to stay organized and orderly and crisp and clean, even as the other sides grow chaotic and wild and confusing around him.

Logan enjoys the chaos now too, he thinks, in small, manageable doses. Certainly in Remy-sized doses.

The other sides are...nice.

They’ve long since reached a point of not-quite-resolution, of almost-understanding, of mutual cooperation. And Logan is...he’s working through some things. But then again, so are the others.

They all slip, certainly—himself included—and there’s a long way for them to go yet. But the sides have the rest of Thomas’ life ahead to get there, and they have each other to metaphorically (and occasionally literally) lean on.

All the same, it’s just easier to talk to Remy, sometimes.

Technically, as Sleep, Remy isn’t actually one of the sides. He’s somehow still there inside the Mindscape, and no one is particularly sure why.

Remy simply appeared one day out of nowhere, scaring a young Virgil to the point that he refused to come down off the fridge for hours. He was known only as his function—“Sleep”—for a period of time before deciding out of the blue that his name would be Remy.

Logan has been puzzling this occurrence over for decades, but has long since given up, acknowledging that it will likely forever remain a mystery, just like what it is, precisely, that exists at the bottom of the ocean. (Further, the existence of any of them is very much in defiance of any science Logan has ever heard of, really, so he isn’t exactly one that can judge.)

Remy is a bit of a metaphorical wild card. He goes where he wishes, does what he wants. He’ll disappear for weeks on end, follow them around nonstop for days...he goes on ridiculous coffee binges before swearing Starbucks refreshers are the only “valid” drink...he lures Thomas into napping on the couch but refuses to cooperate at bedtime...Logan isn’t entirely sure why Remy does what he does beyond simple whimsy, and it puzzles him incessantly.

However much Remy’s behavior might confuse him, it’s...actually quite pleasant to have him around. Random disruptions and interruptions generally are not something that Logan delights in, but aside from Janus, Remy is the only other side with an appreciation for sarcasm, and his presence as Logan works is...enjoyable tolerable.

Then there is the veritable fact that, unlike the others, Remy always listens to Logan.

Logan knows that the others mean well. And they do—they have since assured him that they truly do. But they get so carried away in their excitement sometimes that having someone a bit more grounded like Remy around to converse with is nice. And in turn, Logan always makes sure to listen to Remy. As loath as he is to admit possession of any “feelings”, he knows how it can feel to be ignored.

One of Remy’s favorite things to discuss is Mindscape gossip. Logan doesn’t understand the appeal of gossip, but he’s sure that Remy doesn’t understand the appeal of the history of the telescope, either, so he listens.

Today, the “hot” topic seems to be Patton and Remus. Or, rather—the relationship between Patton and Remus.

“I’m not kidding you, gurl!” Remy flops backwards in Logan’s bed. Logan refrains from telling him not to muss up the carefully-made bed; it hasn’t worked the past forty-seven times he’s asked, and he doubts it would work today. “I legit walked in on them when I came home last night.”

“You ‘walked in on them’?” Logan asks neutrally from his desk, fondly brushing aside Remy’s improper usage of ‘legit’. He turns the page, looks at Thomas’ schedule for January, winces. Double-booked on January eighth, and in the middle of a pandemic, of all things? How ever did he allow that to slip past him? “Doing what, exactly?”

“They weren’t doing the do, if that’s what you’re asking about,” Remy responds.

“‘The do’,” Logan quotes, puzzled momentarily before the realization hits him. “Oh, you mean intercourse, don’t you?” He pauses in his work to make a note in the margins about updating his vocabulary cards.

“Duh.” Remy pauses to roll over and sip at his drink. He’s on one of his tea detoxes; Logan predicts it won’t last more than a few days this time. “But they were, like, snuggling. On the couch. And watching a romantic movie.”

That makes Logan pause. “Remus, watching a romantic movie?” He pauses and glances over at Remy briefly before continuing to write again. “That does seem a fair amount out of character.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Remy exclaims. “Remus wouldn’t subject himself to something like that willingly. No way. That’s why I think they’re dating.”

“Mm-hmm,” Logan agrees absent-mindedly as the events of January twenty-first catch his attention. Then he pauses. Computes.

Logan abruptly drops his pen and swivels around in his chair. “Apologies. Did I hear you correctly, Remy? You believe Patton and Remus are,” he struggles to get the word out momentarily, “are dating?”

“Yeppers!” Remy nods. He slurps noisily at his tea before popping it back on Logan’s bedside table. Rolling to hang his torso upside down off the side of Logan’s bed, he says, “it’s not the first time I’ve seen anything hinting at those two throwing goo-goo eyes at each other, but that pretty much cements it in my mind.”

“‘Goo-goo eyes’?” Logan frowns as the realization further sinks in. Dating. Patton and Remus. Dating? “Wait, am I to understand that sides can date?”

“Like, of course.” Remy’s face is starting to go red as blood rushes down to it. “Did you miss that whole awkward fling between snakeyboi and prissy mister prince back in college? God, seeing them interacting for the first time in years was so awkward.” He snickers loudly. “Glad they didn’t call me to the stand back during that whole dumb courtroom thing.”

“I...no, I don’t have any recollection of any such thing,” Logan murmurs. He briefly wracks his memories, blue pen scratching crisply against the page in front of him, and comes up empty.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s probably a good thing, babe.” Remy slides off the bed and onto the floor then, hissing as blood starts to rush away from his head again. “Honestly, whole thing was a train wreck to watch. Patton and Remus are pretty cute, though. I guess opposites really do attract, huh?”

“Ah...yes, I suppose so,” Logan murmurs, but as Remy launches into a play-by-play detailing the embarrassment on Remus’ face and Patton’s sheer terror at being the one busted for once, he’s already tuning the other out.

Dating. The other sides date. Which means, of course, that they...feel things. Well—yes, the sides are capable of individual emotions. That has been established prior, Logan knows. But this means that they feel love things.

Sides can feel love?

That question, however, goes unasked and unanswered, as Remy drones on about how flustered Remus had been when he was caught being “lovey-dovey” and Logan’s schedule blurs out in front of his face.

Unasked. Unanswered. Yet still it lingers in the back of Logan’s mind as he finally convinces Remy to let them sleep for the night, as he lies awake in bed staring at the blinking red numbers of his alarm clock:

Sides can feel love?

Logan Sanders enjoys understanding. He loves learning—loves looking up to the stars, down at the ground, in front at the path ahead of them all, even back at where they’ve come from sometimes. He loves to be known to know. Yes, Logan Sanders likes understanding.

This entire debacle, however? Logan does not understand.

Can the sides feel love?

The question follows Logan for weeks as he goes about his days, carefully maintaining Thomas’ schedule and gently bullying the other sides into doing their tasks and taking care of themselves. He refuses to let it interfere with his job, but in the moments he pauses to take a breath, the question is there to steal his breath away again.

Love. Love, love, love. The one thing Logan absolutely loathes—or, if he were to be honest with himself (and as much as he hates the truth, he tries to avoid the practice of denying truth), the one thing that Logan is absolutely terrified of.

He’s known for a while that the others love him, and that he (fortunate or unfortunate as it may be) does love the others in his own way. But that’s easy, and it’s obvious. It’s a purely familial thing—or so Logan had thought.

Then Patton calls a family meeting and awkwardly informs them that he and Remus are an item now. And Roman is groaning over-exaggeratedly, Virgil is hissing, Janus seems all too unsurprised, Remy is gleefully vindicated, Emile looks away while Remus licks Patton’s cheek for all to see, and Logan?

Logan has his answer.

So the other sides—or, at least, some of them—do, in fact, experience some sort of romantic or sexual connection to others. So the sides can feel love, then.

Only—what about Logan? What does he...what does he feel?

Logan metaphorically looks into himself. He isn’t sure what he (again, metaphorically) finds.

As much as he might struggle to understand figurative language, Logan isn’t completely unaware of it. To make full usage of such metaphors, it all seems a confusing jumble of darkness and confusion and occasional swirls of odd colors.

What are those sorts of attraction even supposed to feel like? he puzzles as he sits on the couch beside Patton and Remus, a thick tome about astronomy perched in his lap as he takes in exactly none of the words on the page it’s opened to. He’s always assumed that, as sides, they wouldn’t feel such human emotions, or then again, as Thomas’ sides they would echo his sexual orientation.

But Logan...Logan feels...nothing. Right?

Or, well. Patton and Roman have been very adamant about how love comes in all different forms, and it makes logical sense. Familial love, romantic, platonic, and so the list goes on. And there’s no use in denying that Logan certainly feels things. Logan can’t always recognize it, but he’s trying now. He’s trying to figure it out.

All the same, he still hasn’t felt anything in particular towards Thomas’ past relations—not any love-related feelings, at least—but then again, they were Thomas’ partners, not his own. Logan has never himself felt anything. He feels nothing.

Or does he?

There is something that he feels in there, Logan knows. He knows he loves the others platonically, regardless of how little he says it aloud. And then there’s Remy, of course.

Goodness, Remy. Reluctant as he may be to admit it aloud or even to himself, Logan knows he loves Remy, with his smirk and his snark and his ridiculous leather jacket and his odd yet enlightening ways of using modern slang.

So Logan does love. Somehow. In some way. But he’s never thought to feel anything romantic; can he feel anything romantic? Will he even know when he feels it?

And there’s a lurking thought—likely irrational, Logan reasons, even as his mind tries to convince him otherwise—what even is the purpose of feeling anything romantic? What is the point? Logan steers clear of Roman’s romance novels, but he picks up tidbits from everything Thomas reads. Is there any use of potentially-romantic feelings?

It might be nice, he thinks as Remus drags Patton into the kitchen to bake something that will probably not end up edible. Romantic relations are often the pinnacle of any and all relationships in the eyes of society, for one thing. And while the amount of closeness and understanding conveyed between partners seems daunting, it seems as though it could be somewhat relieving as well.

But Logan’s views on romance mean very little if he has never felt anything of the romantic sort, do they?

Sighing, Logan abruptly shuts his book and stands to walk upstairs to his room. At this point the only thing he’s doing is confusing himself, and that won’t do him any good.

All the same, still the thoughts linger, even as he forces himself into more actively productive tasks for the rest of the day.

Logan feels nothing. Or he feels something. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t enjoy not knowing.

Logan enjoys simplicity and complexity in equal measure. He takes pleasure in the simplicity of a black coffee every morning and a honeyed chamomile tea before bed—in the complexity of a full, well-organized schedule or an alluring mystery novel.

Love, for all it ought be simple, is a complexity that Logan has always struggled to understand in any and all forms. And to his utter chagrin, it seems romanticism and sexuality are no different.

It all comes to a head one dreary, drizzly afternoon in the Mindscape. (Logan wishes the “drizzly” part weren’t literal, but alas, Roman and Remus’ experimentation in the Imagination went wrong somehow, and now tiny rain clouds hover above every single room and hallway in the Mindscape.)

All things considered, it hasn’t been a great day for productivity—which means that it of course hasn’t been a great day for Logan, either.

Stress has been piling up from internal emotional struggles alongside external scheduling issues. It is to the point that Logan—and he isn’t a fan of flowery metaphors and figurative language—all Logan can think to do is compare the roiling in his mind to a brewing storm, rain falling within his mind as it pours down and soaks his clothing and skin within the Mindscape.

Logan is pacing about his room—doing his best to “wear a path into the floor”, he thinks the saying goes—when Remy bursts in, dressed in an obnoxiously pink raincoat and squeaky polka dot rain boots.

“Oh, thank god. Sanctuary.” Remy very nearly throws himself onto Logan’s canopy bed upon noticing that it is miraculously still dry. The tarpaulin Logan and Virgil wrangled up over it earlier is somehow still holding up; Logan has no idea how and isn’t in the mood to question a spot of good luck.

“Aight, who pissed Roman off this time?” Remy asks

“Surprisingly enough, no one,” Logan answers before realizing that Remy is dripping all over his bed wet. “Please take care to dry yourself off before getting on my bed.”

Remy huffs but complies, unceremoniously stripping off his outer garments. He wriggles his eyebrows at Logan while he tosses his boots over the side of the bed. “Damn. If you wanted me to undress, all you had to do is ask, babe.”

“I—um,” Logan says eloquently. He awkwardly pauses mid-pace before jerkily continuing a moment later. Remy says things like that all the time. Is Remy flirting? Is he not? Does he mean it? Does he not? Logan wants to know, but one isn’t supposed to just flat-out ask these sorts of questions, are they?

“Why don’t you join me where it’s dry, gurl?” Remy scoots over and pats the spot next to him. “C’mon. I’ll even, like, move over and give you some room. So gracious of me, right?”

The corners of Logan’s mouth unconsciously quirk slightly upwards, and he ceases pacing to head over to the bed.

“Uh-uh, gurl,” Remy shoos him away, and Logan’s eyebrows furrow in puzzlement. Had he not just said—

“Strip,” Remy says, and Logan’s mind goes blank in a momentary haze of confusion and panic.

“I—what,” he stammers, and his head feels light and fuzzy.

Remy sees the look of panic in his eyes, and his expression softens slightly. “Logan. If I can’t be wet on the bed, neither can you, babe.”

“Ah,” Logan says faintly. He moves over towards his wardrobe and almost mechanically pulls out a pair of his pajamas. He manages to get them out and over to the bed before they get too wet, where he sits on the edge and quickly shucks off his usual day attire of jeans, a collared shirt, and a crisp and calming blue necktie.

Logan keeps his back carefully turned as he changes. It’s ridiculous that such a thing feels odd now; they all are roughly the same physically, and it isn’t as though they haven’t changed in front of each other multiple times. But all the same, something still feels off this time.

Clothed in pajamas, Logan debates attempting to get his sopping day clothes into the laundry hamper, looks up at the gray little clouds still crowding the ceiling, gives up. He leaves them in a little dripping pile on the floor by his bed before turning to crawl up to the headboard where Remy lounges, leaving a tiny space on the left side of the bed for Logan to weasel his way into.

“Don’t be shy, gurl. We can huddle for warmth and all that jazz.” Remy holds out his arms invitingly, and it takes a moment before it registers in Logan’s mind that he’s offering a hug. “Unless you don’t want to, ’course.”

“I don’t think—” Logan starts before cutting himself off abruptly. He pauses, sucks in a tiny breath. “I do not think I am amenable to a hug at the moment.”

“That’s chill,” Remy assures. He adjusts his position on the bed, allowing Logan space to sit comfortably without touching him. Then he reaches up and drags his sunglasses down off his face, looking carefully at Logan with a searching gaze. “Hey. You good? You’ve been acting a little weird lately, but you’re, like, especially weird today.”

Ever the teacher, ever the educator, ever the answerer of questions, Logan wants to answer. He does. He just isn’t sure that he should.

Logan quietly sits and gets himself comfortable (“criss cross applesauce”, he’s never been able to quite break the silly elementary school habit). Then....

“I am...confused, I supposed,” he finally admits, and for a five word sentence, it is surprisingly difficult to get the words out. But Remy always listens. He’ll listen now—when it matters—correct?

“What about?” Remy asks, leaning back against the headboard and popping his sunglasses back on again, masking his expression.

“I—are you flirting with me?” Logan bursts out abruptly. To hell with his uncertainties—he has to know. He’s itching, twitching to know, to understand. “Have you—is that what this is? Is that why you’re always ‘hanging’ with me?”

“Is that what this has been about?” Remy laughs, but it isn’t malicious, Logan doesn’t think. “About time, TBH. I thought you’d never notice”

“I didn’t notice,” Logan says. “Well—I did notice, eventually, but I didn’t...I don’t—”

“Look, if you don’t feel the same way, that’s...fine,” Remy says, and his voice sounds different, devoid of his usual mischievous tone. Somber, almost. “It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, babe. I do, like, genuinely just enjoy being around you, you know?”

“But why?” Logan asks, and something in his voice cracks. Inwardly he curses, hoping that Remy won’t here.

“There’s something bigger going on here, isn’t there?” Remy shifts next to him in the bed, and suddenly he’s leaning closer to Logan. The sunglasses are off again, and Remy stares into Logan’s wide eyes with that more solemn expression again.

“I don’t—” Logan cuts himself off again. He looks up towards the tarp hanging from the corners of his four-poster bed, attempting to organize his thoughts the best he can before speaking this time. It proves to be a difficult task; his thoughts are all jumbled and clumped together in a hopelessly confused mess. He just doesn’t understand. Logan likes to understand, but for once he doesn’t. Emotions have never been his strong suit, and these emotions are proving stubbornly elusive.

Logan clears his throat before speaking next. “Up until you brought up the relationship between Remus and Patton, I had never realized that we as sides could feel romantic or sexual attraction independent of Thomas,” he explains. Unconsciously his left hand goes up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “It had...never occurred to me.”

“Oh.”

Logan waits for Remy to continue even as he stolidly refuses to turn and look at the other. When Remy says nothing else, he haltingly continues.

“As you and the others no doubt know, I often struggle at identifying emotions,” Logan continues. “Now that I am aware the others have a capacity for other attractions, I have attempted to find them within myself, and I...can’t seem to find them.”

“So you’re aromantic then?” Remy asks, his voice sounding neutral.

“No!” Logan rushes out before pausing. “I, ah. Perhaps? I’m afraid that I don’t know. I do not know what it is that I am feeling.”

“But you feel something.”

“Yes, I....” Logan finally finds it within himself to turn and face Remy. “I do indeed feel something. I feel many somethings. Towards you. But I’m afraid I don’t know what it is, and that...” he swallows, “...that isn’t fair to you.”

Remy is silent, his face impassive, and immediately Logan worries that he’s ruined everything about their relationship, whatever it is, whatever it may be.

Over the years Logan has grown to quite enjoy the lack of pressure and expectancy between the two of them whenever they spend time together, and the snarky conversation between the two of them has been quite refreshing. Not to mention the rare occasions that they do actually touch, or converse more seriously. Is he about to lose all that? Has Logan ruined all of that?

“...Do you think that you might be, like, quoiromantic or something?” Remy asks slowly.

Logan blinks confusedly behind his glasses. “I’m sorry?”

“Quoiromantic. It’s under the aromantic umbrella,” Remy explains. He frowns, tapping a finger over his lips contemplatively. “Hmm. Roman might be better at explaining this, since he’s actually aro. I’m demisexual, but I’ll admit I don’t know as much about the aromantic spectrum as maybe I should.”

“Quoiromantic,” Logan sounds out. “What does that terminology mean, exactly?”

“It’s like....” Remy frowns. “Mm. It’s like, you don’t really know how to tell the difference between romantic and platonic feelings, I think. You’ll wanna double check with Roman on that though, babe.”

“I...yes. That...does sound accurate,” Logan realizes aloud. “Quoiromantic.”

It’s like a metaphorical puzzle piece clicking into place inside his brain. Quoiromantic. Not being able to distinguish between romantic and platonic feelings...that certainly sounds a lot like what Logan has been puzzling over for the past few weeks.

“Quoiromantic,” Logan tests the word. “I would need to perform more extensive research, and perhaps examine my...emotions more before I can arrive at a proper conclusion, but...yes, that sounds...correct. That sounds....”

Good. It sounds good.

However.

Ice prickles through Logan again. He looks back at Remy. “But what would all of this mean in regard to the two of us and our relations?”

“What do you want it to mean?” Remy asks simply.

There comes the darkness again, rushing, followed by swirled colors of confusion.

“I...still don’t know,” Logan admits.

“That’s fine.” Remy shrugs. He looks at Logan, and with his sunglasses still off, Logan can see the earnestness and—fondness, is that fondness—in his bright brown eyes. “We can figure it out as we go. D’you wanna just, like, keep chilling like we’ve been doing?”

Logan licks his lips, adjusts his glasses again even though he really doesn’t need to. “...Maybe with some more hugs now?” he cautiously requests. “And with, ah...I believe it is called ‘cuddling’?”

“Lit. I’m down if you are.” Remy grins, flings himself back and out on the bed, looking not unlike a starfish as he does so. “Get in here then, babe. Can I still call you babe?”

Logan waits until he’s nestled into Remy’s side to respond. “Certainly,” he murmurs into Remy’s side, and Remy hugs him tighter. And goodness, it’s so warm and nice there on the bed with Remy that he can’t help but wonder why they hadn’t done this much sooner.

So warm and nice...that is, until the tarpaulin laden down with rainwater above his bed finally gives in to the weight.

The thing splashes down on the two of them, soaking them and causing a shrieking Remy to drag Logan out of the room in search of an umbrella and a dry towel. Even then it is still kind of nice, if a bit soggy and much colder, and Logan has to bite back a smile as Remy curses and leads him to go tell off Roman and Remus...holding Logan’s hand all the while.

And perhaps...perhaps Logan doesn’t exactly know how he feels on a larger scale. But he knows how he feels in the given moment—content. And that’s all he needs to know for now.

Logan Sanders enjoys solitude plenty, but he has more recently discovered enjoyment for the company of the others as well. All things considered, all confusions included, he enjoys it. He loves quiet nights of coexistence, and maybe he loves Remy romantically. Or maybe he doesn’t. He’s not quite sure, but he doesn’t need to be—not yet, perhaps not ever, even. They’ll work it out.

Most importantly, he thinks, Logan Sanders enjoys the company of himself, whoever “himself” might be or become.

Logan Sanders. Who is Logan Sanders, really?

If there exists anyone out there who knows the answer to this question, Logan still would like to know, because he still isn’t quite certain. Logan Sanders. Logic. Voice of reason. The smart one. The nerd. And yet.

Who is Logan Sanders?

Well. He is himself. Regardless of who or how he loves, Logan is himself. He is known, he is loved, he is himself. And he has his network of fellow sides and of Thomas and of Remy to help him, to know him, as he learns and knows and understands understands more about who Logan Sanders really is.

It’s a journey he’ll enjoy not being alone for.

Fin

Happy belated holidays! I decided to try participating in two Sanders Sides Secret Santa fic exchanges this year, and this is the product of the first of the two. I am SO thrilled to reveal myself as Avie’s Secret Santa! I hope that everyone enjoys this fic—especially you, Avie! <3 Goodness knows I had fun getting to write it for you :D

Want to be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

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jowritesthingss · 4 years

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oh my gosh guys it’s

it’s t h e m

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jowritesthingss · 3 years

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petition to make “uh oh stinky” remus’ theme song

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jowritesthingss · 3 years

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at a point of breaking

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): n/a

Rating: General Audiences

Content Warning(s): arguing mention (nothing explicit), shouting mention (again, nothing explicit), panic/anxiety attacks (not explicitly mentioned)

Length: 950 words

Brief Summary: so we all know that canonically Janus can silence the others, right? let’s make that angsty, shall we?

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

Janus, even after all of the other sides warily begin to accept him, still silences the others from time to time. it’s a part of his job. he just...does it. he takes no pride in it, but he accepts it, even embraces it sometimes.

it’s not to deliberately cause lies of omission or withhold the truth. certainly Janus enjoys a fair amount of chaos, but he doesn’t ever intend to hurt the others. he just does his job as he sees fit and, regardless of whether the others like it or not, this means that the silencing is a part of his role as self-preservation and denial.

it’s a part of his role to thanklessly protect people—to protect the other sides, to protect Thomas.

(to protect himself)

so when the sides start arguing—when the words someone is saying are angry, harmful, incendiary. when someone is about to hurt someone else unnecessarily. when someone is scared to acknowledge the truth just yet. when someone isn’t ready to acknowledge the truth just yet—that’s when Janus comes in.

when Logan’s logic will only make Virgil more anxious. when Virgil starts to overthink and suppress Remus. when Remus is about to say something that will make Patton cry. when Patton is about to lead Roman onto an unrealistic tangent. when Roman’s daydreaming is overpowering Logan’s logic.

(...and yes, admittedly when Janus doesn’t want to lose a debate, if he’s in a particularly bratty mood that day.)

there is much about himself that Thomas isn’t ready to know, much that Thomas isn’t ready to face. he must be able to take care of himself in certain aspects before he can hope to conquer other issues, so the responsibility falls onto Janus to delicately (and sometimes not-so-delicately) tug him onto that path.

and there are all sorts of occasions in which Janus’ ability is useful, really. so while he does take care not to overuse it, sometimes to keep people from fighting and needlessly causing damage, Janus has to whip out his little party trick and silence one of the others.

(always one of the others. never Thomas, never himself. he’s never tried either, isn’t sure either would actually work, frankly.)

but.

at a point of breaking, during an overemotional conflict, the script flips. something changes.

the others are arguing and they’re so so loud, and Janus is so so hurt.

they’re all just...they’re arguing and they’re loud and they aren’t listening to him and god, he finally knows how Logan felt that one time, so unresistant to Janus smoothly yanking him out-of-frame and impersonating him. he finally knows how Virgil felt when he left the dark sides, how Remus felt when he broke out, desperate for Thomas to see and know and hear him.

Janus wants to shout, to scream, to silence them all just to get them to be quiet and listen to him, listen to each other, just listen. but he isn’t so powerful, and his acceptance by the others is still so new, still so fragile. he isn’t in the habit of deceiving himself—theirs is mutual acceptance, perhaps acquaintance, certainly not friendship. his doubt of them lingers easier in his head, twisting and tangling truths and lies until they look and sound and feel and are the same.

revealing his name wasn’t exactly easy, but in retrospect the act was nothing like the level of vulnerability he knows he needs to display now. only—only he’s used to keeping to himself and licking his own wounds. he isn’t used to playing this social game. he isn’t used to actively helping, isn’t used to caring about whether any of it makes him look the villain. and it’s still so difficult to ignore the tiny voice whispering for him to just ignore the conflict, to just sink out already.

(not his problem, is it? he didn’t start the argument this time.)

so at first it’s simplest to give in to the self-silencing terror of telling the truth. at first it’s almost a comfort to suck in the words and keep them trapped firm under his tongue.

and yet—telling the truth hurts, but holding onto the truth hurts just as much, god, it hurts.

and then the arguing and the yelling and the shouting and the hurting all goes on, it goes on and on and on, and Janus doesn’t know what to do.

he doesn’t know if he should scream out the truth to them all, if he should just whisper it beneath the shouting, if he should just swallow it back down where it came from. he doesn’t know what he should do, doesn’t even know what he wants to do. but regardless of what he wants, the words are bubbling and frothing in his throat, pushing closer and closer to the tip of his tongue, clamoring to be let out whether he likes it or not.

the others’ voices crescendo upwards as the words in his throat rise up like bile.

(closer and closer and closerclosercloser—)

they’re getting up in each others’ faces now, cameras and assigned spots forgotten, and Thomas is finally giving up on any attempt to salvage anything of whatever this had been—

—and so, so scared that the truth is going to slip out otherwise, Janus finally waves his hand.

the other sides freeze when they see him make that all-too-familiar motion. they and Thomas glance warily amongst themselves to see who his target will be this time...only to have their confused glances return to Janus upon seeing no hands covering any mouths.

and then they see. oh, they see. they listen.

(too little, too late—)

for Janus has silenced himself.

Fin

this started as what was supposed to be a quick li’l tumblr post and...well, it spiralled, as you can see. it’s a weird mix between fic and textpost, and I think I quite like it. lemme know what you think!! (ALSO if you wanna write anything based upon this concept, please feel welcome to! I’d love to see other interpretations of this idea!)

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jowritesthingss · 4 years

Text

OKAY, so I know that this

is a morningstar, and that it’s the weapon that Remus uses to knock Roman out in Dealing with Intrusive Thoughts.

and yet.

every time.

every. single. time.

every time that someone writes “morningstar” in a Sanders Sides fic, all I can think of is this

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jowritesthingss · 3 years

Text

I just realized that I haven’t posted any Analogical fics yet and that is. a truly heinous crime

#sanders sides #thomas sanders sides #analogical #ts virgil #ts logan #virgil sanders #logan sanders #ts #tss #tbh i havent posted a lot of dif ships yet #bc i just love them ALL #sO MUCH #i Must write them All #not to worry tho!#ive got losleep then an analogical ventfic then my big bad roceit coming up #then also some roloceit and some intruality and some more analogical i think??#u see i am atoning for my sins #jo rambles #jwt sanderssides

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jowritesthingss · 4 years

Text

Un-Convention-al

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): Logince (Logic | Logan + Creativity | Roman)

Rating: Teen (for swearing and Remus being Remus)

Content Warning(s): some swearing, a couple of typical Remus-like comments (nothing too bad here tho), food

Length: 3,679 words

Brief Summary: Soulmate September, day one! While at a convention, Roman ponders his rather unconventional soulmark. And maybe, just maybe...he might find the person whose name is encoded onto his arm.

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

“Heyy, Spock!”

Roman rolled his eyes as his brother raced over to a black-haired, pointy-eared cosplayer. This had to be the stupidest thing he had ever done, and this wasn’t the first time Remus had dragged him into weird shit, so that was really saying something.

Watching as Remus spoke excitedly with the dude, Roman couldn’t help but wonder why he had allowed his brother to drag him to one of his nerd convention thingies. The only acceptable thing about this was that this Captain James T. Kirk character was obviously exactly like him, so even if he was acting as some geeky TV show character, at least it was a valorous protagonist, he supposed.

Roman tapped his foot impatiently, looking around the hotel lobby at all of the booths advertising anime and mango and cartoons and whatnot. Yeah, yeah, he was supposed to be supportive of his brother and whatnot after everything, but couldn’t he have held off the supporting thing until tomorrow, at least? Roman could’ve—should’ve—been across town, meeting that famous soulmate linguist guy that was in town, but nooo.

Remus snagged the cosplayer by the wrist and dragged him over, grinning madly underneath his facial prosthetics. Which, of course Remus had to choose one of the weird characters to cosplay—what was his name? Wolf? Wharf? “You two match! We gotta get a picture!”

“Very well.” Sighing and rolling his eyes, Roman acquiesced, moving over to the poor kid. He slung one terra-cotta arm around the kid’s shoulder, striking up a pose. Best to let Remus have and do what he wanted without fighting too too much; then maybe he’d get tired sooner and they could leave sooner.

Remus backed up, bringing out his phone to take the picture. “All right, say tribble!” Remus called to them.”

“Say what?” Roman puzzled, while the cosplayer said, “That is highly nonsensical and—”

The flash of the camera interrupted them both.

“Fuck yeah,” Remus enthused. He looked appraisingly between Roman and the other cosplayer, and nope, Roman did not like that look one bit. Remus always got that look when he was up to no good. “Say, Spocksie,” he drawled, “if you’re not meeting up with anyone, wanna hang with us today?”

“I could’t possibly intrude in such a manner,” Spock tried to politely decline, weakly attempting to disentangle himself from Roman.

Wait but no, that was actually a good idea for once. If this guy stuck around with them, Roman wouldn’t have to deal with Remus on his own. He could share in the shame.

“Oh, but I insist!” Roman said quickly, tightening his hold ever so slightly. He winked, hoping his stunning self could win over the nerd. “As your captain, I command you,” he joked. Wait, uh. Kirk was Spock’s captain, right? Gosh, there were too many Star Trek series to keep track of. How did Remus do it?

“I...very well, if you insist,” the cosplayer said carefully. “If you truly do not mind.”

“Of course we don’t mind!” Roman let go of the guy to splay a hand across his yellow-clad chest. “I’m sure you’ll love the chance to bask in my glorious presence.”

Spock turned to look at Remus, who was practically vibrating with energy. “Tell, me, is he in character or is he always like this?” He raised an eyebrow. “I do not recall Captain Kirk being so...self-absorbed.”

Roman squawked as beside him Remus howled with laughter, and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

---

To retaliate for the whole “self-absorbed” comment, Roman sentenced the Spock cosplayer to sitting in a panel for an hour with Remus, while Roman aimlessly played on his phone outside the auditorium, thankful that they only had two tickets and that the rest of the tickets had sold out before they got there.

Judging from the smile on the kid’s face as he and Remus walked out of the door, debating amongst each other, he realized that sitting in a stuffy, crowded fandom panel was probably paradise for a nerd, not a punishment. Ah, well. At least he’d had time to try looking up some new online translators, even if he’d had no luck actually translating what he’d been trying to translate for five years now.

As he stood to meet the two, Roman’s right hand slipped over to his left wrist, where it slipped under the sleeve of his sleeved yellow command shirt and unconsciously began rubbing at the characters tattooed across his skin.

Soulmates were something that everyone had, and without fail, the name of your soulmate appeared on your wrist at thirteen, so there was nothing to be confused about there. And there were so many different languages and writing systems out there that having a name written in a different language or in different characters wasn’t out-of-the-ordinary, either.

What was out-of-the-ordinary, however, was that nobody could decipher the characters written across Roman’s arm.

Five years since he turned thirteen, five years since those weird-looking letters appeared on his wrist—five years of family and friends and schoolmates and teachers and even linguists gaping at them, five years of not being able to figure out what they said, what name and secret they held.

And who knows? Maybe if Roman had gone to meet that linguist instead, today could’ve been the day he finally figured it out.

But no, that wasn’t Remus’ fault. Remus had planned on this con for over a year now. He couldn’t take his frustration out on Remus.

“Did you have fun, nerds?” he asked as he strode up to them.

“I got to ask about pon farr.” Remus grinned leeringly, and Roman wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about, but he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to know. “And Spocky-wocky here totally nerded out about Klingon.”

“Oh. Uh. Excellent,” Roman said jerkily. Did he want to know what that was, either?

His grumbling stomach made the decision that no, he most decidedly did not. At least, not for the moment.

“Why don’t we find something to eat?” Roman asked the two. “I don’t know about you two, but I myself am famished.”

Remus immediately turned and flounced away from the two of them. “Sounds dee-lightful to me, broski. I saw this stand selling astronaut food!”

Roman and the cosplayer—Roman really would have to ask his name at some point, he couldn’t just keep calling them “Spock”—hurried after Remus, and soon enough, the three were eating (more like gagging on) freeze-dried ice cream, animatedly discussing Kirk and some gal Uhura who apparently had been part of the first interracial kiss on television (“Could be gayer,” Roman said. “Could be gayer,” Remus agreed, staring mournfully at the empty packet in his hand. He had been the only one to actually enjoy the space food.)

The conversation had moved to Kirk and Spock, Remus adamantly insisting that the two had been more than friends and coworkers. He and the Spock cosplayer had a rather lively debate over it—none of which Roman understood in the slightest, so he let himself get distracted. He couldn’t help but wonder what the cosplayer would look like beneath the cosplay. The guy’s bright eyes were mighty pretty while he argued with Remus.

Mid-sentence, Remus’ eyes drifted over to Roman, and he looked away, hoping his staring hadn’t been caught. He wasn’t one to look at people that weren’t his soulmate—all the same, when you didn’t know what your soulmate’s name was, it was quite hard not to. If Remus got any ideas, though, Roman was doomed.

Sure enough, That Look appeared in Remus’ mischievous brown eyes, and he abruptly interrupted the debate to announce that he was going to go buy some more food, racing off before either Roman or the Spock cosplayer could respond.

Roman and the cosplayer instinctively turned to exchange a glance with each other, then Roman quickly looked away, flushing. Now he’d realized that the dude was kinda attractive for a nerd, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Great.

“So,” Roman said awkwardly in an attempt to break the awkward silence between the two. He fought the urge to run a hand through his hair, reminding him that Remus’ soulmate would murder him if he messed up the borrowed blond wig.

“So,” the Spock agreed. He paused before continuing, glancing between Roman and Remus. “The two of you are...friends? Boyfriends?”

“Ew. Oh, god, no.” Roman gagged. “Ew ew ew.” He looked across the floor at his brother, standing in line to buy some odd foreign candy or something. “He’s my brother.”

Spock nodded sagely, staring as Remus paid for a handful of...something. “Your brother?”

Roman watched Remus shove the entire handful of candy in his mouth, gagging. “...He’s adopted.”

Roman caught Remus’ eye from across the room, and Remus grinned at him, his deep brown cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk as chunks of something slipped out of his mouth.

“Very adopted,” Roman emphasized.

The cosplayer let out a light chuckle, and oh, that was a nice sound. “You’re clearly out of your depth here. You are a good brother for indulging him in this.”

“I...suppose,” Roman said slowly, tamping down on the sudden rush of guilt over having wanted so badly to leave the convention. “So, do you have any siblings?”

The Spock nodded. “I have a younger brother of my own. Unfortunately, he lives across the country with our mother, so he could not come today.”

“Oh.” Roman blinked. Oh, shit. Had he just brought up a sore subject? Shit. “I’m sorry.”

“It is quite all right,” the cosplayer said mildly. “When we graduate, we have plans to attend the same university, and we see each other enough on holidays.”

“That’s good! That’s good,” Roman said. Oh, by Zeus’ thunderbolt, why were his attempts at maintaining conversation so miserable today? Usually he was so good at this.

Across the floor, Remus seemed quite content eating on his own, not coming back to the two of them standing so awkwardly together. He couldn’t rely on Remus to figure out some dorky topic to talk about.

Finally, grasping at straws, Roman lowered himself to asking about nerdstuffs. “So what was that thing Remus you were talking about during the panel? Cling wrap?”

The cosplayer looked mildly affronted, and dammit, if Roman fucked up again—

“Are you referring to Klingon?” he asked, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“Yeah! That!” Roman rushed out. “What’s that?”

The Spock gazed at him in wonderment. “You truly know nothing about Star Trek, do you.”

Roman shrugged helplessly.

“Klingon is a species of alien, alongside a language,” the cosplayer said, moving his hand up to his face and jerking it away at the last second. “Apologies, I forgot that I was wearing contacts for this cosplay.” He cleared his throat. “Your brother is cosplaying as one of the few Klingon characters, Worf. The Klingons are portrayed largely as bloodthirsty antagonists throughout the series.”

“Ah.” So that was why Remus had chosen to be one of them.

“Personally, I myself am more fascinated in their language than I am anything else,” the Spock explained. “They actually hired a linguist to create an entire language and alphabet for the series. Klingon is one of the most widely-spoken fictitious languages.”

Wait. Roman frowned, confused. “People speak fictitious languages?”

“Well, yes, of course,” the cosplayer said evenly. “All language is made-up, and besides, it is logical that dedicated fans would pick up some throughout the television shows. I myself speak a bit.”

Roman snorted. “What do ya know.” Maybe that’s something he would have to add on his list of language to look up—he had almost exhausted dead languages and alphabets, might as well see if his stupid soulmark matched a fake language. It wasn’t like it could hurt anything; he wasn’t going to find them regardless.

“Aw, you’re not making out?” Remus was back, standing in front of them once more.

“I—no, of course not!” Roman blustered.

“Why ever would you think—” the cosplayer stammered at the same time.

Remus grinned widely at them, flashing a pearly white, seemingly threatening smile.

“Wow! Would you look at the time!” Roman exclaimed loudly, not looking at all at the time. “Why don’t we go and look at some of the booths and tables, Commander Spock!” He grabbed the other cosplayer’s hand and rushed the two of them away as a snickering Remus followed from a distance.

As the trio navigated the crowds of people and tables of merch, Roman ignored the fluttery feeling in his stomach and the childish glee over how the cosplayer had yet to pull his hand out of Roman’s.

---

Before Roman knew it, the end of the day had reached them, and they were ushered out alongside other convention-goers. The rest of the day had passed much more quickly than he had expected, with someone else to share his grief over Remus being Remus, and good hour or two he had completely forgotten why he��d been sulking about going in the first place.

Roman, Remus, and the cosplayer that Roman still hadn’t gotten the name of lingered on the sidewalk outside of the Marriott. There was no real reason for them to stay, but despite the Spock cosplayer’s nerdiness, Roman had discovered a shared interest in Broadway and analyzing Disney, and he almost wanted to ask for the guy’s number, awkward and embarrassing as it was.

But Remus thankfully beat him to the punch. “Say, Jabberspocky, can I get your number? My brother over there is too boring, so he never likes to talk about nerd things. I could use more cute geeks in my life!”

The Spock nodded. “That would be amenable,” he agreed. “It has been most invigorating to discuss the intricacies of the Star Trek universe with you.” The cosplayer swung around to look at Roman, looking almost...nervous? “Would you like to exchange numbers as well? You are a worthy debate opponent when it comes to Disney media.”

“Oh.” That was a compliment, right? Well, Roman was taking it as a compliment. He preened. “Of course! It would be an honor! ...For you, of course.” He grinned jokingly.

The cosplayer rolled his eyes good-naturedly, fishing his phone out of his back pocket, unlocking it, and handing it to Roman. “If you wouldn’t mind filling out your contact information, please.”

“Most certainly!” Roman pulled out his own phone and tossed it at the Spock cosplayer, who just barely caught it with his fingertips. Aw, cute, the nerd was clumsy. He focused in on the phone in his hands, typing in his name and his phone number. “There we go.”

When the cosplayer took his phone back, he glimpsed briefly at their contacts in his phone, then glanced away.

He froze.

Baffled, Roman watched as the cosplayer’s wide eyes retrained themselves down on the cell phone screen.

“Is...is everything all right?” Roman asked, feeling a spark of worry. Did they somehow know each other from elsewhere? Had he or Remus done or said something in the past?

“Oh, my,” the cosplayer said in a slightly-strangled voice. “We...I never asked what your names are, did I?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Roman mock-bowed. “Roman Sanders, at your service.” He gestured over at his brother, grinning. “And that oaf is Remus.”

“Oh, my,” the cosplayer repeated, breathless. He looked almost anxiously up at Roman. “My name is Logan Lehrer.”

Roman smiled reassuringly. “A most lovely name!”

“Is it....” The Spock cosplayer—no, Logan—hesitated. “Is it, by any chance, a familiar name?”

Furrowing his brow slightly, Roman pondered it. “...I don’t believe so,” he said at long last. “Why? Do we know each other from elementary school, or middle school, perhaps?”

“No, I just—” Logan sucked in a breath. He fiddled with the hem of his blue science shirt. “May I—” he said haltingly. “May I see your wrist?”

“My wrist?” Roman tilted his head, bewildered. He held out his right wrist. “Why?”

“No, no, I mean your—here.” Logan reached out a shaky hand, gently grasping at Roman’s left wrist. And—oh.

Oh.

Roman held his breath as Logan slowly tugged back his sleeve. There was no way—was there? Or...maybe?

Logan stared at the white symbols etched across Roman’s tannish brown skin. The five symbols, Roman now realized. Five symbols, five letters...just like Logan’s name, maybe?

Then Logan began to laugh.

Roman blinked. He had only known the guy for, like, six hours, max, but the quiet, reserved nerd he had seen so far did not seem like the type to burst into mad fits of laughter.

“Are—are you all right?” Roman asked, totally lost. What was happening here?”

“Oh my—” Logan wheezed, and Roman now was genuinely concerned. Should he call an ambulance? Should he go back inside and find the medics they had at the event?

“Whatever is going on that’s so funny?” Roman questioned.

Trying and failing to speak through the chuckles running through his body, Logan rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and practically shoved his wrist in Roman’s face, still trembling from laughter and nearly whacking him in the face.

“Oi—” Roman prepared to snap, mildly offended, but the name written across Logan’s wrist caught the words in his throat.

Roman.

Sweet Sif, Roman was Logan’s soulmate. That meant—

That meant Logan was Roman’s soulmate. That mean that, whatever language it was written in, Logan’s name was written on his arm. Logan’s. Logan.

“It’s,” Logan wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, straightening up and slowly composing himself again. “Th-that is my name on your wrist, Roman.”

“It is?” he heard himself say dumbly, as if from a distance away, still not sure that this was really happening.

“It is,” Logan confirmed. He carefully lifted Roman’s wrist to his face and traced the characters with a thin fingertip.

Roman bit back a whimper. Oh, god, he never wanted Logan to stop touching him. Hell if that sounded inappropriate.

“This is my name,” Logan said, struggling to maintain a straight face, “in Klingon.”

Roman was silent for a good minute, processing this information, until finally he realized, “Wait, Klingon? Like, that made-up alien nerd language?”

Logan’s cool facade cracked, and he grinned down at Roman’s wrist, cheeks a rosy red. “Indeed, it is ‘that made-up alien nerd language’ Klingon.”

“Why the hell...?” Roman wondered, bemused.

“I am afraid that I have no idea,” Logan informed him, still scrutinizing Roman’s wrist. “There have been records of soulmate names being written in Ancient Greek and the like before, but I don’t think anyone has recorded any in Klingon before.”

Roman could have puzzled over this for ages more, but as it finally occurred to him, this was his soulmate standing in front of him. Shouldn’t he do something about that?

Wriggling his left wrist out of Logan’s loose grasp, he cupped the other teen’s face gently in his hands. Logan’s pale whitish green makeup was coming off in his hands, and the two of them no doubt looked ridiculous from an outsider’s perspective, but he found that it didn’t matter to him in the moment.

“I must say,” Roman said quietly. “While unexpected, this is most certainly not an unwelcome development.” A suave grin danced its way across his face. “I’ve been eyeing you all day, cutie.”

Logan’s breath puffed out softly against Roman’s face. “I....” The loquacious cosplayer seemed lost for words again as he pressed closer. “I—”

“Oh, go get a room already!” a warbly voice interrupted them.

Roman and Logan sprang apart, their cheeks heating up equally in embarrassment.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Remus grumped. “I’m still here.” After a moment, though, he brightened. “Oh, wait! This means you two can go on double dates with me and Janus and we can make out and embarrass you!”

“Please, do not,” Roman groaned, He reached out for Logan once more, reveling in the tiny squeak he let out, and he buried his face in Logan’s hair. “You ruin everything, asshole.” It was a playful jab, though; without Remus there to drag him to the convention, he might not have ever even met Logan.

So it had been a good thing after all that Roman had gone with Remus to this geeky convention thing, instead of to hear that linguist’s lecture. All the linguists in the world couldn’t have helped him beyond deciphering the words on his wrist. All the linguists in the world couldn’t have quite literally grabbed his soulmate by the arm and dragged him over, like Remus did.

“Thank god!” Remus realized, gleeful. “This means you’ll finally stop complaining about being lonely forever!”

“We’re soulmates,” Logan realized, sluggish. “We—I have your name on my wrist. You have my name on your wrist.”

“Oh my god,” Roman realized, dismayed. “This means I have a nerd language stuck on my arm for the rest of my life!”

Although, if it meant being with Logan for the rest of his life...perhaps a permanent nerd tattoo was a small price to pay.

Roman untangled himself from Logan and pulled away, biting back a grin when Logan instinctively chased after him. “Wanna come get milkshakes with us?”

“That would be satisfactory.” Logan nodded his assent. “However, we might want to take off our cosplays first.”

“Nah,” Roman dismissed. As a theatre kid he’d been to plenty of Steak ’n Shakes in full stage makeup, and he was pretty sure all the local Cookouts knew his order by heart at this point. “That’s part of the fun!”

Roman reached out and grasped Logan’s hand in his own, pulling him with as Remus began honest-to-god skipping to the car. The three broke into easy banter about the best milkshake flavors, and this time Roman couldn’t hold back the grin as Logan passionately decried the practice of dipping fries in shakes.

A small price to pay, indeed.

Fin

Day 1 || Day 2

Day one of @tsshipmonth2020 ’s Soulmate September! I’m almost an hour late in my time zone, but hey! It’s still September first in Alaska, so this totally counts as on time! ...Right?

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