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lovelylogans · 5 years

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where you lead, i will follow

chapter one / next chapter

here’s the whole thing!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism,

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 11,088

notes: so, remember these posts? this was the fic. it’s a gilmore girls au. i thought it was gonna be a bullet list fic, which is why it’s written Like That. anyway it’s ballooned into a ten chapter fic. i know, okay, i know.

(extra note: i haven’t watched all of gilmore girls, and what i have seen was a while ago. however i have read some a+ fics with this concept. if you are in the check please! fandom please see this one, and also read all of shellybelle’s works because they’re That Good. and if you are in the 100 fandom please read this one, and also all of layalioness’ works. layalioness also introduced me to the concept of a practical magic au, which i also wrote in the sanders sides fandom. we stan.)

all right so picture this: very tiny town. let’s call it uhhhhh... sideshire. why not. the tiny town of sideshire. it’s early morning. there are certain things that happen in sideshire every morning. ms. prince and her son are leading the sunrise yoga class in the dance studio the prince family has owned for nearly fifty years. other small town stuff. you get it. i’d set the mood but this is a bullet list fic. but the most famed is patton pleading with virgil to get one more cup of hot cocoa/coffee.

(yes. hot cocoa/coffee. it is a mixture of hot cocoa and coffee. it is specific to virgil’s menu. patton attempts to consume enough of it on a daily basis to match the amount of blood in his veins so that his body runs only on hot cocoa/coffee. don’t you mean a mocha? you ask. no, i say, and refuse to explain further.)

logan, on the other hand, is using the distraction of his father pleading for caffeine/sugar to feed his burgeoning coffee addiction.

“DO NOT THINK I DO NOT SEE YOU, LOGAN SANDERS,” virgil bellows, as if he is not already slipping logan a half-caf to-go cup across the table. “YOU WILL GET AN ULCER AND I THE ONLY THING I WILL TELL YOU IS I TOLD YOU SO. CUT IT BACK.”

he is also passing logan a chocolate chip muffin baked with protein powder even as he is lecturing very loudly. it is baked with protein powder because he tends to hide healthy things into food that is probably not healthy otherwise alongside the other things. the ones he tends to reserve for the people he never sees eat a single vegetable, and also for literally every person in the town who could be seen as still growing. virgil loves likes patton a lot, but he also knows that patton has a sweet tooth and adores junk food and is not much of a cook. so he tends to save a lot of the sneak-attack healthy stuff for them.

also perhaps he has a soft spot for logan, probably because logan has grown up in this diner: he’s fallen asleep in every booth, sat in every seat while he colored pictures or did homework or made his own copies of a newspaper out of printer paper, took his first steps on this tiled floor. it’s hard not to develop a soft spot for someone you’ve known since he’s been three weeks old. it’s a Thing. logan only abuses this power sometimes.

“—but i just want a liiiiiiiiittle more hot cocoa/coffee,” patton pleads, trying for his best puppy dog eyes. they always work eventually. “c’mon, i’ve been so good, i even ate your super healthy breakfast—”

“—patton, that was an omelet and i put in maybe two vegetables among the bacon, ham, and absurd amounts of cheese, and do not think i did not see your grocery run last night how can one fully grown man only know how to make box macaroni and ramen and microwavable meals you have a growing son who needs things like vegetables and protein—”

“—but the past is the past! and if i don’t have enough caffeine, i might crash, virgil. i will crash asleep in the middle of this diner. and then you will have to steer all of your customers around me. and then you’re going to have to deal with me eventually waking up and pleading for more hot cocoa/coffee. so if you just give me a cup right nowwwww...?”

virgil folds. he always does. he has the world’s biggest weakness for the way patton’s eyes light up when he gets his way, as if virgil would truly deny him anything (within reason, obviously. if left unattended patton would have the dream diet of a six-year-old.)

“....you’re getting this smoothie to take with you to work.”

virgil has stocked it with protein powder and spinach and literally as many healthy things he can shove into the blender without overpowering the flavor of mango and pineapple. he chose those fruits specifically because they are more powerful than banana and strawberry to mask the flavor of more healthy things. literally all of patton’s healthy eating falls to virgil. it is Kind Of A Problem. virgil has no idea how he hasn’t gotten scurvy.

“deal!”

“you are drinking ALL OF IT, do you understand?”

“yesyesyes, now hot cocoa/coffee!!!”

“....fine.”

“you are an angel sent down from heaven, virgil, i swear.”

at this moment, roman prince attempts to stroll casually into the diner as if he has not just sprinted from the studio for the sole purpose of walking logan from place to place. patton and virgil exchange knowing glances over their heads.

logan obliviously looks up from his newspaper (it is a small town newspaper, as in, it is about six pages and printed on cheap newsprint—most of it a glorified pta newsletter nestled in along stories brought in from the wire around the state, and ap stories for national/international stories. he has underlined and circled various errors in red pen. there are cramped notes along the sides of each column. he will drop it off at the town’s excuse for a “press” on the way back from school. he has been doing this since he was seven years old. he got his first byline then too. patton has every single one of his bylines framed/otherwise in a scrapbook.

when he drops off the paper every day, the sole reporter/editor/photographer of the sideshire courant will attempt to not throttle him, mostly because he’s a good part-timer/intern/free labor. the whole town knows he will work for some bigshot city paper someday. but for now his know-it-all-ness is lovably infuriating. emphasis on infuriating.)

and he says “good morning” as if he does not notice how roman lights up when he says it.

patton and virgil exchange an even more knowing glance.

virgil does give roman a good meal that is easy to eat to-go and is also good for replenishing calories after a workout, though. virgil also might have a soft spot for roman prince. this particular soft spot is mostly overridden by bickering. no, virgil is not too proud to engage in bickering with a teenager. shut up.

roman, vaguely related, has also somehow become virgil’s sole confidant when it comes to his crush on patton??? it has also applied vice-versa when it comes to roman’s crush on logan??? how did this happen, you ask? virgil literally could not tell you. he just knows that sometimes roman will come into the diner to Scream about logan sometimes and then will say something along the lines of “sanders men, amirite,” and virgil will grumble at him in commiseration.

logan and roman depart soon after to walk to do their summer shenanigans (today, roman will win out their argument, and logan will dangle his feet in the town’s excuse for a swimming hole as he reads poetry aloud to roman, who’s diving to get what he hopes are pretty rocks for logan. most of the time they’re covered with moss. logan appreciates the effort. not that he’d ever say it.) patton whips his head around, looking over each shoulder in the most obvious way that he could possibly telegraph I AM ABOUT TO TALK ABOUT SENSITIVE THINGS I DON’T WANT OVERHEARD in a town full of gossips, and ducks closer to virgil, as if he can somehow avoid the town’s eavesdroppers that way. virgil does NOT find it cute.

“i got the letter,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“did you open it???” virgil demands immediately, ignoring the old man gesturing angrily for a coffee refill down the bar, because he could wait and honestly if he didn’t get how patton had priority by now did he even live in sideshire???

“no, i was waiting for you,” patton admits and virgil’s heart does NOT melt a little.

“well?? open it,” he demands.

patton takes a breath and unearths the envelope from chilton.

(backstory: patton started the campaign for logan to get a spot since his freshman year, since his son is so smart and deserves every single chance to succeed. logan does not know his dad has been applying for him, because he would inevitably start fretting about money and transport, but patton’s the dad, okay, he can worry about that stuff. but it’s now hit logan’s sophomore year and it’s the first week for chilton next monday and this letter came and WELL.)

patton does open it. and then patton starts screaming. and then virgil shouts a little too.

BECAUSE LOGAN GOT IN!! but of course he got in, he’s so smart and his grades are so good and of COURSE he would get in but logan would be so excited and virgil virgil VIRGIL MY SON IS GOING TO AN IVY LEAGUE—

patton is maybe crying a little he’s so excited. chilton wasn’t for him because he wasn’t the traditional kind of “book smart” they valued, and he never wanted to go to an ivy, and he’d never really fit in with the whole ‘high society’ thing, plus he was the first openly trans student there, plus like teen pregnancy, but all these opportunities for his son—

and then his face falls a little.

“what??” virgil says, already running through literally every single worst case scenario in his mind. “what is it?”

patton slides over the letter and silently underlines the tuition with his finger. virgil cringes away out of sheer instinct.

patton is a bit late to work that morning because he’s tried to talk out every possible way to make it work with virgil (sell something? sell a lot of things? mortgage? sell all the things???) but he knows there’s a surefire way to get that money without putting himself into major debt.

enter emily and richard sanders. (yes, i’m keeping the names emily and richard. they work too well and i can’t think of anything else. i’m handling it)

so they were a little rocky with accepting that their son is trans, but they’ve always had a... not the best kind of relationship? so they aren’t specifically transphobic (after patton ran away and had logan and they were trying to make amends, they actually paid for his top surgery) but they... well, let’s go with patton wasn’t the kid they were expecting (read: wanted) to have?

they’re v attached to their high society lifestyle, and they expected a kid who would follow that, they expected a kid who was book smart and would be in the top of his class, and they expected a kid who would want to go to an ivy league and settle down in a very cis/hetero-normative relationship and uh it was clear p early on that patton Wasn’t Gonna Do That. so patton’s whole childhood was him chafing against these all expectations, and then he came out, and then pregnancy, and he felt like he’s done everything possible to disappoint them, and the final nail in the casket was running away to sideshire when logan was barely three weeks old in the dead of the night when his parents were out at their first public appearance since logan’s birth, and he took a car and packed up everything and left, the only goodbye a note left in logan’s crib.

but again, they tried to make amends. it has only worked a little. they have stilted contact on holidays. it is polite and frigid. neither patton or logan like it.

so patton begs off work early and makes the drive to their massive mansion. he is very aware that he is in a holey, stretched-out sweater and jeans that are messy from him running around in the kitchen and playing on the grounds with the group of kids that had come up for a debate tournament. he wonders if he has gotten too old to feel rebellious about things like that, and then he deliberately messes up his hair too. just to complete the image.

it’s for logan, patton reminds himself constantly as he squeaks up the stairs in the sneakers that have a hole in the left sole that he’s duct-taped over, it’s for logan, it’s for logan, it’s for logan. his son, who he loves more than anything in the world.

he knocks. his mother opens the door. patton kind of has the feeling that he’s about to sell his soul to the devil.

he talks with his parents. he makes it very clear that it is A Loan He Will Pay Back, and that it is For Logan. patton escapes with three slightly barbed comments about his hair, five about his wardrobe in general, and eleven about his life choices, but he gets out knowing that he and logan are going to have to have weekly dinners with his parents and that he’s going to have to call his parents every week to talk about logan’s schooling, too. but he definitely got the tuition money for chilton.

so, he definitely kind of sold his soul to the devil. just a little.

he also wonders if this knowledge is gonna deplete logan’s excitement over chilton.

patton slumps into virgil’s diner. virgil immediately pours him a hot cocoa/coffee, because patton should never ever look so much like a drowned, kicked puppy.

“so,” he says, tracing the circle of the mug with his pinky, “good news, i got the tuition money.”

“you starting with good news implies there’s bad news,” virgil says, leaning against the counter. his part-time workers, used to this, scoot around him in the quest to serve the other customers.

patton grimaces. “so you know my parents.”

(virgil had a brief run-in with patton’s parents one easter. virgil might have thrown some dyed eggs at their fancy car. it was not a particularly great run-in, even if nine-year-old logan had shouted “COOL!” with delight in his eyes because he was young enough then to not worry about looking serious all the time and patton to this day looks a little smug whenever he sees people starting to dye eggs.)

(virgil had met them one other time before that, actually, but patton wasn’t in a place to remember it and logan was too little to remember it, so.)

“aw, patton, no,” virgil says, putting the pieces together.

“patton yes,” patton says unhappily, “and patton and logan will have to go to weekly dinners until patton is dead, probably, and patton might not escape it even then.”

virgil wordlessly dishes up some of the double chocolate fudge layer cake. it is a mark of how patton feels right now that he does not start crowing about dietary victory over virgil’s extremist vegetable agenda.

(he maybe spends a little too much time hosting roman prince in his house, but hey, any kid is welcome in his house, okay? especially when they’re definitely absolutely in love with his son. patton might have a bet going with himself on who confesses first. his money is on roman, because bless his son, but he is Terrible With Emotions which he probably inherited from patton but in, like, a whole new different way. genetics, right?)

“i mean,” patton sighed, dragging his fork through the icing, “it’s worth it. for logan, anything’s worth it. it's just—”

“your parents suck,” virgil finishes bluntly.

“they don’t suck entirely.”

“not being as much of a transphobe as they could be is a low, low bar, patton. it is literally the most basic bar they should be able to clear, because they’re your parents.”

“...yeah. okay.”

patton finishes the cake, tries to shake off his mood, and asks virgil for an order of takeout so that he can get dinner ready at home for logan, to tell him the good news. virgil sighs a little and barely even makes a comment about how they better eat the side salads he’s included for each of them.

⁂

logan walks into the cheerful yellow clapboard house his dad bought as soon as he could afford it, after a morning at the swimming hole and an afternoon spent 1. heckling the one-person staff of the sideshire courant, 2. pestering the librarian for the latest shipment of books she said would be in last week, and 3. reading quietly on the wooden pews that the princes repatriated from the old church before the church got the nicer ones with cushions and sits outside of the prince dance/yoga studio, glancing through the windows to watch roman laugh and spin with little girls who are wearing matching tutus with him, doing ballet lifts with them when they shout and plead MISTER ROMAN MISTER ROMAN MAKE ME FLY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! and squints at the table.

“did you... make dinner? you never make dinner. you made sure the smoke alarms were on, right?!”

“how can you not recognize virgil’s spaghetti and meatballs, i’ve literally been feeding this to you since you grew teeth?”

“i’m just used to it in takeout boxes. wait. why did you put it on actual plates?”

“can you just sit down for dinner, please?”

“is someone dead?”

“logan!”

“it’s a reasonable question!”

“no! no one is dead! it’s a celebration dinner!”

“... that doesn’t mean someone isn’t dead.”

“logan!”

so logan sits down, squinting suspiciously at his father. usually they just go to virgil’s. or they stay in and make stuff that takes less than fifteen minutes and would probably give virgil heart palpitations from stress.

this is Not Normal. which means something Abnormal has happened. and usually Something Abnormal means Something Bad.

his dad takes in a deep breath, and says, “you’re so smart.”

logan knows this. no one ever accused him of being humble. he cannot possibly pinpoint why this lead to a celebration dinner, though.

“you’re so smart,” his dad repeats, “and you work so hard, all the time. and i know you have such big dreams for the future.”

“dad,” logan says.

patton takes a breath in, and slides a piece of paper across the table. (the tuition sheet, he triple-checked, is not included.)

logan takes it, flips it over, and takes in the coat of arms. then dear mr. sanders, we are happy to inform you we have a vacancy at chilton prepatory for this school year. due to your son’s excellent grades and recommendations, and your enthusiastic pursuit of his enrollment...

he can’t keep reading from there, though. because his eyes are too blurry and his throat is too tight. he probably needs a new prescription and he might be coming down with strep. or an upper respiratory infection. maybe some variant of throat cancer that is also making his eyes too hot. that’s all it is. he should make a doctor’s appointment.

“dad,” he manages to say.

“oh, hey, hey,” his dad says, and he crosses the table to kneel by logan’s chair and pulls logan down into a hug, and logan shuts his eyes tight.

“you applied to chilton for me?” logan whispers.

logan, of course, knows about chilton. the franklin is consistently rated the best student paper in the state, winning awards both at state and national levels. a diploma from there’s practically a gilded invitation to an ivy league. seven chilton graduates have pulitzers. he knows how good their programs are. he also knows the limited stories his dad has told of his two years at chilton before he dropped out to have logan.

“and i’m... you... i’m in?”

“yeah, kiddo,” patton says. “you’re in. they were practically foaming at the mouth when i showed them your gpa, plus your bylines. they wanted you there so bad. ”

“but it’s so—” expensive, far away, you hated it so much there...

“hey, i’m the dad, okay?” patton says, drawing back and wiping his thumbs under logan’s eyes, offering his own watery smile. familial allergies, maybe. logan should check the filters and possibly update any medical files. “let me worry about all that stuff, that’s my job. your job is school.”

“i’m going to chilton?” he repeats.

“you’re going to chilton,” patton says, and hugs him one last time before rising to his feet and sitting back in his chair. “plus an ivy.”

logan’s cheeks hurt. “i’m a sophomore.”

“yeah, but you’re my sophomore,” patton says, as if that makes sense as a term of endearment, “and you’re gonna get into any college you want, because you’re logan, and you’re so smart, and you work so hard, and you deserve a spot at chilton or any old ivy league that you want, and i am gonna bend the earth and sky to make sure you have all the opportunities you could ever possibly need.”

if logan gets up to hug his dad one more time... well, his dad would never tell.

"eight, dad," he mumbles into his shoulder.

"aw, kiddo," patton says gently, and holds him tighter. "sixteen."

⁂

so, patton isn't a particularly strict parent, but logan has the feeling that if patton knew how much logan snuck out that his windows would probably be bolted shut and he’d be treated to a lecture about how “sideshire is a small town but that doesn’t mean it’s always safe all the time, okay???” as if logan hasn’t written the defining articles on the crime statistics of sideshire for the past two years, since he was old enough to see pg-13 movies and thereby old enough to see pg-13 statistics.

patton would probably be even less pleased if he knew that logan had perfected his sneak-out route at the age of ten. there’s a trellis of ivy that’s very easy to climb down from his bedroom window, and logan has been hopping the backyard fence since they’d moved into this house. and from there’s it’s just following the well-worn trail to the middle of the town, to the fairy-light-strung gazebo. it’s the perfect halfway point between their houses, and so it was Their Place.

roman grins up at him from where he’s sitting on the gazebo steps, waving his phone at him. “usually i’m the one who calls midnight crisis meetings,” he teases. “i figured that you might want something.”

he holds up two styrofoam to-go cups that logan’s sure are full of milkshake. see, logan is a virgil’s diner man through-and-through, it’s a family thing, but when it comes to ice cream/milkshakes/other ice cream based products, he has to get it from lucy’s. virgil gets it, he gets all of the ice cream he serves from lucy’s.

anyway, he and roman have been getting milkshakes from lucy’s for years: we-gotta-do-these-book-reports milkshakes, screw-the-bullies milkshakes, just-cause milkshakes, logan-i’ve-been-trying-to-teach-a-class-full-of-toddlers-a-waltz-routine-for-two-hours-let-me-have-this milkshakes. so on.

logan accepts his (salted caramel to roman’s chocolate-covered cherry) and sits on the gazebo steps, stretching his legs out. roman sits next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and logan’s heart does that strange squeezing thing that it’s done around roman for as long as he can remember.

(they met like this: they were both in mr. geller’s kindergarten class, and there’s no one with a q last name in their grade, and the only r in their grade was in ms. lansing’s, so he and roman ended up as table buddies. they were supposed to decorate the nametags that were taped onto their desks. logan drew leminscates on his, and roman drew an expansive, wild garden of red roses that leaked over onto his. logan had gotten mad. roman had drawn blue and orange universes over them in apology without ever actually saying the word sorry and he told logan a story about how the flower-world had been populated by aliens and a brave scientist touched down to try to get the prettiest flowers in the universe for his husband, the most handsome prince there ever was. at snacktime logan had traded his strawberries for roman’s jam cookies. they’d been inseparable ever since.)

(logan’s nervous about a lot about chilton, but he’s most nervous about changing this. losing this.)

logan takes off the lid, and drags his straw through the whipped cream, attempting to eat it first, so that the whipped cream wouldn’t sink down and prevent him from finishing off the milkshake with a mouthful of caramel-tinged whipped cream. roman steals his maraschino cherry. that’s all normal. it’s all so normal, sitting here together in the gazebo in the dying heat of summer, the only light from the stars and the fairy lights, and logan stares at his shoes—his formal-ish black shoes—and how they look next to roman’s red high-top converse, scrawled all over with multicolored sharpies because roman was a horrible fidget, and he was most prone to drawing all over the nearest surface (paper, his hands and arms, his legs if he’s wearing shorts, his shoes, logan, sometimes, if they manage to get seats close enough together in class and sometimes when they lay in the gazebo in silence, chasing sugar highs and enjoying the stars—)

“i’m going to chilton,” he blurts to their feet. “my dad’s apparently been trying to get me in since last year, but a spot opened up, and—and it starts monday.”

there’s silence. logan almost can’t bear it, before an arm slings over his shoulder.

“logan,” roman says, and he’s... smiling. maybe.

“you’re not mad?” logan says, confused, and roman blinks at him.

“why would i be mad?” he says. “i mean, you didn’t know, right?”

“right,” logan agrees tentatively.

“so,” roman says. “i mean, i always knew you were gonna, like, go off to stratospheres of academic excellence, it’s just happening a little earlier than expected.”

there’s something wrong with his smile. something brittle. logan doesn’t like it.

“roman—”

“i’m happy for you,” he says, and there’s something biting there.

“roman.”

“look, i just—whatever,” roman huffs. “you’re going to fancy prep school. good for you. it’ll be great. you’ll be great. tell me about the stupid franklin.”

“the franklin isn’t stupid,” logan says, shaking off roman’s arm. “it’s one of the best student-produced papers in the state. that includes high schools and colleges.”

“right,” roman snaps, “of course. the franklin’s fucking perfect. my mistake. like your stupid chilton uniform’s gonna be perfect, and all your new snooty chilton friends are gonna be perfect, and your ivy league is gonna be so fucking perfect, because you’re just too perfect, right?”

“i—what?!” logan says, trying to shake off his confusion like it’s something as physical as roman’s arm. “you said you weren’t mad!”

“i’m NOT!” roman snaps, and then he falls silent.

“i thought you would be happy for me, because that’s what friends do,” logan snaps right back. “i want to go to the best place for my future, what’s so wrong with that?!”

“nothing,” roman spits, getting to his feet. “absolutely nothing’s wrong with that.”

“then act like it!” logan hollers back, surging to his feet because he hates anyone looking down at him, literally or metaphorically. “what is your problem?”

“my problem??? my problem????”

“yes! YOUR problem!”

“fine! i guess it is my problem! because i’m not smart like you, logan sanders, otherwise known as mr. right-all-the-time—“

“wh—i don’t even know why i cared!” logan snaps. “it’s just that this is important to me, roman, i’m not going to apologize because i’m doing something that’s going to be good for me, that’s—”

“going to get you out of sideshire?” roman says, bitter.

“fine! yes! i want to do things, i want to write about important things, and i can’t exactly win a pulitzer covering the latest town meeting for the courant, okay?!”

“oh, so some fictional pulitzer’s important to you, but i’m not?” roman snaps, and logan’s mouth snaps shut, and his voice catches in his throat, and his brain runs over the conversation because when had he said anything that could possibly be interpreted like THAT?! but he realizes when roman’s face drops and then screws up that he’d taken too long to answer.

“wow,” roman scoffs. “i—you know what? have fun at chilton, walter crank-kite. i hope you and your imaginary pulitzer become the best of friends.”

“roman,” logan manages to say, but roman jostles his shoulder on his way out, and he slams both the salted caramel and the chocolate-covered cherry shakes into the trash, stomping back toward the prince studio and apartment.

and logan’s left standing in the middle of the gazebo, wondering what just happened.

“emotions,” logan huffs, and kicks one of the railing posts.

⁂

when logan slouches down the stairs the next morning, hair mussed and scowling, patton doesn’t really question it. sanders men aren’t morning people. it’s a fact of their nature. he figures it’ll get better after a mug of coffee from virgil’s.

it does not get better after a mug of coffee from virgil’s.

patton gently mentions how it’s his last friday of summer, and logan makes vague mumbling noises, stabbing his scrambled eggs with his forks more than actually eating them.

“well,” patton says, keeping his voice chipper. “no matter what you decide to do, be back at the house, okay? we’re having dinner with my parents at seven.”

logan stiffens. he drops the fork with a clatter. “it’s not a holiday,” he says suspiciously.

“well, no, but—”

“we only see grandma and grandpa on holidays.”

“it’s about chilton,” patton says. “they’re excited that you’re going. it’s a celebration—”

“we already had a celebration dinner,” logan grumbles. he picks up his fork and starts stabbing his eggs again. “i liked that celebration dinner. dinner with grandma and grandpa is a punishment dinner.”

“hey,” patton says, trying to be a little stern, but, well, he’s right. “they’re excited you’re going to their alma mater. they want to have us over for dinner more often. it’s like a peace offering.”

“did i do something?” logan says suspiciously. “you said no one was dead. i should have rephrased—is someone dying?”

“logan, what?! no!”

virgil, swinging by, frowns at logan’s plate.

“you need more protein,” he says. “eat your eggs, don’t kill them. they’re already dead.”

“i don’t need more protein.”

“yeah, i see the vast majority of your meals, kid, that’s not gonna fly,” virgil says. “eat the eggs.”

“words can’t fly and you sneak protein powder into every pastry i eat anyway,” logan mutters, and rebelliously shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth. virgil nods in approval and goes to drop off a plate of pancakes for the nearest gossips.

“no one is dying,” patton says exasperatedly. “what makes you think someone is dying, anyway? why is that always your first thought lately?”

“statistically—”

“let’s not get into depressing journalistic statistics first thing in the morning, huh?” patton says hastily, because he has made that mistake before and spent the rest of the morning in the throes of an existential crisis or general misery about the state of humanity or the planet.

(not even just, like. generally depressing statistics. journalism-specific statistics can be plenty depressing too! i went digging for some and then it turned into a couple paragraphs of me presenting paragraphs of statistics about journalists. and then i tried rewriting it like three more times. it basically boils down to me lunging through your screen to scream “support journalists,” okay???)

anyways, to get back into the fic, patton is aware of these statistics. he has rambled nervously about them to virgil, who has internalized these worries. am i basing that instance off people in my life who similarly care about me but aren’t Into Journalism like i am? yes. buzz off. i said i was getting back to the fic.

anyway, patton briefly mentally flashes through the “photojournalists can be as likely as combat veterans to develop ptsd/journalists tend to self-medicate with caffeine and alcohol and sugar/the job market isn’t great/you absolutely Do Not go into journalism for the money” statistics that i just summed up for you instead of ranting for five paragraphs you’re welcome, and says,

“do you want more coffee? you’ve barely had any.” because, you know. he’s a sanders. caffeine’s gotta work some kinda magic. and also the whole “journalists love caffeine” thing is Real Okay it’s Backed By Statistics.

virgil, on his way back to dump an armful of empty dishes back in the kitchen to be washed, is about to start lecturing, before he stops and frowns.

“yeah,” he says. “i... logan, i haven’t even caught you trying to sneak a refill.”

this is a cause for Concern. logan has usually attempted to get at least one refill at this point in the breakfast.

logan jerked up a shoulder in a shrug, and shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

virgil frowns, tops up his mug, jabs a finger in patton’s direction and says, “not a word,” before he vanishes to drop off the dirty dishes.

“do you know what you’re gonna do today?” patton prompts. “there’s some debate kids in the inn. i’ll look the other way if you want to totally wreck them.”

this is usually a temptation for logan, who gets into arguments the way cats get into any visibly box-shaped object. debate kids in town on tournament meant kids being ready to practice arguing, and logan tended to delight in taking on their arguments and poking holes into their arguments, their fact-checking, their general take on debate—

“maybe,” logan says listlessly.

“i saw that the courant had a spelling error, right on the front page,” patton offers encouragingly, because he is getting more and more worried about his son right now. “i bet rudy’s been waiting for you to storm into the office since he noticed it.”

this is also usually a temptation for logan. he’s usually gleefully ripping the courant to shreds at this point in the morning. he hasn’t even glanced at the paper dispenser or asked patton for a spare quarter in case he forgot to grab something from the family piggy bank to be able to buy the paper.

logan never forgets to get change to be able to buy the paper.

logan shrugs again.

“are you feeling okay?” patton says abruptly. “let me feel your forehead. do you think you’re coming down with something?”

“i’m fine,” logan says sharply, ducking aside so that patton doesn’t have access to his forehead.

except even being sick wasn’t an excuse for logan to not want to look at the paper, patton realizes, because what delights logan most when patton stays home to look after him when he’s sick is when patton brings back the spare copies of the new york times and the washington post and the wall street journal from the inn, and will be confined to bed rest as long as he has something to read in his hands.

“are you okay?” patton repeats, and logan sneers at his eggs.

“i’m fine,” he says.

“if you keep making that face it’ll stick like that.”

“that doesn’t make any sense!”

which is typical for logan to say, whenever patton busts out a dad-ism like that, except logan doesn’t usually yell it and slam down his cutlery loud enough to make half the diner look in their direction.

“whoa,” patton says, “kiddo, hey—”

“nobody is making any sense,” logan seethes, and grabs his stuff. “i’ll be back for the stupid dinner.”

“hey!” patton says, stern, but logan’s already storming out of the diner, the bell above the door jangling, discordantly cheerful.

“what,” virgil asks, coming up behind the counter, “was that?”

“i,” patton begins, and frowns. “i have no idea. i mean, he’s been in a bit of a mood all morning, but i just thought it was a morning thing, but i mentioned the dinner and he got all...”

(oh, patton, bless. you have no idea. keep working under that assumption, though.)

“he and your parents only sometimes get along, right?” virgil says in an undertone.

patton lets out a slow breath. “usually, it’s like a flip of a coin,” he says. “either they’re all thrilled that he’s, you know, as smart and talented as he is, and he preens under all the attention. or, well. they say something about how smart and talented he is, and how we could work to apply it better, and he...”

“gets snappy,” virgil says, because he bore witness to quite a few of toddler/little kid logan’s temper tantrums and has seen them age, like really terrible wine. “yeah.”

patton hesitates, before he looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. “can i get another hot cocoa/coffee to deal with my son going very teenager, all of a sudden?”

virgil snorts, and fondly snatches logan’s freshly-filled mug away, holding it out of patton’s reach when he jokingly tries to jump for it, and that’s a little better.

⁂

so. logan’s not having a great day.

he couldn’t sleep because he was too busy trying to figure out what the hell happened with roman. he bit his tongue so hard it bled when his dad had off-handedly mentioned going to the prince studio as an idea for what logan does with his day. he apparently has to go to dinner with his dad and his grandparents.

logan’s relationship with his grandparents is, in a word? stilted.

(logan may be terrible with emotions, but he knows his dad well enough to spot the way his shoulders tighten up and hunch over whenever his parents say something with that particular twist of their lips, to see how he starts absently rubbing the sleeves of his sweater or cardigan between his fingers or over his face like he needs comfort, the way he always makes sure to hug logan tight and firmly tell him that he supports logan, always, no matter what he wants to do, as if logan has not known this since he was capable of knowing anything at all.

logan may be terrible with emotions, but he knows the way his other father slips up and starts to call patton something that doesn’t share any of the syllables of his name and the way the blood drains from his dad’s face, every time, and he can count the times his other father has remembered his birthday on the day of and contacted him that day on one hand, whereas his dad wakes him up every birthday morning at 4:03 am to tell him all about how he was born no matter how much logan groans about it.

logan may be terrible with emotions, but he knows that’s not a man his dad should have been married to, ever, no matter how much his grandparents insist on how good it would be for the three of them, how they both needed someone to take care of them, as if patton hasn’t been taking care of the both of them on his own since logan was three weeks old.

logan may be terrible with emotions, but he has grown up surrounded by the people of sideshire who love and support his dad, who have never called him the wrong pronoun or name, and logan may be terrible with emotions but he is smart and so it’s been easy for him, over the years, to compare high-class to the town that his grandparents seem to look down upon, and logan may want to leave sideshire but he still loves it.

logan is terrible with emotions, so he gets snappy when his grandparents get snappy, but that’s not the way a proper young man should behave, logan, because he’s more obvious with his barbs than they are.

oh, they love him. he knows that. they fawn after his school work and exclaim over his bylines and send clumsily impersonal gifts for each holiday and take him out to a fancy dinner within the week after his birthday every year, he knows that they love him. he knows that they love his dad, too. it’s just hard to remember that when his dad got into the driver’s seat after last christmas and burst into tears because his parents had sprung a visit from his other father on them without any warning at all, and his other father had messed up and called him by the wrong name, again, and how his grandparents always call the inn a motel, and how they always look down on the cozy yellow clapboard house patton bought them, and a million other little things in their lives that become targets, and how it wasn’t the first time logan had ever seen his dad cry after a family function but it had been the first time since logan was a little kid, and it still hurt to see that his dad, who probably had more capacity to love people than logan had ever seen, had grown up with people who always had terms and conditions to their affection and their presence in his life and yet still had the audacity to insist that they were trying, patton, can’t you meet us halfway?

so. yes. stilted is certainly a word for it.)

so when he gets back from hiking angrily around in the forests surrounding sideshire, and sulkily takes a shower, and puts on the most formal look that his grandparents will probably be displeased with but cannot actually disapprove of (he’s particularly fond of the trans flag tie part of it, in addition to the rainbow handkerchief he’s put in his blazer pocket) he’s still in a bad mood.

“ready to go?” his dad says, from where he’s nervously tugging at all his clothes. he always dresses a bit extra masc whenever they go to his parents’ house, and he usually spends the next couple days in his coziest sweaters with his hair as messy as it possibly can get like he’s trying to reassure himself that he can be a bit of a mess without people lecturing him for it as long as he’s comfortable, and logan really, really hates going to his grandparents, along with the world in general right now.

“if i have to be,” logan says.

the whole car ride there he sits with his arms crossed and glaring out the window, not engaging with his dad’s slightly subtle “so how was the rest of your day?” to his more telling “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” to his very obvious “if you aren’t okay, i can call and tell them to push it off to another night.”

when they get there, patton shuts off the car.

“i know your grandparents’ aren’t—”

“i’ll be civil,” logan says, cutting off the pep talk, and gets out of the car before he can get the whole lecture. he hears his dad sigh before logan shuts the car door.

logan straightens his tie, puffs up the handkerchief so that it’s blatantly in the line of their vision, and patton gets out of the car. they walk in silence to the front door.

logan mutters, “let’s get this over with.”

his dad laughs, breathlessly and nervously, and knocks.

his grandmother opens the door almost before they’ve finished.

“logan!” she says, fondly. “patton,” she adds, less enthusiastic.

“mom,” he says.

“right on time,” she says.

“traffic was... fine,” patton says lamely, and they both walk into the house.

“i can’t tell you what a treat it is to have you boys here,” she continues, and patton looks cautiously optimistic.

“yeah, we’re pretty excited too,” patton says.

“now, let me look at you in the light, logan,” emily says. “oh, look at how handsome you are. growing up all the time. just the picture of a proper young man. it’s so good to see you.”

she gives logan a long hug. logan stiffly holds his arms in place, looking to his dad as if to say, help. patton shrugs. logan rolls his eyes to the heavens and pats her once on the back.

“it’s, um. it’s good to see you too,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“so!” she says, drawing back and grabbing logan’s hand, pulling them toward the Fancy Fancy living room. “tell me all about chilton.”

“i haven’t started yet.”

“richard! look who showed up!”

logan’s grandfather looks up from his paper and squints at him. “you’ve gotten tall.”

“i suppose.”

“what’s your height?”

“five eight.”

“tall. still growing, i assume. i’m on the edge of my seat to see how tall you become.”

he looks back to his paper. logan, not for the first time, thinks he knows where he gets it from.

“hey, dad,” patton says.

“patton,” he says, without looking up. “your son is tall.”

patton grins. “yeah,” he says, remembering how he shot up nearly six inches after he got back on t after logan was born, and how logan’s probably going to get even taller than him soon. “remember when he used to fit in the dresser drawers?”

“dad,” logan complains.

“champagne, anyone?”

“oh, um,” patton says. “champagne, wow. fancy.”

“well, not every day i have my boys here for dinner on a day the banks are also open. a toast?”

she does not ask patton if logan should have champagne. he probably would have said yes, but still. it’s the principle of the thing. patton grits his teeth for a moment.

“to logan entering chilton,” she says, raising the glass. “and an exciting new phase in his life!”

“here here,” richard says, still reading the paper, and they all drink the champange.

“this is so exciting,” emily continues, “an education is the most important thing in the world, after family.”

“and cookies,” patton blurts out.

his parents both look at him.

“joke.”

“ah.”

logan hesitates, still staring at the paper. the front page isn’t visible but the design styling’s so obvious logan already knows, but—

“is that the times?”

"yes,” his grandfather says. “interesting article about the effect of delivery on local restaurants and grocery stores today, have you read it?”

“no,” logan says, “i haven’t really read much of the news at all today.”

richard, without looking up, hands logan a copy of the washington post from where it’s folded up beside an already-read copy of the wall street journal and the latest copies of national geographic and time. logan, smirking a little, takes it.

“can you please wait to read until after dinner,” emily says wearily.

“oh, let them have their bonding time,” patton says, grinning widely now, and picks up the national geographic (pretty pictures!)

patton likes to imagine that his mother barely quashes the urge to throw her hands up in defeat.

the dinner, however, is much more awkward than all of them reading their publications of choice in quiet (patton’s mother had selected ladies’ home journal, in a move that patton isn’t quite sure was a masked hit or not) and he absently tears a roll to shreds in his hands, ignoring the way his mother is glowering at the little bread bits he’s littering on the table.

“logan, how do you like the lamb?” she says instead.

“it’s good,” logan says, as if he has not been poking it with his fork more than eating. patton figures it’s better than stabbing, but he would prefer if his son actually ate.

“too dry?”

“no.”

“hm. shelby always leaves it in too long. i’ll have her make something else.”

“please don’t,” patton says hastily.

“it’s fine,” logan says, when it looks like emily is about to mow over patton again.

“well. all right, then.”

a pause.

“how are things at the motel?”

“inn,” logan and patton correct simultaneously.

“i’m the executive manager now,” patton continues. “run the whole place.”

“oh,” emily says. both his parents startled. logan looks offended on patton’s behalf. patton tears off another chunk of the roll.

“dad’s done a great job with the inn,” logan says, defensive.

“speaking of which,” emily says, “your father called the other day, logan.”

logan goes stiffer. “my father’s right here.”

“he’s doing very well, out in california,” emily continues. “he’s got his own practice now. very talented man, your father.”

“i know,” logan says, glowering. “dad’s worked his way up to executive manager. he’s the youngest executive manager in the whole inn’s history and he’s getting his business degree. he’s thinking of buying an inn of his own someday.”

“logan,” patton murmurs quietly. a please be civil.

“well, that’s a bit different, isn’t it?” richard says. “christopher was always a smart boy. top of his class at chilton, and then at stanford, you know. you must take after him.”

“excuse me,” patton murmurs very quietly. he goes into the kitchen. logan gets to his feet, and so does his grandmother.

“i’m going to—”

“please keep your grandfather company,” she says, and goes into the kitchen. logan sits down reluctantly, before he says directly, “have you ever heard of howard gardner?”

“no.”

“he identified the seven distinct types of intelligence.”

“hm. seven, really.”

“yes. seven. linguistic, logical, kinesthetic, spatial, musical, interpersonal, and intrapersonal,” logan finishes, jabbing at the lamb. “dad might not be traditionally book smart, but he’s very smart in his own way. intrapersonal, specifically, but interpersonally too. i’d be proud if i inherited any of his particular types of intelligence. clearly he’s the only sanders man to have them.”

richard is about to retaliate, before there’s noise from the kitchen.

“—how could i have possibly taken that the wrong way? what was left open to interpretation?!”

“keep your voice down.”

“no! why do you pounce on every single thing i do that isn’t enough for you?”

“you’re being very dramatic.”

his father laughs bitterly. logan digs his fingernails into the silver of the knife and fork he’s still holding.

“dramatic. right. of course. i’m always the dramatic one. silly me, i must have forgotten, like i forget everything else, because logan gets any smarts from him, right? i’m the one who raised him, but any good part of logan, it always gets credited to him!”

“well, that’s not true—”

“why else would you bring him up like that?”

“we like christopher.”

“yeah, well, i remember you having a very different opinion when he got me pregnant.”

“oh, please. you were sixteen, what were we supposed to do, throw you a party?! you had such bright futures, we were disappointed.”

“yes, and by letting him go to california and having me raise logan, we got to keep those bright futures.”

“when you get pregnant, you get married! a child needs a father and a—“

she falls very silent. logan feels what little lamb he had churn in his stomach.

“finish your sentence,” his father says, and he sounds cold. like logan. he sounds like logan when he gets angry.

“i didn’t mean—“

“yes, you did. you did mean it. you were about to say a child needs a father and a mother, weren’t you?”

“patton—”

“logan was never going to have a father and a mother. he was always going to have two dads. and i’m a good dad. i have done fine with logan on my own.”

“that’s right. far away from us.”

“mom—!”

“you took that boy and you completely shut us out of your life!” emily shouts, and logan is very pointedly not making eye contact with his grandfather right now. “we came back to a note in a crib in the middle of the night, no idea if you were safe, if you and logan would have gotten hurt—”

“i would have suffocated here.”

“oh, and you’re so perfect, and i was so controlling, hm? i put you in good schools. i gave you the best of everything. i made sure you had the finest opportunities. and I am so tired of hearing about how you were suffocated and i was so controlling. well, if i was so controlling, why couldn’t i control you running around getting pregnant and throwing your life away?”

“mom, if you don’t stop, i’m leaving. i swear. i will leave, and i’ll break out agreement, and you’ll be lucky to get christmases ever again, do you understand me?”

“what?!”

“i’m not going to keep trying to rebuild a relationship with you if you just keep telling me i threw my life away!” patton snaps. “i have a life. it has a little color in it so it might be a bit weird to you, but it’s a life, mom. and if i hadn’t gotten pregnant i wouldn’t have had logan.”

“you know that’s not what i meant—”

“maybe i was some uncontrollable terrible child like you said but logan isn’t! he’s smart and careful and ambitious and a hard worker and a good kid, and i raised him, mom. he’s my son.”

“you were still a child raising a child.”

“that stopped as soon as that test went positive. i figured out how to build a life, i found a good job—”

“as a maid,” she hisses.

“housekeeper, actually, which is a perfectly fine living, for your information, but in case you didn’t hear your grandson, i worked my way up. i run the place now. we have a good life with no help from anyone.”

“yes, and think where logan could have been if you accepted a little help from anyone, hm?”

“why do you think i’m here right now?” patton shouts. “i opened my life back up to you when i established myself enough in sideshire. i accepted the top surgery that you gave me instead of an apology. i have been coming for holidays for years. and now i’ve asked for help for logan. now logan is going to chilton. you have your weekly dinners. i’m back here. you win. aren’t you thrilled about it?! isn’t that all you want?!”

logan sets down the silverware. he thinks he might be a little sick.

“is that what you think?”

“yeah, well. you haven’t really done anything to show me otherwise, have you?”

“i have no idea when you became so sensitive. you used to be such a pleasant child.”

“...you seriously just didn’t listen to a word i said, did you? for your information, being sensitive is one of the things i love most about—you know what, forget it. fine. let’s just have dessert. logan and i can go home, we’ll try again next week, i’m sure we’ll fight again then. and then you can keep telling me all about how i used to be so pleasant without thinking about how maybe i got some things from my parents, too.”

the door opens back up. logan looks back to his grandfather in a panic, only to see his head tipping forward onto his chest.

how could he have possibly fallen asleep during that? logan thinks in disbelief.

⁂

patton gets into the car and lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he walked into that house, logan buckling his seatbelt.

“do you want to stop at virgil’s for coffee?” he says, a little timid. like a peace offering.

patton chews his lip. “how much of that did you overhear?”

“...snippets.”

“all of it, then.”

“just from her telling you to keep your voice down,” logan says, and patton huffs out a humorless laugh as he puts the car in reverse, glancing through the back windshield as he carefully backs the car out.

“okay, yeah, all of it. sure. coffee sounds good.”

they’ve been driving in silence for about three minutes before logan blurts out, “maybe chilton isn’t such a good idea.”

“what?!” patton demands, and immediately pulls over to the side of the street so he can park and look at his son, face-to-face. “no way, chilton is a great idea!”

“it comes with these dinners as a condition for my tuition, the bus ride is forty minutes both ways which i could be using to study or helping you at the inn or working at the courant, we don’t know if i can’t get into an ivy if i stay where i am,” he lists off, but patton’s already shaking his head.

"these dinners might be bad sometimes but not all the time, you can still read on buses because i know you don’t carsick like that, you’re going to be harassing rudy at the courant for as long as you live in sideshire because you have been doing that since you were seven and i’m pretty sure it somehow works as stress relief for you, and isn’t it better to improve statistics than risk it?”

“i don’t like the way they talk to you.”

“i can handle it,” patton says gently.

“you shouldn’t have to handle it,” logan grits out.

“look,” patton says. “the dinners are mostly so they can keep tabs on you, okay? they want to get to know you a bit better. and you know that they aren’t always like that. tonight was a bad night.”

“dad—”

“right, i’m the dad. and i know that most of the time i make sure this house is a democracy, but i gotta pull the dad card here, okay? chilton is a good idea and you’re going. it offers too many good opportunities for you to not go. and sure, going to these dinners isn’t... the best, but i can handle it. i handled it for years before you were born, and it’s better now than it was then. besides, i already paid tuition, so.”

logan lets out an irritated sigh.

“so,” his dad repeats. “you’re going to be great at chilton, and i’ll be okay going to dinners. if there’s a day where i can’t handle, i’ll call out sick. promise.”

logan looks back out the window.

“is it just the dinner that’s bugging you?” patton tries. “because you’ve been in a bit of a mood.”

“i’m not in a mood.”

patton lifts his eyebrows silently at his son, until logan turns to see the expression on his face, scowls, and looks back out the window.

“i thought we’d said we’d go for coffee.”

“yeah, sure thing. it’s just that i’m worried about you, and i want to make sure you’re okay. if it is the dinner, fine. if you want space, that’s okay too, as long as you know i’m here to talk it out. i know emotions aren’t your favorite thing.”

logan pauses, scuffs his shoe, and mutters, “emotions don’t make sense.”

patton briefly flashes back to that morning in the diner, thinks about nobody is making any sense! and the only other person who could get his son in such a state, and has an aha! moment. “yours, or is it someone else’s emotions that have you like this?”

logan hesitates. just long enough that patton thinks he might get it. (also, okay, he knows that needling logan isn’t the Best parenting move, but sometimes logan needed to be prodded until he blows up and rants about everything that's bothering him, like the world’s most cathartic volcano.)

“...a certain dance teacher’s assisstant, maybe...?”

“coffee,” logan grits out.

patton obligingly puts the car in drive and keeps going. also logan is still trapped for thirty more minutes, so patton will get there eventually. he loves his son dearly, but patience is not one of his virtues.

“someone who shares a last name with a royal title? that rhymes with wince?”

logan almost audibly grinds his teeth.

“someone whose first name is also the longest lasting empire in history?”

“the longest lasting empire is the empire of japan, then the byzantine empire, then the holy roman empire which is different from the roman empire,” logan blurts out, and then he snaps his mouth shut.

patton stifles his grin as he signals to turn onto a new street. gotcha.

“so,” patton says innocently, “definitely not him, then?”

logan is inhaling. patton has to pay attention to the road but he would have money on his son practically inflating on a pufferfish, which meant that in three, two, one—

“he’s infuriating!” logan howls, and boom, yes, there’s the volcano.

patton is treated to about ten minutes of ranting about how roman prince is the sole cause of emotional distress, not only to logan, (”i mean—if i had emotions,” logan scoffs, and patton quietly saves that talk for another day because they’ve had it before) but to every person in sideshire and possibly the whole world. patton, knowing his son and his best friend, mostly lets this slide in one ear and out the ear, nodding and “mhm”-ing in the appropriate places.

“so,” patton says, when this dies down, “what did he do to cause a rant of those proportions?”

“i told him about chilton,” he says. “somehow that turned into him saying that he wasn’t my friend anymore.”

“okay, whoa,” patton says, “did he say that exactly?”

“...basically.”

“you’re a journalist, you know all about the dangers of having a bias, plus paraphrasing versus quoting directly. give me some context.”

“how dare you use journalism against me,” logan mutters, before he starts telling him about it. (unbeknownst to patton, logan changes the story so that he gave roman a phone call instead of sneaking out. he has to have some secrets.)

they’re nearly to sideshire by the time logan tells him that he was trying to figure out where he went wrong and didn’t answer roman immediately, and patton has been gently cringing for the past three minutes but that turns into a full-on wince that logan could not possibly miss.

“what?” logan says.

“sweetheart,” patton says gently. “he’s scared.”

“what???” logan says. “that’s ridiculous. what could he possibly be scared of? he’s the one staying at sideshire high. he’s always had other friends. he’ll probably make more friends now that i’m not going to be at school taking up all his time.”

“scared, or jealous, maybe?” patton says. “think about it. you’re going off to a great new school. you’re going to get way more opportunities to pursue your interests. there are going to be other people who have those same interests, who you will probably get along with very well, and you’ll make new friends. he’s staying here. he’s scared that you’re going to forget about him and leave him behind.”

“but—but that’s absurd,” logan says, but he’s a little less defensive now.

“he’s going to go to school without you for the first time since you both started school, you know? same as you. it’s like he has to re-evaluate his whole school social circle,” patton says. “plus, i mean, then he asked if he was important to you, honey, and you hesitated, which when you add in all that other stuff...”

logan’s quiet.

“he’s scared of losing his best friend too, kiddo.”

logan heaves a massive sigh as patton turns onto the sideshire main road. patton also notices that logan does not deny that he’s scared of losing his best friend.

“i have to apologize, don’t i?”

“i mean, he said some not-great stuff too, but yeah, you should probably initiate.”

logan groans to himself, dropping his head onto the dash, and patton pulls into the parking lot of virgil’s.

“what do i even say?” logan says miserably.

“you’re a smart kid,” patton says, shutting the car off and opening the door. “i bet you can figure it out.”

logan follows, and virgil looks up at them, squinting at their slightly-fancier dress.

“so, dinner with the hellbeasts?”

“they’re my parents,” patton scolds at the same time logan says, “yes, they were terrible,” and hops up onto the barstool.

“coffee,” he says. “and fries. plus a jam tart.”

“logan, you’re killing me,” virgil says. “could i possibly steer you toward ordering something healthy? for once?”

“i only said i wanted coffee, fries, and a jam tart, in no way is that tantamount to murder. plus i get salads all the time.”

“yeah, after i tack them onto your order,” virgil says.

“you know what,” patton says. “make that two jam tarts. and maybe make logan’s order to go?”

logan looks at him, panicked. “what, now?”

patton shrugs. “why wait?”

logan sighs, and repeats, “to go.”

“plus a coffee and a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream for me, please.”

“...plus a salad?”

“virgil,” logan says, anguished, “we had lamb for dinner. that included a side salad. and grandma was mean to dad. let us be unhealthy.”

“...do you want a warm brownie with that ice cream?”

patton smiles a little bit, directing it down at the counter. “if you wouldn’t mind.”

he passes over a twenty to pay. he then hands the change to logan.

“maybe lucy’s wouldn’t be a bad call?” he says to logan, under his breath, and logan nods, taking it.

virgil dishes up their coffees, and then hands logan a bag.

patton pats him on the back. “you got this.”

logan gives him a jerky nod and takes the bag and his travel cup, heading out of the diner.

“so,” virgil says, leaning on his elbows, putting his chin in his hand. “going to see roman?”

“going to apologize to roman,” patton corrects. “he was in a mood this morning because he and roman got into a fight.”

“ahh,” virgil says. “well, they’ll, you know. patch it up.”

“they always do,” patton says, “but, well,” he glances around, “it was about chilton, and logan might have implied that roman isn’t important to him, so.”

virgil flinches.

“yeahh,” patton says. “i mean, he didn’t mean it, obviously, but. jam tart. lucy’s. him going to actually say sorry.”

“yikes,” virgil says. “um. speaking of yikes... do you wanna talk about...?”

patton shrugs a shoulder. “just my mom disapproving of my life, as usual, and crediting any of logan’s achievements with his other dad, as usual, and she nearly said something pretty trans slash homophobic before catching herself, which, you know, was a new kind of not great, or at least a kind of not great they haven’t been bold enough to say to my face until now,” he says, like it doesn’t hurt. “plus i lost my temper and actually, like, yelled at her, which logan of course overheard.”

“you?” virgil says. “yelling?”

patton nods, drooping.

“jesus,” virgil says.

“yeah,” patton sighs, and takes a huge gulp of coffee.

“if you want me to egg their car again—”

patton nearly snorts coffee out of his nose, and then there’s, like, what would be the closing scene of an episode that makes viewers think oh they’re in LOVE love, all fond smiles and laughing at each other as the camera slowly zooms out, showing them looking like they’re wrapped up in their own little world in the middle of virgil’s diner.

#my post #my fic #sanders sides fanficiton #moxiety #logince #wyliwf

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lunar-lair · 5 years

Text

And Break He Did...

Hey! Sooo most of the inspiration for this fic was the song Danny by Nicole Dolanganger. (One l or two ls, i can never remember.) It's a really sad and somber song, but hey, this is really sad and somber, so who's surprised! Anyways, it might add something to the fic if you listen to the song, I guess?? If I feel like it, I might write all the inspo lines in the tags. Anyways, have fun with the sad!

Oh yeah, btw, this is a highschool au with Moxiety. Sorry for forgetting!!

(Skdjkdk I did like,,,most of this and then forgot to save before I posted. Most ANNOYING thing ever)

Warnings: Suicide, self harm (past not current if that changes anything), abusive parents

Patton runs to the limp body a few yards away, blood already pooling around it.

He yells his name, tears in his eyes, reaching for the same boy who just jumped off the building towering over them.

Looming. Haunting. Now a place of death.

He dropped to the body's side, knowing it was too late. Blood drenched the boy's favorite purple and black jacket, the same blood coating Patton's hands as he gathered the other in his lap.

"Virgil..." He whispered, tears dropping onto the other's too-pale face.

He thought back to when they first met-all he knew of the boy back then was his reputation as snarky and scared.

He had picked Virgil up after a group of bullies had made him their victim. Virgil had smiled shyly and thanked him, Patton beaming back.

They had walked home together that day, and exchanged numbers.

They would become fast friends.

As they got to know each other, Patton noticed Virgil's bruises, and his easy and often fear-especially at certain things.

He tried to pry; tried to get to the source.

It only scared Virgil off, and their friendship suffered.

Virgil eventually forgave him, and the hole Patton made was mended.

Soon, Patton learned of his abusive parents, and his self harm scars. His heart broke for him, and he tried his best to mend him.

He supposed he failed.

He loved his soft smile, and deep amber eyes. His deep, gravelly, yet soft voice. The way his smile broadened when he laughed. Their first kiss was amazing; like fireworks and coming home.

He pulled Virgil closer to his chest, tears streaming freely down his face. "They took you from me...baby...Virgil...why..." His voice broke into a sob.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't fix you." He whispered, before kissing Virgil's cold lips a final time.

#haha didnt tell you the name until the 5th paragraph!! i love withholdinv information in fics #sanders sides #sanders sides fanficiton #ara's authoring #moxiety #highschool au #fun fact: the title abbreviated is abhd. so like;;one letter away from. adhd.#also i think ill put the lyrics and what they inspired on another post later?? who knows #fanfiction #ts virgil #ts patton

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pawtoncake · 5 years

Note

2.~ “I don’t CARE if you’re captain of the swim team, if you put one more rescued snail in my locker ‘bEcAUsE iT wAs LoNeLY,’ I swear I’ll dump my ten-pound collection of glitter into your pool.” With Logicality is that’s okay? Also hi ily

Glitter

Yes this is pure at heart, also ily to babes!! no warnings, just fluff

@cinnamonlilac @figurative-falsehood @myinsanity-iscreativity @combine-the-kitchens @sanders-sides-reblog @poppyflowerlesbian666 @hhhhhhhhhhfjaskfsagfhasfgdsakfsa @whymustibedraggedintofandomhell @haveyourselfamerrylittlebitchmas

—-

“Hey Pat!” Logan backed away from his locker, quite frustrated. Patton stuck his head around the section of lockers, with a smile on his face, “yeah Lo?”

Those puppy dog eyes. Fuck.

Logan’s look seemed to soften as he picked the snail up with his ring finger, “mind telling me why there’s another, and starlight, I don’t care if you’re the captain of the swim team, if I get the ‘because it was lonely’ excuse I will pour so much glitter in the pool.”

Patton almost squealed as he made his way over, “well he was.”

“You say that everytime babe, but now I have to pre-order the glitter.” He grabbed his phone now from where he was sitting.

“But Lo, that would be bad.”

“You said it was lonely, i now get to pour glitter in your paradise.”

Patton pouted, almost making Logan cave.

Let’s just say the glitter did happen, but Roman got blamed because no one had the guts to call out Logan.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #roman sanders #logicality #sanders sides fanficiton #fluff no angst #fluff #patton sanders #patton #logan #roman

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artistic-nacho-blog · 6 years

Link

Here is day one of my daily writing challenge! If you want me to post it here, too, just ask.

Day One: Closed

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanficiton #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #daily writing #prinxiety

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iwillphysicallyfiteyou · 6 years

Text

Badass Boys - Chapter Six

First, Previous, and Next.

Masterlist/Outfits

Series Description: Virgil has always been known as a bad boy, Logan very recently has been considered a bad boy. However, no one knows that these two bad boys are gay.

Chapter Description - Logan gets distracted while driving so he calls his friend Roman.

Pairings: Analogical (Side Royality)

CW: Strong Language and Internalized Homophobia

Logan would never admit it, but he started to space out while driving. Virgil was such an interesting person, and a good looking one as well. His black hair perfectly contrasted with his pale skin, and he was only 5′10″, which was adorable. Logan mentally slapped himself in the face. He shouldn’t be calling boys adorable, that’s weird, at least that’s what he told himself.

A car horn brought Logan back to reality. He cursed under his breath once he realized that he just flew past a stop sign. He pulled into a gas station, walked out of his car, and called his friend Roman. There’s no way in hell he can drive when he’s this distracted.

“Hello,” Roman responded after a couple of rings.

“Hi,” a voice, presumingly Patton, said over the phone.

“Greetings, would you be able to pick me up? I’m at the Quiktrip on highway 47.” Logan noticed a van pull into the parking lot.

“Sure, but why?” Roman asked.

Logan noticed that the van was getting closer and closer to him.

“I keep getting really distracted, I even ran through a stop sign and didn’t notice until after,” Logan admitted.

The van parked next to Logan.

“Alright, I’m like five minutes away from there, but I’ll be as fast as I can,” Roman said.

“Thank you.” They exchanged their goodbyes before hanging up.”

Then there was a hand on Logan’s shoulder. Logan shrieked, loud.

“Woah calm down, it’s just me,” the person said.

Logan looked over and saw that is was his friend Leo.

“Gosh, you scared me.” Logan placed a hand on his heart.

“I could tell, you screamed like a blonde lady in a horror movie,” Leo teased.

“Oh hush.”

“Anyways, I came here just because I saw you, but I gotta go to my house now,” Leo said.

Logan was about to ask him for a ride, but then he realized how inconvenient that would be. His house is in a completely different direction, and he already asked Roman for a ride.

“Alright, have fun.”

“Will do.”

And then he waited. While he waited he went inside and bought lemonade. Roman’s red blazer was waiting for him when he stepped outside.

Roman rolled down his window and yelled, “hey pretty boy, want a ride?”

Logan rolled his eyes before grabbing his bag and phone out of his Blazer, then crawled into the backseat of Roman’s car.

“Tell us about Virgil,” Patton said once they started driving.

“Don’t you already know like everything there is to know about Virgil since you two are best friends?” Logan asked.

“Well yeah, but I want to know what you think of him.” Patton turned around so that he is facing Logan.

“Well, he’s calm, nice, does things on a whim, and he has a nice face,” Logan said.

“Ooh, someone has a crush,” Roman teased.

“Yeah, I don’t swing that way,” Logan responded, and Roman shrugged.

“What are you going to do with your car?” Patton asked.

“I’ll have to talk to my dad about that,” Logan responded.

“Oof.”

They continued to talk about trivial things as they drove until eventually, Roman parked in front of Logan’s house.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Logan strolled into his house and set his bag on the sofa. His dad would be home soon.

“Where were you?” Brooklyn, Logan’s sister, asked. Brooklyn’s newly pink hair was cut into a bob.

“When did you dye and cut your hair?” Logan asked.

“Kyla did it, do you like it?” Brooklyn asked.

“Yeah, it suits you,” Logan said truthfully. There’s only one person that Logan loves more than his dad, and that’s his sister. Brooklyn is a sassy and spunky fourteen-year-old, and she’s Logan’s spirit animal.

“Thanks. You should dye your hair too.”

“No thanks.”

“You never take any risks.” That stung.

Logan shrugged before going into the kitchen.

Brooklyn and Logan talked until their dad entered the house.

“Hey kids,” their dad said as he walked into the kitchen.

“Hey, Pops.” Brooklyn gave their father a hug.

“Aww, Brookie.” He returned the hug.

Brooklyn pulled Logan into the hug.

“Why,” Logan mumbled.

“Oh you love us,” their dad said.

They stopped hugging and started talking about their day. After Brooklyn talked about her day with Kyla she asked what Logan did today.

“Logan skipped with Virgil,” their father said.

“What? You skipped with Finding Emo?” Brooklyn asked.

“Don’t call him that, and yeah.”

“Why’d you skip?” Brooklyn asked.

“I don’t know, because he asked me to.”

“That is a terrible reason,” their dad said.

Logan shrugged before saying, “maybe.”

“Do you have a crush on him?” Brooklyn asked.

“No, I’m not gay Brooklyn.” Logan crossed his arms.

“Okay damn calm down,” Brooklyn said.

“Language!” Their dad scolded.

“English,” Brooklyn responded.

“I am this close to grounding you.”

They continued bickering as Logan’s phone vibrated.

Roman: virge told me to give you his number

Roman: Well technically he told patton but oh well

Then Roman sent him Virgil’s number.

Logan responded to Roman before adding Virgil to his contact list. He decided to text him a simple hey.

Virgil: Is this Logan?

Logan: Yup.

Virgil: Cool, today was fun

Logan: Indeed.

They continued to talk until his phone was taken out of his hands.

“Who are you texting- Virgil?” His father asked.

Taglist

@metaphoricalpluto @scorching-scotch @sockopath @confinesofpersonalknowledge

Next Chapter

#sanders sides #analogical #sanders sides fic #analogical fic #sanders sides fanficiton #analogical fanfiction #fic #fanfiction #iwillphysicallyfiteyoufic #iwillphysicallyfiteyou

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eliemo · 3 years

Text

Call Me When You're Sober

Summary: Remus tells Janus he loves him for the first time. Or at least...Janus thought he had.

TWs: alcohol usage in the beginning and talk about being drunk throughout, misunderstandings, hangovers

Notes: Human au, loosely based on a drawing from @underdog-arts their art is amazing go support their patreon.

Established romantic Demus/Dukeceit and background (very background) Prinxiety

“I’m not going to kiss you.”

Janus frowned, something that could probably be considered a pout with how out of it he was. He chased Remus’s mouth as the other man pulled away, one hand still carded through Janus’s hair.

His frown was definitely closer to a pout judging from the way Remus laughed out loud, eyes softening in a way anybody else rarely got to see, and Janus felt his cheeks flush even further. They’d been tinged with pink since his second drink (Remus hadn’t stopped pointing out the color in his face all night, adorably smitten by it) but at this point there was no way to blame his blush entirely on the alcohol.

“I’m not gonna kiss you, Jan,” Remus repeated, grinning insufferably when Janus slurred an illegible plea. “Not right now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re drunk,” Remus said, moving his hands from Janus’s hair to keep him steady on the bar stool. “You won’t even remember any of this in the morning.”

“I will,” Janus protested, tongue slow and heavy in his mouth. “I always do.”

“Alright then, party animal.” Remus smirked, standing from the bar stool to drape one of Janus’s arms over his shoulder, helping him stagger to his feet. “Let’s get you home. Pat bought us an Uber.”

“But--”

“You can have a kiss when you’re sober,” Remus said, waving at a blurred shape Janus thought might be Patton. “Ok?”

Janus couldn't even make out his own reply, stumbling and leaning heavily against Remus’s side. He felt weightless, floating through the air, and it took him a moment to realize it was because Remus had picked him up and carried him out of the bar.

It felt like forever since he’d let himself get this drunk at a party before, and even longer since Remus had been the one sober enough to take care of things.

It was...nice. Really nice. Even if what rational thought he had left knew for a fact he would feel like shit tomorrow.

He was vaguely aware of Remus gently putting him in the backseat of a car and carefully following in after him, their hands loosely intertwined.

The driver said something before pulling away from the curb and driving off but Janus couldn’t make anything out, overcome by giddy exhaustion, and focused entirely on Remus.

He snorted when he caught Janus staring, and Janus knew he’d never get Remus to admit to blushing at the attention.

Janus leaned into the touch when Remus carefully framed his face, running his thumbs along his cheekbones, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Nobody else got to see Remus like this, thoughtful and loving and gentle. It was rare, but Janus always felt honored in some way. Even if he was so drunk he could barely comprehend it.

Remus suddenly leaned closer to press a gentle kiss to Janus’s forehead, slow and careful, one hand still cupping his jaw. He pulled back, just barely lit up by the passing streetlights, gaze soft as he looked Janus over.

“I love you,” he said for the first time, and Janus’s heart soared. “And I know you won’t remember this tomorrow.”

His face was beginning to ache with how much he was grinning, replaying the words over and over again in his head despite the fog weighing him down. Janus fell into Remus’s chest and shut his eyes to the sound of the car’s engine, trusting Remus to get them home safe.

---

Janus unfortunately did remember the night before, blurred and distant as it was, and that last conversation with Remus was the only thing keeping Janus from swearing off alcohol for the rest of his life.

His head was pounding, the light filtering in from the window felt like someone was poking knives in his skull, and every time he tried to sit up every single bone in his body violently protested, stomach lurching dangerously.

But he couldn’t even be annoyed at any of that right now.

Remus had said he loved him for the first time last night, holding his face like the most precious thing in the world, and that was the only thing on Janus’s mind.

He’d known Remus loved him. Or at least, he’d assumed. Remus tended to show love every way except verbal. It had taken some getting used to, insecurities Janus refused to voice always making him doubt that Remus actually felt the same, despite them dating for months and being friends for longer.

But Remus had said it last night. Remus had kissed Janus’s forehead and looked at him with soft fondness and told him he loved him.

He loved Janus.

And he had assumed Janus would be too drunk to remember, which meant he got to mercilessly tease Remus for the rest of the day about it.

Janus forced himself out of bed, noting with a small smile the water bottle that had been left on the bedside table. He could hear some commotion from the other room, probably Remus looking for food in the kitchen.

He sipped at the water, untangled himself from the sheets and slowly stumbled to his dresser to get a change of clothes. As uncomfortable as sleeping in jeans was, he appreciated Remus not changing him into pajamas while he was passed out.

When he felt human enough to leave his bedroom, wrapped up in sweats and a flannel, Janus slipped out of his bedroom and padded down the hall where Remus was sprawled out on Janus’s couch with a half eaten poptart on the coffee table.

“You could have slept in the bed, you know.”

Remus grinned up at him, disheveled and probably a bit sore. “Yeah well, you smelled gross.”

Janus knew Remus would never admit he just hadn’t been sure he was allowed, if Janus would be comfortable with someone sleeping next to him without clear permission.

Remus had a brass sense of humor, he was forward and grossly affectionate in public, but he was always so careful with Janus. There were so many unspoken questions, silent searches for approval, and private check-ins.

“You’re cute,” Janus said, grinning when Remus stuck his tongue out. “Do I get my kiss now?”

Something unreadable flashed in Remus’s eyes, and Janus assumed it was the realization Janus hadn’t been drunk enough to completely forget the night before.

It was gone in an instant, and Remus pushed himself up off the couch to shuffle across the small room, gather Janus in his arms, pull him close and kiss him just like he’d wanted the night before.

Remus pulled away with a wink that made Janus scowl playfully, and made his way to the connected kitchen. “I can’t figure out how to work your coffee maker.”

“If you break anything else in my kitchen I’m killing you.” Remus had managed to break his old toaster when they’d first started dating, and Janus never planned on letting him live it down. “I’ll make you some.”

Remus jumped up on the counter, watching Janus refill the pitcher in the sink and grab the coffee grinds from the counter, eventually distracted by scrolling through his phone while the pot brewed.

“Hey,” Janus called when it was done, smirking when Remus hummed nonchalantly. “Did you tell me you loved me last night?”

Remus jumped and nearly dropped his phone, fumbling for a second before managing to put it down on the counter, hands ridiculously unsteady.

Janus expected the momentary surprise, but he didn’t expect Remus to bark out a panicked laugh and shake his head.

“What? No.” He scoffed, swinging his legs over the side of the counter. “I didn’t say that. Jeez how much did you drink, Jan?”

Oh.

He’d been ready for a bit of embarrassed denial, some teasing and flirting that had become normal between them. Last night had made Janus stupidly happy- happier than he remembered being in months- but Remus had jumped straight to denying it, like it was the most ridiculous thing in the entire world.

He suddenly felt cold, and a little bit like someone had shoved him to the floor. He quickly averted his gaze so Remus wouldn’t see how much that had hurt.

“Right,” he said, sliding Remus his mug of coffee. “Yeah, duh. Sorry. I was...super out of it.”

“It’s cool.”

Janus didn’t know what he was supposed to say now. There was a lump growing in his throat, something a little more crushing than simple disappointment weighing down on his chest.

“I’m...gonna make some food,” he said after a few seconds of unnatural silence. “We still have those frozen waffles, you want any?”

“Sure.”

Remus was being abnormally curt and dismissive, and Janus could practically see him searching for an excuse to escape the tense atmosphere that had never existed between them before.

“I, uh, have a change of clothes in my bag,” Remus said, waving a hand at the hallway. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”

Janus nodded, not trusting himself to speak as he went to rummage through the freezer to hopefully distract himself with making breakfast once Remus disappeared.

This wasn’t a big deal. He could blame his suddenly blurry vision on the hangover.

He’d...really thought he remembered last night. He could still feel Remus’s hands in his hair and that stupidly sweet smile on his lips when he refused to kiss him when he was drunk.

He remembered the pink blush on his nose when he’d said those three words, quiet like they were in their own little world that night. The scene had been replaying over and over in his head until he fell asleep, and had picked right back up when Janus had woken up.

It had felt so real. He’d thought...he’d thought it was real. He thought he’d finally be able to say it freely without worrying about moving too fast for Remus.

It was possible it could have all been a dream, but...

But Remus had answered so quickly. He’d been so adamant about how he hadn’t told Janus he loved him. Like he would never even consider doing such a thing.

Which...which was fine. Janus wasn’t going to hold Remus’s feelings against him, and he certainly wasn’t going to make a big deal about it.

He’d just been mistaken assuming he and Remus wanted the same kind of relationship. Janus loved Remus and Remus...didn’t. Janus wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted, but he’d made his feelings on the matter pretty clear today.

Janus had just been too blind to realize it after months of spending nearly every waking moment together.

That was fine. It was a stupid misunderstanding. Janus wasn’t going to cry like a heartbroken idiot just because Remus didn’t love him back.

He hissed out a curse under his breath when almost immediately there were tears slipping down his cheeks, and Janus pressed a hand firmly to his mouth to muffle the sobs that tried to escape.

He was so stupid. It wasn’t like this was the first time this had happened, Janus figured he would have been able to see the signs by now. People just didn’t want him like that.

He’d just...really thought Remus was different.

He didn’t think he would ever laugh off the idea of loving Janus.

Janus wrapped his free arm around himself, swaying slightly in the middle of the kitchen as he stared blankly at the toaster, trying and failing to get himself to suck it up and stop crying.

He was being ridiculous- shaking with the force of trying to hold back his sobbing, blinded by endless tears gathering in his eyes and flowing down his cheeks- and he needed to get a hold of himself before-

“Woah, what the fuck?”

Janus jumped, refusing to look at Remus standing in the hallway as he quickly tried to wipe his tears away with the palms of his hands. “Do you want syrup?”

He heard Remus move closer and kept his head down, staring resolutely at the kitchen tiles until he could see socked feet step into the room.

He still didn’t touch Janus, still so focused on his comfort (was any of it even for Janus’s comfort? Maybe Remus just hadn’t wanted to touch him this whole time) but he moved as close as he dared and lowered his voice.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” Janus said automatically, choking on another hiccuping sob. “I just...have a headache. Stupid hangover.”

“Oh.” Remus hesitated, and Janus could feel him staring. “Did you take an ibuprofen? I can get you a couple from the bathroom. And like...gatorade. You still have some, right?”

Janus nodded and took a shaky breath, hating the way the tears still wouldn’t stop falling. “Yeah. In the fridge.”

“Good,” Remus said, and Janus still couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. “I don’t want you hurting.”

“I’m fine. Just drank too much.”

“You were pretty drunk.”

“I don’t remember last night at all,” Janus said, more bitter than was probably necessary. “Clearly.”

It was enough to give Remus pause, plunging the kitchen into heavy silence. Janus crossed his arms and risked a glance up when he awkwardly cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Anyways, gatorade—”

“I can get it.”

“No, I got it,” Remus said, and Janus watched warily as he pulled out a chair from the table. “Sit down.”

Janus hunched his shoulders, tears still sliding down his jaw just as fast as before, but he did as Remus said and shakily made his way over to the table, lowering himself carefully until he could curl up in his chair.

Remus returned almost immediately with a bottle of blue gatorade from the fridge and two painkillers from the bathroom medicine cabinet. He handed them over silently, standing awkwardly by the table while Janus took them.

Janus did his best, carefully swallowing the pills and sipping the gatorade with shaky hands. But he couldn’t get himself to stop crying, or even slow his tears, wracked with seemingly never ending sobs no matter how hard he tried to get a hold of himself. Remus standing there just made it so much worse.

He saw Remus crouch down to Janus’s level, breaths only coming out more frantic when Remus frowned and moved to hold Janus’s face in his hands.

“C’mon,” Remus said softly, brushing Janus’s cheeks with his thumbs. “What’re you crying for?”

Janus couldn’t answer. Remus sounded so gentle and adoring and it only made him cry harder, choking on a pathetic whimper as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey, hey, you’re ok.” Remus kept wiping Janus’s tears, his touch light and grounding. “It’s just me, Jan. You can tell me.”

Janus shook his head, weakly clutching at Remus’s sleeves. “N-no, I’m just...I’m being an idiot. Go get your waffles.”

Remus didn’t move, and Janus could practically feel him staring. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m being stupid,” Janus insisted, because he was. He knew he was. “I sw-swear I just...you don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“I’ll be fine, Jan. Tell me what happened.”

Remus kept brushing his tears away, warm and gentle, and Janus couldn’t catch his breath. Maybe there was a way he could fix this, get Remus to change his mind, or at least understand how he’d misread everything so horribly.

Janus finally managed to take a shaky breath, loosening his hold on Remus’s arms. “Did...did I do something wrong?”

“Wh- no?” Remus frowned, straightening a little to try and look Janus in the eyes. “You didn’t do anything.”

“You just,” Janus hesitated, wondering if it would be easier if he just gave up and dropped it. “You answered really fast when I asked about last night.”

Realization dawned on Remus’s face, and Janus’s heart dropped when he suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Oh.”

“I get it,” Janus said quickly, because now Remus was the one refusing to meet his gaze. “I do, it’s fine. I just...didn’t know if I had done something, or—”

He cut himself off when Remus suddenly pulled back, taking his comforting warmth with him, leaving Janus feeling frigid and empty.

He curled in on himself, wondering if at this point it would be a better idea just to kick Remus out of his apartment so they could start over and pretend none of this ever happened.

“It’s not...you- you didn’t...” Remus was stumbling over his own words, shuffling uncomfortably where he stood, and each attempt to explain only crushed Janus further. “It isn’t—”

“Yeah, no I get it,” Janus snapped, any venom overshadowed by the misery in his tone. He was hurt and tired and he just wanted to go back to bed. “It’s fine, Remus.”

“No, I’m—”

“I said I get it! It’s ok, I...I shouldn’t even have asked.”

“I lied.” Remus wasn’t looking at him, his back turned to Janus as he pulled and fiddled with his chain necklace. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” Janus...suddenly wasn’t sure what to say. “That you...loved me? Or that you didn’t say it.”

“That I didn’t say it,” Remus confessed, and Janus’s tears started to slow. “I, uh...I did. I said it.”

Janus didn’t move, terrified that he might somehow break the illusion and Remus would turn around laughing again, waving off any silly ideas of love or commitment.

“Did you mean it?” he asked carefully, hating how shaky his voice was. “If you were drunk we can just drop it.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” Remus said. He sighed, running a hand over his face, still turned away. “Yeah, I...I meant it.”

“Oh.” Janus expected to feel relieved, but now Remus was shaking too, and he still wouldn’t turn around, and Janus just felt scared and numb. “Why did you—”

“Because I wasn’t ready,” Remus blurted. “I don’t...I don’t know if I’m ready, and I don’t know if you...I didn’t think you would remember. It’s...it’s a huge jump, Jan. And usually I’m all for being impulsive, you know that, but you just...this is different. You deserve better than that.”

Janus wiped once more at his eyes, but something had loosened a bit in his chest at Remus’s words, the other man still tense and refusing to look up from the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, rubbing his sleeve over his face until his eyes burned. “I shouldn’t have pushed, I just thought...something else.”

“What?” Remus finally turned to face him, but his confusion only lasted a moment before his eyes widened. “Oh, fuck I didn’t even...I didn’t think about your feelings. Shit, I’m- I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, Remus it’s fine—”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Remus pressed, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I jumped to conclusions,” Janus said, trying to sound casual despite how his face was stained with tears and it felt like he’d just been punched in the chest. “It’s ok.”

Remus nodded, though he still seemed a little frantic. “We can just...ignore this. If you want to.”

Janus wasn’t sure how he felt about that solution, but he wasn’t going to push Remus out of his comfort zone any more than he already had today. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t want to make you...uncomfortable,” Remus said slowly, and he smirked at the irony of his own words. “Not with this, anyway. Feelings are fucking gross and dumb and I know you don’t want any part of that, and I’m really sorry.”

“What?” Janus sat up a little straighter, wondering how he’d managed to find someone just as stupid as he was. “No, Remus—”

“I understand!” Remus kept going, barrelling over whatever Janus had been about to say. “Like, obviously I understand. I’m awful but I’m not gonna—”

“God, you’re such a dumbass.” Janus scrubbed a hand over his face, smiling into his palm. “I was upset because I thought you didn’t love me.”

Remus froze, staring with wide eyes like Janus had just said spoken in a foreign language. “Oh.”

“You answered so fast when I asked you,” Janus explained. “I thought I did something to fuck this up. Or that I’d just...misunderstood your intentions.”

“You didn’t,” Remus said. “I was- you know. Just scared.”

Janus nodded, forcing himself to take a deep breath and look Remus in the eyes. “I know. I...I know. I love you.”

Remus’s head snapped up. “You do?”

Janus actually laughed outright at the shock on Remus’s face, like a child that had just been told he was getting his first puppy. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah of course I do, Remus.”

“For real?” Remus asked, even as a huge grin began to take over his face. “Like no joke? You’re not fucking with me?”

“Well, I did think it was obvious,” Janus said, and he couldn’t help but match Remus’s smile. “I love you, you idiot.”

“Me? Shit, Jan, you need higher standards, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Janus took another sip of his gatorade to hide his obvious smile. “I literally just confessed to you.”

“You confessed to having horrible taste.”

“I love you,” Janus said again, because Remus was blushing and he was absolutely using this to his advantage. “Obviously. I’m sitting here crying at ten in the morning because I thought you didn’t.”

Remus had the decency to look embarrassed, another thing almost no one besides Janus got to see. “You could have been crying because you were hungover.”

“No. I was heartbroken, dumbass.”

Remus made a face like he’d tasted something sour. “That’s gross.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Janus scoffed, capping and pushing away his drink. “You said you loved me first.”

“Gross, don’t bring it up,” Remus said, and Janus smirked as he pushed himself to his feet. “I sound like a sap.”

Janus laughed, moving to wrap his arms around his boyfriend’s (Boyfriend? They’d have to talk about that one later) waist and rest his head in the crook of Remus’s neck. “You told me you loved me. While I was drunk.”

“You cannot tell anyone.”

Janus scoffed, having no intention of honoring that wish. “Why not?”

“Because,” Remus said. “It makes me sound gross and gay.”

“You’ve always been gross and gay.” Janus pulled back, just enough to grin at him. “Besides, you’ve been teasing Roman about Virgil for months.”

“He deserves it,” Remus declared. “He needs to get over himself.”

“At least he doesn’t confess to people while they’re drunk and then lie about it the next day.”

Remus’s blush deepened and Janus finally relented. He leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of Remus’s lips- which quickly turned into something deeper when Remus moved to capture the rest of his mouth and pull him closer.

He only pulled away when he realized he'd started crying again, the relief that Remus loved him, that he hadn’t been wrong, that he wasn’t losing what they had, hitting all at once.

Janus shuddered and struggled to catch his breath, his breathing coming out in quick gasps again, and he clung onto Remus’s shirt like a lifeline.

“Oh, shit.” Remus’s eyes went wide in panic, and Janus found himself laughing around the tears. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“You’re ok,” Janus assured him, leaning forward again to rest his head on Remus’s shoulder. Remus didn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around him. “I just...really thought I was losing you.”

“You’re not. I’m still here.”

“I know,” Janus said. He was overwhelmed and exhausted and he’d never been awake this long with a hangover. “The ibuprofen didn’t help either.”

Remus had one hand carding through his hair, the other cupping his jaw as he pressed a kiss to Janus’s forehead. Just like he had last night when he’d told Janus he loved him.

When he’d told Janus he loved him and meant it.

“We should get you back to bed,” Remus said, every bit as adoring as he’d been when Janus was too drunk to stand. “How about I bring you your waffles and we can put on a movie?”

“You’re going to get crumbs in my bed again.”

“No I’m not.” Janus didn’t even get a chance to protest further before Remus had his arms around his waist, hoisting him into the air and over his shoulder. “And you’re too hungover to stop me.”

Janus couldn’t argue with that, relaxing into Remus’s hold as he carried him down the hall and back into the dimly lit bedroom, the darkness already soothing his pounding head.

Remus set him down on the bed, kissed him again for good measure, and returned a moment later with the waffles Janus had left in the toaster. He put the plate on the nightstand beside the half empty water bottle, and settled in beside Janus.

He didn’t even pay attention to Remus’s laptop opening, or the waffle that was offered to him. Janus just wrapped his arms around Remus and rested his head on his chest.

“You’ll stay with me?” Janus asked, already drifting off to the smell of waffles and the clicking of Remus’s keyboard.

“I never planned on leaving,” Remus said, muffled from where he’d pressed his nose into Janus’s hair. “And I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Janus muttered something even he couldn’t make out, letting his eyes slip shut, breaths steadying in sync to Remus’s own.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when he must have thought Janus was already asleep, that Remus began running his fingers through Janus’s hair again, leaning forward to press one last kiss to his temple.

“I love you too,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I love you, Janus.”

Janus smiled, content with letting Remus believe he’d fallen asleep before he could hear the words. Just this once.

People who asked to be tagged for this one:

@self-taught-mess @hannahdra-ws

#sanders sides #romantic demus #romantic dukeceit #ts janus #ts remus #alcohol tw #kissing tw #misunderstandings #miscommunication #fanficiton #writing #human au

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naminethewriter · 3 years

Text

His Brother’s Wedding

I took part in the @sanderssidesgiftxchange! This is for @feminine-femme who requested Roman/Emile in a Flower Shop/Tattoo Shop Au. This is my first time writing Emile, so I hope I did him justice. Also I put off writing this for a long time and I have more ideas on how the story progresses, so I might write more but we’ll see. I hope you all have fun reading what I have for you now 🥰💖💗

Here on Ao3

Characters: Emile, Grandma Maggie (OC), Roman, Logan & Remus & Remy mentions

Relationships: pre-romantic Romile

Rating: G

Words: 2,473

Summary: Emile came to help his grandmother in her shop. He didn't expect the handsome guy that comes in to complain about his brother.

After taking one last look around the shop and deeming it clean, Emile put the broom away. Even if there usually wasn’t much foot traffic, he figured the place looking nice wouldn’t be a bad thing. The owner seemingly disagreed.

“Wasting the first half hour of your shift on cleaning, huh?” Emile sighed and turned around to his grandmother, Margaret. Though more commonly known to him as Grandma Maggie.

“It’s not a waste, Grandma. It puts me at ease and I can concentrate better.”

“Yeah, yeah. More importantly, have you checked that the flowers actually have water or is that not so high on your list of priorities?”

“I checked the water and made sure there are no wilting ones displayed.”

“Well, that’s something I guess,” Maggie scoffed before waving him to the back. Emile knew that she was just cranky because she didn’t like why he was here. She was getting on in years and their family worried about her not being able to handle the shop alone anymore. Emile agreed (not that he would ever tell her that) so he decided to take a break from his psychology degree to help her during this summer. Maggie had only accepted when he told her he would come either way and only lie around the house all day if she didn’t let him work. She grumbly accepted.

Summer was a special time in this particular coastal town. Especially for a few selected flower shops. Because this region was home to a unique type of flower that only grew under the conditions there. Any attempts at recreating those somewhere else have failed and around 80 years ago a law prevented any more experiments to be conducted. The production and distribution of this flower have since been heavily regulated. Grandma Maggie’s shop is one of only five local stores that are allowed to sell them and she gets a set amount each year (with some small variation depending on the harvest).

It's formal name Emile couldn’t remember for the life of him but it is most commonly known as: Stardrop. Five petals in yellow, white, or a mix of both with a scent that is calming and light.

Emile knew that soon this year’s batch would be ready and his grandmother already had a lot of pre-orders, mainly from restaurants and hotels that decorate their establishments with them for the season. Others were for weddings, festivals, or other celebrations. So the first thing he had to learn now was how to make the arrangements and bouquets that would be their main source of income soon.

In the backroom was a big table already cluttered with vases full of flowers, leaves, twigs, strings, and other types of decoration in a lot of different colors. He knew there was a system here somewhere on how to find something but to him it just looked like a huge mess. Grandma Maggie was already seated and impatiently patted the cushion next to her, so he sat down on the bench, ready to get lectured until either some customers or lunch time comes.

Emile relished his one-hour lunch break after spending hours under his grandmother’s sharp eyes with only very few interruptions. They had eaten together, upstairs in the apartment where they were now living together for the duration of his stay. Maggie went back down before him while Emile phoned his parents about the current situation.

Yes, I arrived safely. Yes, Grandma is fine. Yes, I’m helping her in the shop now. Yes, we’re getting along. So on and so forth. Emile loved his parents but they can be quite exhausting to deal with, especially when they’re worried about something.

After he was finally done, he went back down to the shop and found Maggie at the cash register.

“Mom and Dad send their love.”

“Yeah, yeah, they always do. They should worry about their own behinds and not question everything I do,” she scoffed. Emile couldn’t help but laugh.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right!”

“I know, I know.” Maggie glared at him and he raised his arms in defense. She scoffed again but didn’t say anything more on the matter.

“Chloe is coming soon to get the rose bouquet she ordered. I got it done in the back so go get it.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” He evaded her attempt at smacking him in the arm and moved to the back. While looking around the mess of clutter in search of the flowers he remembers his grandmother telling him were for her friend Chloe only about two hours ago, the bell above the shop door rang. A customer.

“Maggie, you won’t believe what Remus cooked up now!”

A very loud costumer. Male. Very youthful. And apparently on first name basis with his grandma.

“How about saying hello first you whippersnapper!” Emile grinned. He really loved how she never changed, always snarky with everyone. Finally, he spotted the bouquet and made his way back front where the costumer was now leaning against the counter, an incredulous look on his face.

“I’m distraught and you expect me to be courteous? I thought we were past that!” The stranger held a hand over his heart as if she had attacked him and Emile could immediately tell he had an appreciation for theater. The man moved fluently but very overdramatically, and his grandmother watched him with the most unimpressed look she could muster.

“My, how could I forget. No need for manners just because you had another squabble with your brother. I should be ashamed,” she added in a monotone voice. The man, who had been motioning as if he was about to faint, turned his full attention back to her.

“Thank you for your understanding, it was very hard indeed!”

“Mhm, I’m sure it was.” The stranger laughed and reached for her hand but she slapped him away immediately. “Keep your lips away, you scoundrel.” The man laughed louder and Maggie cracked a small smile herself. Finally, he was still enough that Emile could get a good look at his features.

Brown eyes and hair, tan skin and probably quite a few inches bigger than himself. His smile showed off almost perfect teeth (not that that was something Emile normally noticed but they were almost twinkling in the fluorescent light of the shop). He was dressed in a red jacket with rolled up sleeves, a white shirt underneath and blue jeans. His ears were pierced and a tattoo peaked out at the edge of his shirt collar around the right shoulder.

Emile found him incredibly handsome.

And of course that was the moment their eyes met. For a few moments they just stared at each other in shock before the man regained his composure and flashed him his pearly white teeth again.

“My Maggie, who’ve you been hiding from me back there?” She looked over her shoulder and Emile could see a switch flip in her head. She rolled her eyes before turning back to the stranger.

“My grandson. Emile, get over here before your eyes fall out.” He flinched lightly, embarrassed that he’d been called out for staring but made his way over to them.

“Hi, I’m Emile, I’m staying here for the summer.” He wanted to hold out his hand for a handshake before he remembered the vase with the bouquet still in his arms. He quickly set it down, ears burning red.

“Roman. I work in the shop across the street,” the man introduced himself and grabbed Emile’s hand as soon as it was free. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Maggie told me all about the warden her family would be sending over to guard her from the dangers of working in a flower shop. It is indeed honorable that you took on such a challenge!” He winked and Emile burst out in giggles.

“We just don’t want her to overwork himself but thanks for the compliment.” Roman gave him another one of his brilliant smiles and as he pulled back, Emile could spot another tattoo on the wrist of his right hand. Without thinking he grabbed the hand again and twisted it around so he could get a better look.

“Emile don’t be rude,” his grandmother chided and he immediately let go.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realize!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Roman laughed, “most people are curious about it. You can look as long as you want, it’s good advertisement anyway.”

“Advertisement?”

“Open your eyes next time you’re outside!” Maggie commented, only confusing Emile more.

“I work at a tattoo shop. Since it’s directly across the street I assumed you knew what I meant,” Roman explained, letting his arm drop to his side.

“Oh! I only arrived yesterday and was pretty beat, so I didn’t pay attention. It feels like the shops on this street are always different when I come visit.”

“I understand the feeling. Whenever I visit my mother I feel the same way.” They smiled at each other until Maggie scoffed again.

“Your break isn’t gonna last forever, kid. What were you here to tell me? Don’t tell me the plan went wrong this weekend?” Roman’s eyes left Emile and he felt like he finally remembered how to breathe properly. His eyes had been so captivating.

Wait. Was he already developing a crush?! Remy wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if that was the case. He always said that Emile fell too easily.

“Oh no, that was fine. Everything went exactly as it should have and Logan said yes, no problem. But of course then came the question of when and you know what they decided on? The end of summer!”

“Wait, are we talking about a wedding?” Emile asked, wholly out of the loop.

“Yes. My brother Remus and his boyfriend – well I guess fiancé now – have been together since we were still in school and he finally got the nerve to propose to him, thanks to me of course, so we made a plan and everything and of course Logan said yes, as if he wouldn’t. They’re both way too insecure sometimes.”

“And they decided to get married at the end of summer?”

“Yes! Can you imagine?!” Emile and Maggie exchanged a glance, both apparently not quite understanding the problem. Roman seemed to pick up on their confusion.

“That’s only three months away! How long do they think it takes to organize a wedding?!”

“Oh! You meant this year. Yeah, that’s quiet soon,” Emile nodded.

“I know, right? Who in their right mind decides to plan a wedding in three months!”

“I mean Candace did it in one day, so…” Emile mumbled. Roman blinked at him.

“Who?”

“Candace? From Phineas and Ferb?”

“Oh! I haven’t watched that show in ages! Would be fun to revisit, I guess.”

“I highly recommend it!” Emile smiled, thankful that Roman didn’t question his knowledge of a cartoon for kids. A lot of people at his university did.

“Well, I probably won’t have the time any time soon! Because I know my brother, if I don’t keep him on track, nothing will get done.”

“What about his fiancé?”

“Logan likes organization and all that, but he gets so absorbed by his work, he’ll forget everything else. And they’re in the middle of a huge project, so I doubt he’ll remember to add the wedding stuff to his to-do list until a few weeks before.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a marine biologist. I’m sure you know the research station. They’re worried about the reef so they’ve been collecting samples non-stop, I think.”

“I see… Well, I’m sure if you’re there to help, you can all find a way to work with each other.” Roman seemed to deflate a bit at that, ending the overdramatic act he’s been putting on so far. He slumps a bit more and looks at Emile with the insecurity written all over his face.

“I know,” he sighs. “Somehow we always pull through and they don’t even want a big party but still…” Another sigh. “Remus and I don’t always get along, but I know him the best. He really adores Logan and even if he acts like he doesn’t care if they’ll get married and all that, I know he was super nervous about the proposal. That’s why he put it off for so long. I’m just worried that he’ll try to avoid actually planning the whole thing because he doesn’t want to ruin it and then stress himself and Logan out last minute. He deserves the best wedding he can get.” By the end of his rant, Roman is leaning on his arms on the counter, staring at the stone surface with his brows furrowed. Emile takes a moment to process the information and think about his response before he gently lays a hand on Roman’s shoulder.

“It’ll be alright, I’m sure. You’re there to help them and it seems like you know what you’re doing. And I can help too if you want. Besides work I don’t really have any plans and I’m sure Grandma would be happy if I don’t hang around here all the time, right, Grandma?” He turns to where she stood but apparently, she had left without him noticing. By the look on Roman’s face, neither had he. They looked at each other and laughed.

“Thanks for the offer. I’m sure there’ll be something for you to do, even if it’s just arranging the flowers.” Roman winked and Emile giggled.

“That’s only if I survive my internship.”

“Internship?”

“Grandma is teaching me how to make the ordered arrangements in the back. Until I’ve got that down I ‘have no business being in the front’ she said.”

“That sounds like something she’d say, alright.”

“You two making fun of me now?” Maggie came back into the room and stares them down. Emile mutters a sorry while Roman just gives her a wink as well. She scoffed. “Get out of my store, kid. Your break’s as good as over.” He stole a glance at the clock, wide-eyed.

“Damn it. Gotta go! It was nice to meet you, Emile! See you soon.” Before he could respond, Roman was out of the door.

“If you ask me, he and his brother are more alike than either’d like to admit,” Maggie commented after a moment. Emile, having never met Remus, couldn’t really add anything so he just shrugged.

“I think he was very nice.”

“Of course you did, you were making heart eyes at him the entire time.” With one last scoff she moved into the back. Emile followed her, protesting while being beet red in the face. Only when he laid down in bed this evening did he realize he never got a good look at Roman’s tattoo. He’d have to ask again next time.

#namiswriting #my writing #sandersxchange21 #his brother's wedding #romile #roman sanders #emile picani #ts roman #human!au #flowershop!au #tattooshop!au #background intrulogical #grandma maggie #fluff #sanders sides #fanficiton #sanderssides fanfiction

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vinbee631 · 2 years

Text

still trying to figure out what to do with this blog since I have so many options!!!!

like do I do

sanders sides bs??

over the garden wall???

how gay I am??? (/hj)

pokemon stuff???

teaching myself how to draw??

fanfiction???

stories from the kids I babysit???

something else I haven't thought of??

ALL?!?!?!

idk I'll figure it out eventually but first I should probably figure out how tumblr works, might be a good plan

#my mind is chaos #anywyas #sanders sides #over the garden wall #lgbtq #chaos #pokemon #fanficiton #idk how to tag anymore #or ever actually #still figuring it out

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chroniclackofselfpreservation · 4 years

Text

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 1 - for it is important that awake people be awake

Next chapter >

AO3 (go to AO3 for complete list of tags for this fic)

Masterlist

(TW: violence/graphic imagery, guns, snakes, fear)

(The title for this chapter comes from “A Ritual to Read to Each Other” by William E. Stafford.)

Roman's gut twisted painfully and his eyes snapped open. He sat up. His room was still dark, the heavy curtains blocking out whatever moonlight would have fallen across his bed, but he didn’t need it. He’d lain his clothes and equipment out before going to sleep a few hours earlier. The routine was so ingrained into his mind at this point, light became arbitrary.

Roman’s movements were almost mechanical as he folded back the covers and slipped into his shirt, pants, and armor with long-earned efficiency. The armor was a gift from Logan, who stood as the only person Roman had ever told about his nightly endeavors. It was made of a tough but flexible leather that wasn’t as protective as metal, but far quieter—which Roman found worked to his advantage most nights. Logan, being the obsessive problem-solver he so often was, hated the fact that there was nothing he could do to alleviate the curse. It had been sealed in Roman’s own blood—against his will, of course, but it made no difference. According to the dragon witch, whose brilliant plan it was to have Roman fight a demon for the rest of his life, had told him that he was the only one capable of keeping it at bay.

Yeah, right, he thought sourly as he wrapped a ruby amulet around his bicep. Another “gift” from that blasted dragon witch. Roman had given up pestering her for a remedy for the curse several months ago, finding the long haul up into the mountains far too much work just to be rejected. He couldn’t even kill the stupid thing. It was immortal. He could weaken it, sure, and make things easier for himself for a few weeks, but it always came back.

Sometimes stronger.

What did the dragon witch expect to happen? Eventually, he would die. Whether it was the demon’s doing was yet to be seen, but he definitely wouldn’t outlive it. What then? Would she simply pass the curse on to another? Continue the viscous cycle of torment? Stop complaining, he scolded himself, pressing his lips into a thin line and cinching the leather guard tight about his forearm. It’s been a year. You should be over this by now.

Picking up the pace, Roman holstered his two pistols on either side of his belt, slipped a dagger into a sheath secured around his stomach beneath his shirt, and picked up his sword. He was best with the blade, though he wasn’t foolish enough to go in without back up weaponry. He despised the guns most of all. They were loud and clunky and gave him a headache to use, but more often than not they got him out of perilous situations, so he kept them. The sword was heavy, though Roman was so used to it now, it felt comfortably weighted.

Doing a quick double-check to make sure he had everything he needed, he opened his door and stepped out into the hallway. He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Roman had grown accustomed to traversing their house in silence, dreading the possibility of Patton or Virgil discovering him sneaking out loaded with weapons. He turned a corner, about to head down the stairs, when he noticed a warm amber glow trailing up the wall. Someone was still up—or they’d left the light on, at least. Was Virgil having trouble sleeping again? Or was Patton indulging in some late-night baking? Both options were likely. Could Roman manage to sneak by without being noticed? Thoughts raced through his head a mile a minute. Something inside him pulled, like someone plucking a bow string drawn dangerously taut. The curse compelled him forward, and he nearly stumbled down the steps as he pulled back. He had no choice; he had to leave. Could he sneak out his room window? It was a long way to the ground and the only tree was by Patton’s bedroom window. He’d risk injuring himself by jumping, which could put his life in jeopardy later. He’d have to try and sneak past whoever was out there. It wasn’t worth having to face the demon with a twisted ankle. Perhaps he could knock them out and convince them it was all a dream? He shook his head. He couldn’t attack any of them. It would eat him up inside.

Slowly, he peeked out over the banister. A short reading lamp sat on an end table beside the couch, barely light enough to keep the shadows in the corners of the room at bay. Bathed in gold light, the figure in the chair turned out to be Logan, hands clasped in his lap and eyes staring vaguely at the wall, deep in thought. Relaxing somewhat, Roman straightened and continued down the stairs as quietly as possible. The third one down was always squeaky. Logan hadn’t noticed him yet, and even as Roman approached, he stared at the wall, chewing on his bottom lip and mouthing silent thoughts to himself. Roman couldn’t help but smile.

“Logan,” he said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Logan jumped, startled. “Wha—oh, it’s you. I was wondering when you’d leave.”

“What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

Logan cocked his head to the side, considering. “The sun sets at nine p.m. and rises at seven-fifteen a.m.. By all accounts, we are less than halfway into the night,” he said, gesturing to the otherwise dark and empty house. He cleared his throat. “I, er, wanted to see you off before you... left.”

“I’ll be back before the sun rises, Lo,” Roman said, waving a dismissive hand and trying to hide the strain in his voice. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t stay up like this every night.”

“I think you’ll find there are many things I can do,” Logan said, his normal sternness hardening into something akin to anger. “One being making sure you arrive back home in one piece. Are you positive I cannot accompany you? I’m sure there are options we haven’t explored yet.”

“Logan, you—“ Roman tripped forward into Logan as the curse tugged at him once again, endlessly insistent. Logan caught him, but Roman quickly righted himself again, struggling to keep the pain from showing on his face. He cleared his throat. “You know I can’t do that. You being there would only distract me and put me in more danger. I’d be too worried about you getting hurt.”

Logan studied his face for a moment before sighing and letting him go. “Very well, but you better come back.”

Roman put on a smile, chuckling. “Of course I will. Have a little faith, Lo.”

“I shall try,” he muttered as Roman opened the front door. He glanced back one last time only to see Logan lower himself back into the arm chair and lose himself in pained thought.

* * * * * * * * * *

The forest was only two blocks away from their house, so Roman didn’t have to walk very far. He’d devised a route through the neighborhood that led him behind houses and between backyard fences to lessen the probability of someone spotting him waltzing around dressed like a walking armory. Most nights, however, were largely uneventful save the occasional barking dog. The sudden noise used to scare Roman.

Now, he had bigger things to be scared of.

The forest dampened every noise as soon as Roman stepped through the tree line. Though he could still see civilization through the trees, he felt a thousand miles from any sort of help were something to happen. The curse wouldn't allow him to leave until the first signs of dawn—he would know, he'd tested it. Many times. The beginning was always the most dangerous part. The demon knew exactly where he was, and at what time he'd be there. The trick would be escaping into the darkness of the woods and losing him along the way. He shook off the nerves breeding in the pit of his stomach, and trudged deeper into the darkness, sword at the ready.

Ah, the darkness. He’d brought a flashlight only once before, and had barely escaped the night with his life. Turns out, a bright beam of light does more to give oneself away than to help locate a possible predator. He never made the mistake again. Since then, he’d become quite familiar with the dark. However, it was less of an old friend and more an impartial entity desiring entertainment regardless of who ended up on the wrong end of it. He took no solace in it, but rather treated it with deference and wary reverence.

Something shifted in the trees above him. Roman froze. Dense fog clung to the ground, curling around his legs like ghosts desperate for living touch. The moon was nothing more than a sliver, denying Roman what little light he usually counted on. The heavy slithering bounced around him, as if it couldn’t decide which direction it came from. Roman pressed his back up against a tree and held his sword in front of him.

“So brave,” a chilling voice hissed. Roman’s stomach dropped. “Have you not bored of this constant battle, yet, little prince?” Roman kept his eyes on the canopies and his mouth shut. He’d never figured out why both the dragon witch and the demon called him a prince, but he’d rather that than his own name. Roman refused to give it that power.

“I tire of this endless game. You drag out the inevitable,” the demon sighed. It sounded vaguely human, though if that human had swallowed shards of glass and gargled with shrapnel. The sound of the beast dragging its enormous body through the branches still eluded Roman, jumping around his head like he wore headphones that kept shorting out.

“Why?” it breathed so close to Roman’s ear, he could feel it. He tensed, swinging his sword around. It sunk into something solid. It took Roman a split second to realize that it wasn't a giant serpentine head, but the tree trunk. He tugged. It didn't budge. Terror swept through him in the same second as a grating laugh echoed around the trees. He abandoned the sword and hadn't so much as taken a step away when a wall of cold, hard scales slammed him back into the tree. He could feel the creature's muscles undulating and constricting beneath the smooth plating, slowly crushing him into the wood. It was dark, yes, but Roman had seen it before on nights with a full moon: a gold scaled beast with a body several times thicker than the trees and a head the size of a small car. Eyes like pools of molten lead the size of Roman's whole face and fangs longer than his arm. He'd only been caught by it a few times in the last year. Each time he'd nearly died. Though, he was ashamed to admit, they didn't usually happen quite this fast.

He'd definitely set a new personal record.

Luckily, he'd managed to pin his arms in front of his chest, so he could somewhat resist the creature's constricting. He took short shallow breaths and pushed outward with all of his strength, but it was a futile effort. The constricting halted, and the monster lowered it's head to meet Roman's eyes.

"Tell me why."

"You think I want to be here?" he spat. "A dragon witch cursed me."

"Dragon witch?"

"Yes, the dragon witch named Ursula. You know, after a whole year of barely five words to me, you're suddenly really chatty," Roman said derisively, hoping to distract the beast from the fact that he was slowly reaching for one of his pistols. Not exactly easy when your arms are being crushed by a gigantic reptile, but progress was being made nonetheless.

"All this time and she still holds onto that ridiculous nickname. You'd think she'd have learned to imprison me with more than a sniveling child," it hissed, baring its enormous fangs. Roman paled, wriggling his arm toward the holster a little faster now. It reared up its head and tightened its hold. Roman cried out, the air slowly forced out of his lungs. He saw stars.

"I am no troublesome pixie that can be held over by a simple curse. She will pay for this insul—"

BANG!

Roman drew and fired the pistol faster than he'd ever before. It hit just below the demon's eye, ricocheting off its scales and off into the night. The snake hissed angrily and released him, retreating in a spiral up the tree and into the canopies once more. It knew better than to stay in close range while the guns were out, regardless of it's tough armor. Roman may not like guns, but that didn't mean he didn't know how to use one. So far, the mouth and the eyes were the only weak spots he'd located.

He dropped to the ground, heaving and retching. Roman scrambled to his feet. There was no time for recovery. He tore his sword from the tree and sprinted deeper into the forest. He needed to find shelter or somewhere to hide. While he couldn't see the serpent as well when it was in the trees, it couldn't move nearly as fast. If he managed to lose it, he may just have a chance.

Calm down, Roman. You've been doing this for three hundred and sixty-five nights, and you haven't lost a single one. Don't make tonight any different.

The battle was nowhere near over, and the night had only just begun.

* * * * * * * * * *

Roman fumbled for the key beneath the place mat. It was almost five-thirty in the morning, and though the sun hadn't technically risen yet, his curse had seen fit to release him as soon as the first hints of light played at the horizon. It was still relatively dark, the skyline glowing a pale blue-green against the starry indigo above it. His ribs ached, his knees and elbows were scraped, his clothes and face were streaked with mud, and he was covered in blood up to his elbows. Not his own. Last he checked, his blood was red, not black. It was the demon's, from when he'd driven his sword through the underside of its mouth. He hadn't seen his reflection yet, but he could imagine the horror show that was his appearance. The stuff never really dried, either. It remained sticky like tar and was an absolute nightmare to try and get out of the leather armor Logan made him—not to mention his own hair.

Eventually, his sloppy fingers found the spare key and managed to stick it into the lock. He turned it, replaced it beneath the mat, and pushed the door open. The house smelled of cinnamon and happiness, due in great part to Patton's baking yesterday. The lamp still sat on in the living room, illuminating Logan's sleeping features. His glasses hung askew across his nose and some fancy-pants scientific book lay open on his lap. Roman closed the front door behind him as softly as he could manage, then froze with his foot inches above the floor. Virgil had just mopped last night. If Roman took one step off the front rug, he'd track mud, dirt, and demon blood through the entire house. Cursing under his breath, he leaned forward, reaching for the coat closet. He nearly fell on his face and woke the entire house, but in the end he'd acquired what he'd been looking for: his old jacket. It was worn, fraying, and impossibly comfortable, and would do exactly what Roman needed it to. He could always wash it later, right? Laying it open on the floor, Roman stepped onto it and proceeded to shuffle his way down the hall toward the stairs. True, he could have simply taken off his boots, but they were laced up tight and sticky with blood he didn't have the patience to deal with in the middle of the house. He'd see to it once he got to the bathroom and didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him. He passed by Logan, who had fallen asleep in the arm chair, snoring softly.

It was a long, tenuous journey, but he eventually made it to the base of the stairs. There, he was met with a new problem. How was he supposed to make it upstairs on his jacket?

"Roman?" Logan muttered groggily, squinting at him.

"Nothing, go back to sleep," Roman whispered, waving a hand at him.

"What's all over your—is that blood?"

"Yes, but be quiet!" Roman hissed. "You're going to wake up everyone else!"

Logan stood. "What do you mean yes? Are you hurt?" He reached a curious hand out toward the black goo covering his arms.

"Don't touch it," Roman snapped. His temper was worn thin after the night he'd had, and the last thing he needed right now was a scientific analysis of demon blood. He sighed, "Sorry, Lo. I just... need to get to the bathroom. Could you get some towels or something to lay on the stairs so I can—" he started, but Logan apparently had other ideas. In one swift motion, he hooked an arm under Roman's knees and scooped him up into his arms.

"What are you doing?" Roman demanded, "You're going to get it all over you."

"Irrelevant," Logan said, though his nose crinkled slightly at the stench of death covering his friend. "I shall simply carry you upstairs. It will be faster and more efficient. Don't worry about the jacket, I'll take care of it. Now," he shifted his grip, "are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Yeah," Roman said, though it came out as a strangled gasp. The way Logan was holding him put pressure on a bruise he'd gotten while the overgrown worm had tried smothering him in a swath of mud. Logan cocked an eyebrow and didn't move. Sighing dejectedly, Roman instructed him where he could place his hands to cause him the least amount of pain. After a few moments of readjusting, Logan set off up the stairs. Roman was impressed at how steady Logan was despite carrying his entire weight up the stairs.

"Watch the wall," he grunted, and Roman tucked his feet in to keep from leaving streaks of mud down the hallway. They passed Patton's room, then Virgil's, then arrived at the bathroom. Logan set him down on the tile flooring, promising to fetch him a clean pair of clothes and a bag to place all of the blood spattered articles in. After one last concerned look, he closed the door and left Roman alone in the bathroom.

He grimaced as he glanced at his reflection. Roman looked like he'd been run over by a garbage truck. Blood, dark and glossy as pitch, speckled his face and neck and clumped in his hair. It covered both forearms up to his elbows, as if he'd dipped his arms in black paint. Contrastingly, his own crimson blood had dried across his upper lip and chin from the bloody nose he'd received when flung into a tree. Sickly gray mud clung to the rest of him like plaster. Carefully, he peeled his clothes off and tossed them into a pile near the door. He'd had hopes of the washing machine saving them, but looking at them in a pathetic heap on the floor, he doubted anything could be done. He'd have to burn them later.

Returning his attention to the mirror, his throat constricted. His torso was mottled with a myriad of purple and green bruises, or maybe that was just more mud. They certainly felt like bruises. His eyes trailed down his shoulders, then came to rest on the grimy amulet still tied to his upper arm. He turned it over in his hand, wiping the dirt from its surface.

Think of it as insurance, the dragon witch had written in a nice, instructional letter on how to handle his curse. Insurance that you don't go dying on me too soon. Any injuries you sustain while wearing the amulet will heal as soon as you take it off. You won't even need to sleep, my prince. Easy as that.

Scowling, he undid the clasp and pulled the necklace from his arm. Immediately, burning cold energy coursed through his body. He bowed forward and rested his elbows on the counter, biting his fist to keep from making a sound. It took a considerable amount of self control not to collapse to the floor and itch his gradually healing skin bloody. It felt like a million spiders with needles for legs crawling around inside him.

Some healing magic, Roman thought venomously, breathing hard through his nose. Feels worse than healing normally.

But it was faster. And Roman couldn't risk Patton or Virgil finding out simply because they touched a tender spot. There was a knock at the door.

"Roman? I've got some new clothes and a trash bag, can I come in?"

"Hold on," he choked through gritted teeth. The sound was more like a whimper than Roman would have wished, but there were far more pressing matters for him to deal with than a measly voice crack. An entire year of this, and he still wasn't used to the feeling. How pathetic. He stumbled into the shower and pulled the curtain.

"All right," he said, leaning heavily against the tiled wall. He wasn't going to pass out. He been in worse shape on previous nights. This was nothing. Roman heard Logan open the door slowly, then silence. He heard the faint scrape of him picking up the amulet. Roman had explained its purpose to him the night he'd found out. Mainly because Logan had demanded to know how he wasn't a pile of mush every single night. No one could take a beating like that every twelve hours and still be walking, let alone acting like nothing was going on.

"Are you going to be okay, Roman? Do you require any assistance?" He came closer to the curtain.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Logan." Please don't look, you'll only worry. Don't look.

A pause. "Very well. I will await you downstairs when you are done cleaning up." Another long silence as Roman clenched and unclenched his fist as the healing magic completed its circuit around his body. The feeling eventually faded into a dull prickling. Logan sighed, set the amulet back down on the counter, and left.

Roman let out a breath and cranked the faucet as far to the hot side as it would go. The water was scalding, but he didn't care. The demon blood slowly dissolved from his skin and hair, swirling down the drain in a disgusting black soup of mud and dirt. He wished he could wash it all away, scrub the demon from his pores and the pain from behind his ears.

Clean water streamed down Roman's face in the place of the tears he did not shed.

Thanks for reading!! You can find the rest of this fic on AO3, here.

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theultimatesandwich · 5 years

Text

The Most Illogical Decision Possible

(Yeah ok I wrote a fic for @sugarglider9603 ‘s Single-Dad Logan AU, what about it?)

If he was being completely honest with himself, adopting a child was the most illogical thing Logan could have ever done.

He had never raised a child before. He had no other siblings; he’d certainly never gone babysitting. He detested how unhygienic children were: sneezing on everything in sight, wiping their noses with their hands, and having an apparent allergy to soap. Children were annoying, a time-consuming nightmare, and honestly quite idiotic. Logan knew that children’s brains weren’t quite as developed as a typical adult’s, but that was still no excuse for their ignorance.

Frankly, he didn’t feel the need for such companionship. If he had, maybe he would have adopted a dog, or a fish. Certainly not a human child. True, he had an extra bedroom in his apartment, with plenty of room for a child to live and play, and he was well-off enough financially to afford caring for one, but he didn’t feel the need.

That is until he was talking with his co-worker Valerie about her time spent volunteering at the local orphanage.

“I’m telling you, Logan, the children are just the sweetest!”

“If you say so.”

“I’m serious! Every one of them is so kind, it’s almost heartbreaking that there’s more of them than there are parents willing to adopt.”

“That is a problem,” Logan mused. “It’s unfortunate that there are such an infinitesimal number of children and only a few willing parents.”

Valerie paused and looked up at her co-worker. “You do realize that infinitesimal means really small, don’t you?”

“What? No it doesn’t.”

A mischievous smile danced across Valerie’s face. “How about a bet? We look up the meaning, and if I’m right... you have to consider adopting!”

“Consider? Not follow through with it?”

“Well if you wanted to raise the stakes,” she smiled at her friend’s discomfort. “Relax, Logan. I’m not going to force you to do anything. Just think about it, alright? Maybe just visit the orphanage?”

“Ok...And if I’m right?”

“If you’re right, then...I’ll let you drag me to that Doctor Who planetarium show next month.”

“Fantastic. A bet it is, then.” Logan smirked as he pulled out his phone to Google the answer. “Well, Valerie, I hope you enjoy space-inspired long running British television shows, because....no.”

Some consolation, a few curse words at Google, and a couple of parenting books later, Logan found himself visiting the orphanage. Entering the building, he was greeted by a very nice older woman with brown hair and glasses.

“Well hello, sir! How may I help you?”

“Ah, well, I was hoping I could visit with some of the children in the event that I...decide to adopt?”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Of course! What’s your name, mister?”

“Logan, ma’am. And you are?”

“I’m Mrs. Sanders, but everyone around here just calls me Mom.” They shook hands as the woman led Logan towards some back rooms.

“Over here are our 2-5 year olds,” Mrs. Sanders explained. “Aren’t they just the sweetest?”

Logan glanced around the room, immediately rethinking his decision. There were other ways he could help out the orphanage; he didn’t have to adopt a child. All of these children were running around and roughhousing, crying and screaming and laughing all simultaneously. If someone had told him a hurricane blew through a toy store and ended up here, he would have believed them. Then a curious sight caught his eye.

There in the corner was a young figure in an overly large black hoodie sitting alone at a table. The child appeared to be coloring, lost in his realm of thoughts rather than playing with his compatriots.

“Who is that?” Logan nodded towards the child.

“Oh, that’s Virgil. Poor little dear. Ever since he’s been here he’s barely said a word to anybody. He’s a very smart little boy, very talented, he just...doesn’t talk.”

“May I speak with him?”

The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about what he was doing. The next thing he knew he entered ground zero, taking great care not to trip over any toys or children as he made his way over to the table. Pulling up a chair, he sat down next to Virgil.

“Hello,”he said. “My name is Logan. What is your name?”

In response the child pointed to the top of his drawing, where “Virgil” was written in fairly legible crayon penmanship.

“Virgil?” The child nodded. “Well, Virgil, it’s very nice to meet you.”

Logan glanced down at the drawing. On it Virgil had drawn a rocket-ship in outer space, surrounded by planets and stars.

“That’s a very nice drawing.” Virgil smiled, withdrawing slightly into his hoodie. “I admire the detail you put into the rocket. It’s very impressive.”

Virgil blushed, happy that someone finally seemed to take an interest in his work. “I’ll be back soon, Virgil, ok?” Virgil nodded and went back to his drawing.

“That one.” Logan said to Mrs. Sanders. “If it is at all possible, I want to adopt him.”

Within a few days the paperwork had gone through, quick enough that Logan couldn’t overthink his decision, and soon enough he was picking Virgil up from the orphanage.

“Well, Virgil, it looks like we’re going to be living together for some time.” Virgil nodded from the backseat. He brought a small suitcase filled with clothes, a worn stuffed animal, and some coloring supplies. As Logan drove the two of them home, Virgil began drawing. When a safe moment arose to do so, Logan glanced back to try and see what Virgil was doing, but Virgil held the drawing close to his chest and shook his head no.

Soon enough they made it to the apartment. Logan had triple checked to make sure there were no exposed outlets, the chemicals were locked away under the sink, and that the room that was to be Virgil’s was properly outfitted for someone of his nature. There was a bed, a dresser, and a little desk for Virgil to color or study however he saw fit. What Logan was most proud of, however, were the glow in the dark stars he affixed to the ceiling. As he tucked Virgil into bed that night, he turned off the lights and watched as the child’s eyes lit up with wonder at the ceiling.

The next few days were a balancing act. Logan would get up earlier than normal to make sure Virgil ate an appropriate breakfast and had lunch for the school day. He almost forgot to drop Virgil off at school their first day together, and the panicked drive home that ensued after getting halfway to the office made sure Logan never forgot again. At night the two of them would eat dinner and watch a movie, although Logan enforced a strict 8:00 pm curfew, complete with teeth-brushing and bathing when needed.

Friday night, after Logan made sure Virgil was bundled up tightly, he drove them miles out into the nearby country. The sky was clear and there was barely any light pollution. Waking him up from the long car ride, Logan lifted Virgil onto his shoulders and led him out into a clearing.

“Look at that,” Logan said, pointing up at the sky. “Those are hundreds of stars, millions of light-years away. You can see the constellations, too. That’s the bigger dipper, and that is Orion: do you see the three stars that make up his belt?”

Virgil was silent. Lifted way high up he saw stars and lights unlike any he’d ever seen before. There were so many dots he didn’t think he could count them all if he tried. It was all so...it was just...

“Wow...” Virgil said. In that moment it was hard to tell who was more in awe: Virgil at the night sky, or Logan with Virgil.

Not wanting to stay out later than necessary, Logan drove them back home and tucked Virgil into bed. Before he could leave, Virgil reached under his pillow and pulled out a folded drawing. Running across the room, he handed Logan the drawing. Written on it was “To Dad”. As Logan opened up the paper, he saw a drawing of himself holding hands with a young, smiling Virgil. As he read the three words scrawled atop the drawing, Logan tucked Virgil back into bed and kissed him on the forehead.

“I love you, too, son.”

#my writing #fanficiton #sanders sides #single dad logan au #not my au #sugarglider9603 #sandwich writes stuff

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lovelylogans · 6 years

Text

marionette

epilogue

warnings: blood mentions, food mentions, shoving. please let me know if i missed any!

pairings: none/read as you like

words: 5,034

notes: wow. 36,338 words later, huh? this was originally supposed to be a oneshot, you know? but then everyone kinda screamed at me and well. plot sprung forth. thank you for sticking with this, even through the bizarre twists and turns.

...and, well. one more thing. this ending. gotta end how i begin, right?

read:

all on ao3 | previous chapter | all on tumblr

roman

As soon as they all touched earth again, Virgil was dropping his hand from the stack and, as soon as he’d visually confirmed Deceit had managed to vanish in their ascent, crossed over and shoved Roman.

“What the hell was that?!” He demanded, and jostled him again, wild-eyed, his dripping eyeshadow making his eyes look even wilder.

"Whoa, whoa,” Patton interceded, voice finding some of its parental sternness for the first time since before Roman had smashed the medallion, stepping between them and raising his hands. “We’re out, aren’t we? We’re home?”

He’d directed that question to Logan, pleadingly.

“I’ll check,” Logan said, and dropped out of sight for the briefest moment, before rising back up and giving him a curt nod.

Patton slumped in relief, and then resumed his stance between Roman and Virgil—a cautionary hand held up in the universal sign for stop at Virgil, a hand loosely gripping Roman’s wrist.

“Then let’s just—take a second, okay?” Patton said, glancing between the other three. “Let’s do four seconds, yeah?”

Obligingly, the other three sides sucked in air for four seconds, Patton a moment late, out of sync.

Seven held. Eight out.

“Everyone’s okay, right?” Patton said, directing a watchful eye to each of them. “Any injuries I don’t know about?”

He looked at Roman, who shrugged. Virgil was scowling, drawing his hood up over his head, bangs brushing over his eyes, as if he was trying to draw himself into his hoodie to sulk in solitude.

“A few cuts,” Roman said. “Nothing serious—the rest of you? Logan, I saw your arm—”

Patton flinched, and let go of Roman’s arm. Roman’s brow furrowed.

“We’re all... all right, physically speaking,” Logan said.

“We nearly couldn’t have been,” Virgil snarled, beginning to pace, like a caged animal. “We nearly couldn’t have been. How could you have trusted him?!”

Roman felt some kind of retort rise up in his chest.

But it died somewhere on the way; maybe it was Virgil’s frenetic pacing, still ready for a threat to pop up just when they’d thought they were safe. Maybe it was Logan, discreetly attempting to hide the bitemark from eyesight. Maybe it was Patton, who looked like a lost, half-drowned little kid, eyes too big and too watery and lip just barely trembling, arms wrapped around himself.

Instead of saying anything, he sank into the nearest armchair, and braced his elbows on his knees, burying his face into his hands.

Even without seeing him, he could hear the way Virgil’s feet stopped; he imagined, distantly, the foot caught mid-drag on the floor, the surprised look on Virgil’s face.

A Roman who didn’t want to fight at the precise moment they’d have probably needed it. One more way he was useless.

He might have felt bitter if he didn’t feel so bone-achingly exhausted.

“Roman,” Patton said, and his voice was hushed. “Oh, Roman, honey, it’s okay. You got us all out of there.”

Patton must have sat down on the arm of the chair; Roman could feel Patton’s arm wrap around his shoulders, a tentative tug of an invitation to bury his face against Patton’s chest, to hide from the world a little bit.

It was the most appealing thing he’d heard all night.

But the bitter, angry thoughts from the lighthouse began to bubble up in his brain. So instead, Roman cleared his throat, dragged his hands down his face, and awkwardly nudged Patton into the chair properly as he stood upright again.

Why would they want to deal with me? That nasty little voice repeated, and Roman instead put his hands behind his back—and yes, Virgil was still hunched over in his hoodie, glowering.

“I asked,” Roman said, hating the pleading edge in his voice. “I asked if anyone had any other ideas. I didn’t want to trust him, not after—“

That maddening riddle. That Herculean walk from the beach.

That little girl with the sky-blue ribbon in her hair.

“Not after everything,” Roman finished feebly. “And I don’t. I still don’t.”

“But,” Virgil bit out.

“But he is a side.”

Virgil threw a hand up in frustration, and there was the distant noise of a door opening. Roman glanced at it.

Logan cleared his throat, and waved the first aid kit. “Some of your cuts are still bleeding. If you’d come with me.”

“Right,” Patton said, glancing towards Virgil. “Maybe some time to... cool down, a little? Ease up?”

Logan turned and went; Roman followed.

They waited until they were in a separate room.

“Roll up your sleeves,” Logan said.

“What happened?” Roman said, and at last let that pleading tone come through. “What am I missing, here?”

Logan paused, and said again, “Roll up your sleeves.”

Roman did, and allowed his scratched forearms to come to rest on a little table as Logan pulled up the other chair, doused a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol.

“This will sting,” he said, robotically. Roman gritted his teeth in anticipation. And equally as robotically, Logan began to describe their long walk through the forest, the puddles of water.

The oasis.

Roman sucked in a breath that was only partially due to the sting of rubbing alcohol as Logan described Patton: granted, in Logan’s usual flattened tone, but Roman could imagine it, the gleam of the water reflecting in Patton’s eyes, going glassy, going captivated. No wonder Patton had looked so squeamish about the bitemark—Roman would have been too. Poor guy.

“—so Virgil and I came to the conclusion that one of us would have to go after him.”

Roman wrenched his arm back to himself, clutching at it.

“Too much?” Logan said, inspecting the fifth cotton ball, as if it was something as minimal as too much rubbing alcohol could bother him after a reveal like that.

“You went in after him?!” Roman demanded.

“Eventually,” Logan said, awkwardly holding the cotton ball. He gestured for Roman’s arm back, which he did reluctantly, and resumed gritting his teeth against the sting. “Virgil had taken a long period of time. I’d deduced he’d come to a risk of drowning, too. So I went in.”

Logan’s voice was studiously even and calm. Less... blunt. Than usual. Roman frowned, and looked at him.

He seemed... paler. More drawn. A bit less prone to confrontation.

Roman supposed he was too. But Logan?

“...did you land in a dream?” Roman asked, and Logan shrugged with a nod, a studiously blasé motion.

“What was it?” Roman asked.

“Does it matter?” Logan asked, not looking up from Roman’s arm.

Roman paused.

Logan. Unemotional, logic-worshipping, outbursty Logan. Trapped in some dream world of his own creation. A world where he was the most valued side? A world he’d be studying chemistry and space and all the sciences to his nerdy little heart’s content? A world where maybe, just maybe, he was a touch more sentimental than the way he presented himself here?

A world where Roman and Patton and Virgil, with all their doubts and foibles and illogical ways, were gone?

No. Logan wouldn’t dream that.

Would he?

“Guess not,” he said.

Logan summarized the rest, wrapping Roman’s arms in gauze, and Roman almost wanted to start laughing; guess Patton was right and saving Lysanderoth wasn’t so bad after all.

“And you?” Logan said.

Roman took a deep breath in, and took for a new cotton ball, dousing it. He took hold of Logan’s arm, inspecting the bitemark.

“I didn’t know what I expected when I smashed the medallion,” he began.

patton

Virgil was still pacing. Patton wanted to walk over and still him, but he had a feeling Virgil would plow him right back over again.

So. In the armchair he kept sitting, then.

“It can’t have been that simple,” Virgil said. “He wouldn’t have had us all meet up for a confrontation only to let us go because Roman started talking about the magic of teamwork.”

“If he set it up,” Patton couldn’t help but say, and Virgil grimaced.

“If he had the power to get us all trapped in the dreamscape. If it was even the dreamscape at all. If he had the power to send Roman away. If, if, if—”

“Breathe,” Patton chided him, and Virgil glowered at him before sucking in an over-exaggerated breath.

Patton paused, before he said, soft and quiet, “Thanks. For saving me.”

Virgil. Stops. He glanced towards Patton, before at last coming to sit, almost timidly, on the couch.

“Are you, um,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” Patton asked, because that had been niggling at his brain for the whole night, ever since they’d found Virgil tied up in that field.

Virgil angled a wounded look at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t—“ Virgil waved a hand half-heartedly, and at last tugged his hood off his head. “Don’t do... that thing you do. The.” He waved a hand. “The setting-aside-your-own-problems-and-ignoring-them-by-handling-other-people’s-first thing.”

“Oh,” Patton said, and blinked, before half-heartedly nudging his still-wet hair out of his eyes. “I—I wasn’t trying to. I’m not, I don’t think, I just—I want to know. You’re okay. That... that everyone’s okay.”

Patton fidgeted with the sleeves of his cat hoodie, and muttered, “That I didn’t... mess it up.”

“Oh,” Virgil said, and moved off the couch, kneeling in front of Patton’s armchair in a way that clanged and echoed unpleasantly in Patton’s head, reminding him of the dreamscape, of wracking his mind to recognize his best friend. So he slid out of the armchair, too, to sit on the ground instead of let that keep happening in a way that made his head ache.

Actually, his head had been aching dully most of this night, especially since he’d gotten out of the oasis, but. Even more.

“Hey, no. No no no, you didn’t—you didn’t mess it up, it could have happened to any of us—”

“It didn’t, though,” Patton said, and the bitterness in his voice surprised him and Virgil both, Virgil blinking, Patton wincing as soon as it came out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Patton said, patting Virgil’s wrist. “But I just—you’re okay, right? He didn’t hurt you before you got there, and you’re... you’re okay. Right?”

He was distantly aware that his hands and voice were shaking. Virgil’s hand covered his own, and then he put his hands on Patton’s wrists, slowly sliding them down so he was holding his hands, looking Patton dead in the eye.

“I am okay,” Virgil said, and his voice low. “We’re all okay. Bumps and scrapes. That’s it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay?”

Patton smoothed his thumbs silently over Virgil’s knuckles, staring at the warpainted, streaky eyeshadow. He’d cried. Virgil had cried. Virgil, of all people—dark and stormy night had cried.

Because of Patton.

“Most of what happened was me before was me being tied up and talked at,” Virgil continued. “I’m okay.”

He’d come so close to not being okay, though. His lips had gone blue, so blue, and if Logan hadn’t stormed in when he did, they’d have—

They’d have—

“Are you?” Virgil said, and Patton blinked, trying to cling to the thread of the conversation.

“Are you okay?” Virgil repeated, and Patton took a breath in.

If Roman’s gamble hadn’t worked, if Patton hadn’t thrown himself into the water, if Deceit was even the one behind all this—

if, if, if—

Patton smiled, bright and false as pyrite.

“I will be,” Patton said. “I am.”

logan

Rubbing alcohol, adhesive tape, bandages. Gauze that Logan was carefully rolling into formation, making sure everything was ship-shape.

Maybe procrastinating a little. Maybe that.

But there were only so many times a man could unroll and re-roll gauze, arranging it by type and size, before he at last had to set it all carefully back into place.

There was a click, and very practiced, Logan did not allow his shoulders to hike to his ears.

“Sorry,” a voice said, hushed, and Logan carefully pressed on the lid so it latched, so it was shut.

“That’s all right,” Logan said. “I was just... tidying up.”

He turned.

Patton was futzing with the electric kettle. “Do you want a mug?” Patton asked, timid. “It seems like the kind of night for tea.”

...Logan could put things off a bit more.

“All right,” Logan said, and stowed the first aid kit back under the kitchen sink. “Is there anything I should fetch?”

They ended up making sticky, triangular peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the jelly so overloaded it leaked onto their fingers, with stacks of misshapen, leftover, cracked and broken cookies, a bowl of thinly-sliced apples between them that crunched pleasantly under Logan’s teeth, edging out the tannin-wrought bitterness of the tea he used to unstick the peanut butter from the roof of his mouth.

It was an irreconcilably childish meal. For once, Logan didn’t particularly mind the comforts of the past.

For once, he didn’t deny that he needed them.

Patton was absent-mindedly sorting the cookies—by type, then by wholeness—and they were studiously not talking about it, until Patton allowed his pinky to linger on one cookie in particular. He took a breath in.

“Is...” Patton looked at Logan, and said at last, “Is it just us that’s affected by all this? Did it affect...?”

The question hung in the air as Patton gestured minutely with his head, in a way that Logan took to mean out there, in the real world.

“No,” Logan said, soft and careful. “No. He was asleep, I think. Didn’t see a thing. Was rather confused by me popping up in the midst of what he thought was a perfectly normal night.”

Patton let out a slow breath of relief, and nudged the cookie back into line, muttering, “Well, that’s a silver lining, at least.”

Logan picked up what looked like the crumbliest, smallest, stalest cookie, one that had surely been left to languish in pursuit of newer, fresher packages. A mouthful of tea softened it only slightly.

Logan was on his fourth of systematically working through what were the worst cookies; the broken, tiny ones, the ones that looked incredibly old, the ones that made a dull clanging sound against the plate when Logan tapped it.

Patton, oddly, scowled more and more with each cookie. By the time Logan was reaching for the fifth, Patton’s hand came down on it instead, scowling.

“Stop that,” he said.

Logan blinked. “Stop what?”

“Stop—” Patton said, and gestured with the cookie. “Stop eating all the bad cookies. You deserve the fresh cookies.”

Logan scowled back, and instead reached for the sixth he’d mentally listed.

“It seems prudent to start with the less desirable cookies,” Logan said waspishly. “If anything, you should have the fresher cookies. You enjoy them more than me.”

Patton looked... irregular, scowling. He had expected this to make Patton slightly happier. It seemed to have done the opposite.

“I have cookies more than you,” Patton said mulishly. “So you should be able to have the fresher ones.”

“That would go to show that you’ve developed more of a palate for cookies than I have,” Logan snapped. “And I enjoy tea more than you do, which at least softens the cookies to some degree.”

Patton mutinously shoved the cookie into his mouth, and Logan’s hand shot out to cover the next, and Logan saw Patton’s hands move before he could blink.

Quick, Patton had stacked the next three in swift succession, and immediately shoved them into his mouth.

“There,” Patton said, or maybe he said something else, and Logan couldn’t hear him through the spewing of crumbs.

Maybe it was his puffed-up cheeks, or Logan’s mouth hanging agape. Or maybe it was how truly, truly ridiculous it was that they were fighting over cookies, of all things.

Either way, Logan’s lip twitched. And Patton, chomping angrily, zeroed in on them.

“Wha’s ‘at loo’ su’ose’ ‘oo mea’?” Patton barely managed to articulate around his mouthful, and Logan studiously, cautiously, pressed his lips into a line.

Patton’s eyes seemed to light up, just a little, and he pressed his hands over his mouth before bending double and beginning to laugh.

Logan, at last, allowed himself a smile, and breathless thing that might have been a laugh. And then Patton started giggling harder, and perhaps Logan was ignoring how that noise, choked off by the cookies, sounded like something between sobs and laughter, and instead chose, for once, to not say anything about it.

When Patton resurfaced after swallowing, he was wiping under his eyes, and Logan chose to believe that it was from laughter.

“Ugh,” Patton said, and grinned. Almost normal. “You’re right, those are better with tea.”

“I have a solution,” Logan said, and divided the cookies into two piles: equal amounts of almost-new and definitely-old. He nudged one pile towards Patton, and tugged the other closer to himself.

Patton looked almost like he was going to argue, but at last, he shrugged, and accepted it.

“Very egalitarian,” Patton said, sounding pleased.

Logan lifted his eyebrows. That’s a big word, he thought, but did not say, because if he did that temporary smile would disappear and with it would go all sense of normalcy.

“What are we doing?” Logan said instead.

“Hm?”

“This,” Logan said, gesturing to the cookies. “This whole... night. It doesn’t make sense. Any of it.”

“I know,” Patton said simply. “Do you want to talk it out?”

Logan paused.

“You’ve got to have some guess,” Patton urged.

Logan sighed, and said, “Guesses is one way to say it,” he said.

Patton took a bite of another cookie; Logan sipped at his tea.

“Deceit doesn’t have that power,” Logan said simply. “I mentioned this before. There is only one... being with that power, and he wasn’t responsible.”

Patton was shaking his head. “He wouldn’t,” Patton said. “Thomas wouldn’t—”

“Not the things Roman saw, either,” Logan said, and at Patton’s inquisitive look, offered, “Ask him.”

“I will,” Patton said. “Tomorrow, when he’s awake. So...”

“So I’m lost,” Logan said. “Virgil believes that Deceit did it. Roman doesn’t think so. I’ve had enough of impossibilities for tonight.”

Patton surveyed him, and instead of speaking, he nudged Logan’s cookie pile closer.

Logan allowed himself a brief laugh, and took one from the top.

Patton walked him casually up the stairs, all the way to the doorway of his room, and neither of them said a word about the particular comforts of walking up the stairs alone to a place they’d previously been attacked before.

“Well,” Logan said. “Good night.”

“If anyone’s actually sleeping, I’d be shocked,” Patton said, before he reached out to grip Logan’s shoulder. “Thank you for saving me. From the water.”

“To you in kind,” Logan said, and Patton looked surprised until Logan reminded him: “The vines.”

Patton’s lips parted in a little o of recognition, before he nodded, and patted Logan on the shoulder.

A mischievous grin broke out on his face as soon as Logan opened the door.

“I hope you didn’t sneak off any of those cookies and forget about them,” Patton said, and the grin widened. “I’d hate for you to have a crumb-y sleep.”

Logan shook his head, still smiling, and repeated, “Good night, Patton.”

He closed the door to Patton’s laughter, and flicked on the light, turning to face his room, only to come to a dead stop, hand still on the knob.

He hadn’t been playing chess before all of this.

Logan swallowed, and released the knob, to further inspect the chessboard left on his desk.

It seemed to have been caught in the dregs of the game; pawns and rooks and knights alike were scattered carelessly about the desk, queens tossed to the ground, with only a ramshackle collection of a lone bishop, a knight to each side, some stray pawns, and the two kings left.

The black and yellow kings.

Logan swallowed, and crossed over closer, staring at the board. At last, he allowed himself a small smile.

“Checkmate,” he said aloud, and nudged along the black knight into place, taking the yellow one, before tipping over the golden king with one finger, triumphant.

virgil

It was a wonder Virgil hadn’t worn a path in Roman’s carpet yet.

“You’re going to make your thumbnail bleed if you keep biting it like that,” Roman said wearily from his bed, where Virgil had forcefully tucked him in and refused to let him leave, under the guise of apologizing for shoving him.

Virgil lowered his hand, and Roman sighed in relief.

He brought his other thumb up to his mouth.

“Oh come on,” Roman said, but Virgil didn’t pay him any mind.

Five steps, pivot, five steps, pivot.

“How hard would you glare at me if I told you to breathe, right now?” Roman asked, and Virgil turned to do just what he said.

“Got it,” Roman said. “That hard.”

“I’m holding back because you’re injured,” Virgil groused.

“We’re all injured, try again,” Roman said, amused.

“Fine,” Virgil said. “I’m holding back because you sacrificed yourself, like an idiot.”

The slight smile dropped off Roman’s face. “Oh,” he said.

“What were you thinking?!” Virgil said furiously. Pivot, five, pivot.

“I was thinking I’d save you all,” Roman said irritably, “does that work for you, Mariah Scary?”

A nickname. Virgil wasn’t sure if he’d ever been so glad to hear one. Five, pivot, five. If he wasn’t still furious at Roman, at the whole situation, of course.

“Not if it comes at the cost of you,” Virgil fumed. Pivot, five, pivot.

“You’d have done it if—!”

“No, I wouldn’t have,” Virgil plowed over the end of his sentence, “because I had it, remember? You stole it off my neck!”

Pivot, five, pivot.

“You wanted us to forget it even existed—”

“Of course I wanted to forget it ever existed!” Virgil bellowed. “We were supposed to stick together and get through it together!”

Five, pivot, five.

“It was a way out!”

“Clearly it wasn’t, we ended up getting all out to-geth-er, didn’t we?!” Virgil demanded.

“Because I took the medallion!”

“We don’t KNOW that!” Virgil screamed back. “We could have lost you, we could have—“

“What does that matter if it meant you were all safe?!” Roman exploded. “What do I matter?!”

Virgil. Stopped.

Roman had frozen in his bed, fists clutching the sheets, and his mouth snapped shut.

“I,” he said.

The moment broke.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” Roman said in a nervous rush, with a patently fake laugh. “I just meant—I mean, in the grander scheme of things, if you were all safe, then—”

“Not if it came at the cost of you,” Virgil managed to say. “I—not without you, Roman. If we were all safe but without you—”

Virgil had to shake off the mental image—Logan left without someone to quarrel with, Patton left without someone to gush with, Virgil left without an escape mechanism—

Too terrible for words.

“Don’t,” Virgil began, and sighed. “Don’t. Make this weird.”

“Make what weird?”

But Virgil was already plodding over to Roman’s bedside, and fumblingly managed to sit on something squishy, before leaning over and perhaps resting his head a bit too hard on Roman’s shoulder, trying to wrap his arms around Roman like he actually knew how to comfort people, desperately wishing that he was adept as Patton was at this kind of thing.

“Oh,” Roman said. A pause.

“Okay, I know you said don’t make it weird—“

“We haven’t even lasted five seconds.”

“—but how is it possible that, since we have the same body, and I am so thicc, and yet your butt is so impossibly bony?”

Virgil drew back, just slightly, offended.

“It’s like you have daggers down there,” Roman said, serious, belied only by his twitching lips.

“Fuck you, it’s your bony ass too,” Virgil said, before he paused. “Wait.”

Roman began to laugh, and Virgil shoved him aside, sliding off the squishy stuff—Roman’s legs, probably—to the mattress instead.

“Seriously, though,” Virgil said, once the laughing died down. “I... I’m no Patton, but. We need you, you know? You make us better too.”

Roman’s eyes went wide, and then soft, and then he snorted a little.

“You’re stealing my line.”

“Fine,” Virgil said. “How about, ‘I might not have agreed with what you did, but thank you for saving us?’”

Roman smiled—not broad and wide and confident, a tiny, little, real thing.

“It’s my job,” he said simply. He paused, before he added, “Thanks, for, you know. Protecting them when I wasn’t there.”

Virgil let out a tiny snort, and fiddled with his hoodie sleeve.

“Yeah, well,” Virgil said, and slanted a look at him. “It’s my job.”

Virgil almost thought that sneaking out of Roman’s room without waking him up was just about the most nerve-wracking thing he’d done all night.

Almost.

If it weren’t for, you know. The subconscious mind trying to attack them with things they barely understood.

Virgil found himself wandering back downstairs, and tidying up the remaining detritus of a midnight meal—jam pointed to Logan, but the scattered remains of old cookie containers pointed to Patton. Maybe together. Maybe separate. He’d ask in the morning. Maybe.

But regardless, he rinsed off the plates and stuck them in the washer, and got himself a glass of water while he was at it, and wiped down the counters with a wet cloth, and got another one to wipe free the streaky eye makeup, leaving his face clean and unpigmented. He dawdled over whether or not he should bust out the broom and dustpan too before he was forced to acknowledge he was just channeling nervous energy into something else, and so he left the room.

In the living room, he tidied up the pillows and blankets, and put the remote back where it could be easily located. There wasn’t much wrong here—just the normal mess of the mindscape, of their lives.

Normal. Easy to fix.

Something Virgil needed right now. Something all of them needed right now.

In the morning, Patton would probably make some kind of breakfast in an attempt to distract himself. Logan would probably start reading a new book and hounding them about the subject matter. Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if Roman tried to fill another notebook for the collection.

And he was just... anxiety. He didn’t want their days filled with a pounding heart and sweating and chest pain and shaking and the rest of it, so instead he used that for something else.

Virgil began to rearrange the pillows instead of focus on that particular line of thought.

Eventually—when he’d straightened things in the main area as much as he could without running the risk of waking the others—he was forced to admit defeat, and instead go back to his room, to find something else to occupy his brain.

Or, in his wildest dreams, actually manage a decent night’s sleep.

Virgil spun his phone in his hand, a practiced tic, as he walked down the hall, refusing to give in to the urge to keep turning and checking over his shoulders.

It’s over, he told himself firmly. It’s over. You’ve gotten through it, and it’s over, and it’ll be better in the morning.

If only he could believe it, that’d be just swell.

Roman had been snoozing, but Virgil still cracked the door to check.

Yes. Fairy lights dimly shining showed Roman, still flopped on his side, mouth inelegantly open, making noises that would surely progress fully to snoring. Virgil smirked and closed the door with hardly a click.

Patton’s door, then—Virgil wasn’t surprised to see that a few stuffed animals had joined the fray tonight, including one that had been knocked to the ground, something that would surely upset Patton if he woke to see it there. He nudged off his shoes in the hall, and crept into Patton’s room in socked feet, bending to pick up the bear and straightening.

The bags under his eyes looked much more pronounced, from this distance.

Virgil frowned and carefully set the bear behind Patton, as if it was giving him a hug, before he crept back out into the hallway. He picked up his shoes, rather than put them back on again—Logan was the lightest sleeper of them all.

Logan’s lights were fully off, so Virgil had to sneak in closer and squint in order to see Logan’s closed eyes, the blankets hiked over his shoulders, the even rise and fall of his chest, and the distant glint of pieces on the desk.

Huh. Virgil didn’t know Logan was getting into chess again.

Virgil tore his glance from the chess board, and focused his attention on nudging Logan’s glasses further onto the nightstand, so a flailing hand in quest of shutting off an alarm wouldn’t knock them to the ground, and smoothing a wrinkle in the bedsheets before he crept out again.

Something in his chest had died down at the sight of them, safe and soundly asleep. He wondered if it would let him get some rest in kind.

At last, his room. Virgil dropped his shoes by the door, and let his shoulders relax gradually at the sight of his room.

His bed unmade, some clothes strewn on the ground, closet door flung open. All was well.

All was well. Why couldn’t he make himself believe it, then?

Not while he chanted it to himself while changing, or brushing his teeth, or getting the last few swipes of eyeshadow off his face. Not while he tossed his dirty clothes in the hamper and shut the closet door, at last groaning and leaning his head against it.

It’s over, he told himself firmly. It’s over.

Almost as if to specifically contradict him, Virgil felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Virgil swallowed, throat dry.

It’s over, he told his clenching fists. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, he told his knit brow, his thundering heart, his heavy shoulders.

His body knew before he did, he supposed.

He couldn’t even be surprised when he turned and saw the Virgil marionette sitting on his bed, with a wide, garish, unnatural grin in a way it certainly hadn’t been before.

#my fic #marionette #sanders sides fanficiton #sanders sides fanfic #my post #text

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