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edupunkn00b · 5 months

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Meus ex Machina, Chapter 13: Taking Turns

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green.

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Late at night, long after the others have gone to bed, Logan returns to the basement to see Remus. But first, Janus teaches teenaged Virgil how to play chess.

“Are you sure this is a real game, Jan?” Virge had protested with a laugh, smirking down at the pieces Janus laid out. “The horse can’t even move in a straight line!”

Janus merely shrugged and advanced a pawn. “Quite. And that ‘horse’ is called a knight.” He hid his smile better than Virge hid his eye roll. “My grandmother first taught me how to play when I was half your age. This had been her set.” With Luc and the twins out on a training excursion in the drowned coast, the house had been quiet. After helping Patton bake for as long as his attention span would allow, Virge had meandered into the common room and pulled down the old set.

Despite his protests, he’d taken to the game faster than Janus had. And certainly faster than Janus had expected him to.

Chin pillowed on the backs of his hands, Virge now sat slouched in front of the chess board, scowling lightly. Janus’ black knight made no sound as it captured Virgil’s queen. He hummed and sat back, waiting as Virge assessed the changed board. The boy had been over-reliant on the overpowered piece and neglected his knights, thinking them useless.

Now, purple-ringed eyes peered closely at each piece.

Janus couldn’t help his little nod when Virge sat up straight, staring at the rook he’d left vulnerable. He was even more pleased when Virge didn’t take the bait and instead moved a bishop to C6 to take advantage of the opening.

“Very nice,” he murmured, pointedly ignoring the proud blush on the teenager’s cheeks. Well, technically still a teenager. Back in his parent’s time, Virge would now be old enough to vote. “With practice, soon you’ll be beating me.” He stepped another pawn forward and folded his hands. “I think you’ve got an even chance of beating Papa Bear if you try.”

“Are my ears burning? Or are you just singing my praises?” Patton laughed, plopping down onto the couch next to Virge. A plume of cinnamon and vanilla-scented flour accompanied his laughter.

“Jan was just suggesting I challenge you to a game of chess.” He brandished a captured bishop and grinned.

Smile twisting into a wince, Patton rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, I don’t know, Kiddo. I’m not much for chess…” His voice trailed away when Virge put on big puppy dog eyes.

“Please, Pops?”

“Yes, please, Pops?” Janus added, chuckling when Patton rolled his eyes.

“Oh, alright,” he caved, eyeing the board. “Lemme take the bread out of the oven and I’ll watch you finish this game to warm up, okay?” He squeezed Virge’s shoulder, smiling down with that same indulgent grin he still gave Luc sometimes.

“Deal!” Virge vibrated in his seat, the prospect of actually winning a match giving him fresh energy.

Janus didn’t leave him to bask for long, though. “First you’ll need to get out of check.”

“Wha—?” Eyes wide, he scanned the board, sighing when he finally noticed the rook in striking distance of his king. “How the f—”

Luc’s distress signal censored him, the flashing orange lights giving their movements a stuttered effect as he and Virge leapt to their feet. Virge’s captured bishop rolled under the table.

Worry pinched Patton’s face as he rushed back from the kitchen, tearing off his oven mitts. Their shared fear reflected back at them, Patton's voice nothing but a whisper. "Lukie?"

After his first visit was cut short by Hesper’s alarm, Logan returned to The Muse’s room each of the following three nights. Though V never mentioned how he’d found him in the basement that night, the lack of censure didn’t feel like approval.

So he would wait until long after the sun had set, until HQ grew quiet and his own eyes would grow heavy and he didn’t need to feign his yawns before retreating to his room with quiet ‘good night’s.

With his door cracked open and ears tuned to the creaks and shuffles of the halls, he sat in the window seat, tablet balanced on his lap as he tapped between the camera arrays in a slow loop. First the hallways to the other Mad Lads’ rooms, then the common room, the med bay, and finally, the cameras just outside The Muse’s room.

Fighting his own drooping eyelids, he’d wait for the hallways to dim and then he’d count down another thirty minutes before wrangling his chair and heading downstairs.

And for each of those three nights, by the time he’d reached it, The Muse’s room had been dark and still. No moving shadows visible through the tiny window, no sounds beyond a faint snore from the little vent Logan had discovered on the second night.

He stayed for as long as he dared, the memory of V’s tight expression in the elevator growing clearer even as drowsiness fuzzed the rest of his thoughts.

The Muse’s breathing quieted, shifting into a peaceful, regular rhythm. Logan listened, head resting against the cushioned side of his chair. The Muse’s room wasn’t completely dark and as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out the shape of a small table, books stacked on top. Real, bound, paper books.

Rolls and rolls of drawings were scattered around the room, some piled beneath the table. A cup sat overturned on the counter, next to a half-filled pitcher of pink-colored liquid.

Logan suddenly jerked in his seat, and he grunted, the sudden movement sending fire over his shoulder. He rubbed the sore muscle and blinked, belatedly realizing he must have dozed off. The Muse’s room was still dim, his sleep sounds louder now to Logan’s barely awake ears.

He reached out and traced his fingers over the window, the plexisteel cool to the touch. “I’ll try again tomorrow night, Muse,” he promised, then rolled back to the elevator and to his room for his own much-needed sleep.

Four nights. Four whole nights. It had been four whole nights since he’d last seen Machina. Seven nights—an entire fucking week!—since that first glorious visit when he’d peeked outside and stared back at eyes the color of the sky in books.

He’d begun to fear Machina wouldn’t ever return. After that first visit was cut short, The Muse had feared Machina had been scared off Or blocked. But Jannie wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t actually keep Machina imprisoned upstairs. Virge wouldn’t, either.

Virge could. The Muse grinned and traced another shape onto the papered floor. Back when he and Virge had started testing the cameras and the locks, back before… The charcoal snapped in his hand, ash exploding against the paper. He smeared his fingers through the dusty shrapnel and nodded. Before that, he and Virge had practiced locking each other out from different rooms, testing the boundaries of how quickly they could switch on and off the permissions.

Ro had hated when he’d locked him out of their room, pounding on the door until his fists grew sore. And until Lucas came and made them reset the locks.

“Ha,” he muttered. “Guess that wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, huh, Ro Bro? Didn’t know I’d be the one locked out of the controls.”

Still no Machina.

He went to bed each night curled on his side, one eye peeking out from the covers to watch the door. He stared at the elevator panel light spilled over the hallway’s floor, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting and wishing for that wobble that might mean Machina was on his way downstairs. He could picture the lights brighten and dance, the little flicker as the floor numbers changed with the elevator’s movements. He could almost feel the rumble of the elevator touching down, that little click-buzz that even Jannie said he couldn’t feel.

He could almost see those bright blue eyes beaming back at him, light not just reflecting, but shining out of them, undimmed by fear or revulsion. Or guilt. A soft glow no-one else had anymore when they came to see him.

Each night, he fell asleep seeing those eyes. Pretending he could see them, at least. That was nearly as good.

But three nights ago, he’d woken—been woken?—by something. It wasn’t the elevator and there was no movement outside the door. But something had pulled him from his sleep, pulled him from his nest and he’d crawled to the window and peeked out.

Machina!

Face pressed to the window, The Muse watched the slow rise and fall of Machina’s chest as he slept in his chair. His head was tilted at an bad angle—fuck that was gonna hurt when he woke up—but his face was smooth and peaceful in sleep. Machina’s stitches had healed nicely, four thin red lines along either side of his face. The Muse brushed his fingers down his own face, his own scars flat and smooth as Machina’s looked. He nodded. Jannie was now nearly as good at sewing up his damage as Papa Bear was.

The wounds from his thumbs hadn’t gone as deep and Machina hadn’t even needed stitches for his, the shorter, shallow cuts highlighting the curve of his neck and underside of his jaw. He could’ve even gotten those shaving.

Machina sighed in his sleep, turning his head the other way. Good. He’d stretch the muscles in the other direction now and hopefully wake up with less of a crick in his neck.

Shivering, The Muse raced back to his bed and pulled two of the blankets out from their heap and brought them back to the door. Machina had already dressed for sleep, a heavy hoodie—was that one of Virge’s?—layered over a thermal just like his. The left sleeve was folded and pinned up, just like his thick knit sleep pants. No more cold feet, cold cold cold cold feet, no more cold feet… danced through The Muse’s head, but he knew the truth. He’d heard it when the shield fell.

Machina’s feet were always cold. Cold and aching and screaming for a soft warmth he didn’t know how to give them.

The Muse bunched up his larger blanket on the floor and hunkered down under the other, drawing it up over his head. Machina should be wearing his hood up to trap his body heat better, but maybe it was comfy like it was, gathered up just under his jaw like a tiny pillow.

The Muse copied him, tucking a bit of his blanket between his shoulder and his head and he leaned against the door. If he tilted his head just right he could still watch the little flutter of Machina’s bangs as he breathed.

It was the last thing he saw before sleep finally took him again.

A few nights later, Logan spotted the shadow hopping across the floor as soon as he emerged from the elevator. He rolled out into the hall and smiled back at the face pressed against the window.

“You’re back, you’re back, you’re back! You really came back!” The Muse cried. His voice cracked, hoarse and thick. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes, his chapped lips stretched painfully over a wide grin.

“Yes,” Logan nodded, steering his chair as close as he could manage to both the window and the vent. “Can you hear me this time?” he asked, watching The Muse’s face as it twisted between a sob and laughter. Without thinking, he reached toward him, hand stopped by the unforgiving window.

“I can hear you,” The Muse nodded. “Well…” He wobbled his head, light glinting against the wetness in his eyes. “Not hear you, but…” As though distracted by his mangled hand, The Muse stared down at it, eyebrows and lips scrunched down, scowling.

Logan was about to pull his hand away, to keep it out of sight in his lap. Then he heard The Muse’s quiet whisper.

“Always, always between. Always between,” he muttered and traced the shape of Logan’s hand before pressing his own, fingers splayed, against it.

The plastic warmed between their palms.

“Do you…” He looked up and met Logan’s eyes. The Muse’s eyes were a clear, bright green, a greener green than his brother’s, undarkened by sunlight the way young children’s eyes looked before they dimmed with age.

He shuddered at the implication.

“Do you still want to come inside?” The Muse asked, voice warbly. Watery eyes stared back at him and The Muse swallowed, visibly bracing himself for a rejection.

Smiling, Logan stretched and pressed his palm against the controls. The door slid open with a woosh, exhaling the scent of sweat and charcoal, paper and tea. The Muse scrambled back, leaving space for him to enter. “I need to leave my chair…” his voice trailed off, unsure if he was asking or telling.

“Yeah,” The Muse nodded, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “You… You can stay out there if…”

Logan shook his head. “I'm coming in,” he said and launched himself out of his chair and into The Muse’s room.

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