#subtle dlampr

[ijustwannadraw0716]

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

Featuring flustered sides but eith more color. Bottom one has a few kisses marks ;3

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Hallucination

Prompts: i love your fics insanity and real or not real!! can i request another fic where a side is struggling to tell what's real and what's a hallucination? can be in the same like universe (carrying on with one of the stories) or a completely different universe/person, idm - anon

 *crashes into ur asks*

Hey if you’re still taking requests could you do just Janus comforting someone on the verge of a meltdown? Like lots of soft words and caring Janus? He’s my comfort character and I love him - anon

Thanks for the prompt!

Read on Ao3 Part 1 (ish) 

Warnings: talk of hallucinations, uncertainty

Pairings: focus on creativitwins, intrulogical, dukeceit, background LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes Thomas watches things and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

Sometimes Thomas decides to watch something late at night, when it’s dark outside, even though Virgil tells him it’s a bad idea, and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

 Sometimes when Virgil has gone to his room and he’s fine, but Thomas’s mind can’t stop playing it over and over and over and over, he starts to expand on it and it isn’t Remus’s fault.

 He can’t remember the name of the video. Something to do with being stuck on a misty island in the middle of nowhere with a monster and villagers that wait to sacrifice tourists to the monster to sate its hunger. Something about a daring rescue or an escape plan doomed to fail.

 Something like…

 “Do not go outside. Do not turn on the lights. Don’t make sounds.” The old man draws the curtains sharply across the window. “And whatever you do, do not look out the window.”

 It’s late now. Patton’s asleep. Virgil’s in his room, probably asleep. The rest of them are still awake in the Imagination. It’s slumber party night for the twins, having created a big sprawling mansion in the Imagination for them to run around in. Logan is here, Janus is here, Roman is here.

 Villagers?

 They’re talking about what Thomas watched.

 Logan straightens his legs out. “It’s not a bad practice, staying quiet.”

 Janus rolls his eyes. “Come on, what is this, some haunted island?”

 “You saw the people in the video.” Logan rests his weight on his elbows. “Something was amiss.”

 “The only thing amiss was how awfully boring you lot are being.” Janus sighs and stands, stretching. “Well, I think a night of entertainment sounds wonderful.”

 “The old man said to be quiet,” Roman points out. Wait, is the old man real?

 “Do you know how prone to flights of fancy old people are?” Janus smiles. “Incredibly.”

 “Hmm.”

 “Oh don’t start that.” Janus rolls his eyes and his gaze lands on Remus. A smirk crawls across his face. “Well,” he drawls, sauntering across the room, “someone’s being awfully quiet.”

 Remus just shrugs. Janus crouches down.

 “What do you think about this monster,” he asks, tapping his fingers on his chin, “about the thing that sneaks around this island, peering into windows, through the keyholes of locked doors?”

 “Janus,” Logan warns.

 “What? I just want to hear what our other little scientist thinks about this.” He raises his eyebrows when Remus won’t hold his gaze. “No? Nothing? Need more data? Well, I’m sure you could ask around if you wanted to.”

 “We’re not supposed to leave,” he says softly.

 “I know you’re a goody-two-shoes, Remus, but you’ll never get anything done that way.”

 “Leave him alone, Janus,” Roman says with a wink, “he’s just mad at how pathetic the monster design was.”

 Long limbs. Dark eyes. Moved like shadow.

 “And the Boy Scout, coming to the rescue.” Janus rolls his eyes as he stands. “Aren’t you tired of being so boring?”

 Roman holds his hands up. “Hey, I’m all for exploring!”

 Janus sighs. “Ever the dashing prince, are we?”

 “Ask nicely and I may sweep you off your feet too.”

 The banter continues. Logan just sighs and pulls out a journal, the pen emerging from god-knows-where as he writes. Remus swallows and glances toward the window.

 In. Out. In. Out.

 Roman and Janus are still tossing barbs and jests back and forth. Remus cannot help but notice how loud they are being.

 The old man said to be quiet.

 Logan looks up when he begins to crouch down and shuffle behind the bed.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Changing.” He gives a half-hearted smile. “Texture spoons ran out.”

 He nods and goes back to his writing. Remus glances at the nightstand. Only 8:00. The conversation gets progressively louder. Logan joins in eventually, rolling his eyes at Roman’s increasingly elaborate proposals to bring in jukeboxes, disco lights, and speakers.

 “Let’s think about this logically. If the ghosts or whatever the hell the monster is sensitive to sound, why not pump everything to like, 300 decibels and blast their eardrums out?”

 “Or it could be that they just hear things like we hear things,” Logan remarks.

 “Mm.”

 “Why do I have to be quiet?” Roman spreads his arms. “I should not have to deal with that!”

 “Actually, you know what,” Janus says gleefully, “I agree. We shouldn’t have to be quiet. If this place doesn’t have adequate monster protection, that’s on them.”

 This place…didn’t they make it safe? Roman said they made it safe. Is it not safe anymore? Are the shadows—is the monster here?

 “Always the entitlement,” Logan sighs, seemingly resigning himself to the voice of reason as he settles his journal to the side, “assuming that everyone should cater to your needs.”

 “Oh come on, Logan. You have to admit that having a hotel that isn’t secure makes little to no sense.”

 Hotel? Isn’t this still the mansion?

 The low buzz of an LED sign comes from outside. Remus blinks. Has…has that always been there?

 “Not respecting the rules of wherever you choose to go makes little to no sense.”

 “That’s gotta hold up in court though.” Roman glances at Janus. “You get me?”

 “Yes, Your Honor,” Janus says, drawing himself up like a lawyer, “I would like to sue on the grounds that my intestines were devoured horrifically by a terrifying, savage beast that the hotel owners neglected to inform me of. How am I standing here, you ask, if my intestines have been devoured? Simple. Spite.”

 Roman’s off, cackling to his heart’s content. Logan bites back his own smile.

 “And how, may I ask, is this not the fault of yourself?”

 “May I say, Your Honor, that victim-blaming is not cute—“

 “Here here,” comes Roman’s voice.

 “—and also, the information about aforementioned monster came from someone who was not an employee of the hotel,” Janus finishes grandly, “therefore they can suck my—“

 Logan hits his hand against the nightstand, still fighting down laughter. “Defendant is charged with contempt of court.”

 “Do not pass go,” Roman chortles as Janus swoons dramatically, “do not collect 200 dollars.”

 “Remus,” Janus cries out, “avenge me!”

 Remus does not respond. He is too busy trying to figure out when the mansion became the hotel.

 “Remus,” Janus cries again, crawling dramatically across the floor, “save me from this indignity.”

 “No, thank you,” he mumbles instead.

 Janus huffs, pushing himself off the floor. “Then by all means, please tell us your ingenious solution to this monster problem that we find ourselves in.”

 Remus looks up, his face carefully blank except for a small smile. “I’m going to hide underneath the sheets,” he says in a soft, small voice, “because everybody knows monsters can’t get you when you’re under your sheets.”

 “That is adorable,” Roman chuckles.

 Janus’s eyebrows raise slowly until another fiendish smirk crawls across his face. “Are you scared?”

 “Yes.”

 “Aww,” he coos, “hiding under the sheets to get away from the monsters, how adorable.”

 Remus doesn’t respond.

 “If only the others could see you now,” Janus crows, “they’d know how intimidating you really are.”

 Logan takes his glasses off, polishing them with the handkerchief from his pocket. “As if you’re any better, crying over a torn seam in your cape.”

 “That bastard took two weeks to get right!”

 Remus ignores them once more, glancing at the clock. 9:45. An acceptable time to try and go to sleep. He moves slowly and quietly as he tries to get into the bed. The monster could be here. The banter continues behind him as he pulls the sheets tight around him.

 He does not see Logan glance over. He does not see that Logan frowns and glances at the clock, thinking perhaps Remus is more tired than he appeared, but…still. He does not see Logan look back at the others still talking, they’re probably not going to go to sleep for a long while.

 He does not see Logan look over at him as Janus leaves the room, claiming he’s going to go find somewhere more fun to sleep. He does not see Logan frown, looking to see Remus still on his side, huddled under the sheets. He does not see when Logan starts to count.

 One, two, three, four.

 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

 One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

 He does not see Logan beckon Roman closer.

 He does not see Roman frown as he comes closer, sighing at the notebook in Logan’s hands.

 “Logan, why the hell can’t you take a break for…” he trails off when he sees Logan’s face. “What?”

 “Perhaps I like to keep myself occupied,” Logan says smoothly, even as he nods insistently to the notebook, “even in times where the circumstances might be less than ideal.”

 Roman raises an eyebrow. Subtle, Logan.

 “You are chronically incapable of taking a break, aren’t you?”

 “Perhaps.”

 “Do you know any words other than ‘perhaps?’”

 “Perhaps.”

 Roman hides a smirk as squints at the text.

 I think Remus is actually afraid. Don’t tease. - L

 Remus does hear Roman exhale sharply. He does not see him glance up at the bed before he looks back at Logan and nods.

 “Well,” he sighs, stretching and yawning exaggeratedly, “on that note, it’s probably a good idea to try and sleep.”

 Logan snorts. “And here I thought you were supposed to be an actor.”

 He swats at him halfheartedly as he starts getting ready to go to sleep. What that means is just a matter of snapping his fingers to change out of the prince costume. He packs his other clothes away and crosses the room, keeping his footsteps loud but not too loud.

 Now that he’s paying attention, he can see how scared poor Remus is. He’s frozen under the sheets, barely moving. As Logan starts talking quietly to himself, he sets his bag down next to Remus’s and sighs, moving around to make a bit more noise.

 Remus still doesn’t move.

 When he’s made all the noise he can reasonably make, he walks a little closer to the bed and reaches to fix the curtains, unable to stop the soft noise when his shadow falls over the bed.

 “Hey, Re,” he whispers, leaning down and brushing the sheet a little further from his face, “it’s just me, it’s just Roman. Can you open your eyes for me?”

 It takes him a moment but his eyes do open. He smiles down at him and cups his face for a moment.

 “Hey, there, Re,” he murmurs, “can I come join you?”

 He barely nods.

 “Thank you.” He frowns when he doesn’t move over. “You gonna let me in?”

 He can tell by the way his eyes glass over that’s not a good idea unless he can convince him otherwise.

 “Come on,” he whispers again, “scoot to the other side for me.” He nudges his shoulder gently. “Logan misses you.”

 Loren doesn’t let his mumuring falter but he does reach across the small space between their beds to lightly pat the side closest to him.

 Remus moves, as skittish as the new dragon pups, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest, his pillow gripped in his other hand. Roman swiftly takes the warm spot he’s vacated, wincing in sympathy as he shivers on the cold sheets.

 “Thank you,” he sighs, making a show of getting comfortable before reaching out for him, smacking his lips together in sleep, “now come here.”

 At his quickly stifled questioning noise, he drops the act and opens his arm wide.

 “It’s okay, Re,” he whispers, far too quiet for Logan to hear, “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay.”

 He stares at him a moment longer before he realizes that shit, he’s not going to be able to move on his own right now.

 “Can I come get you, Re?” Roman smiles when he gives him another one of those jerky nods. “Thank you, I’m gonna pull you over to me, okay?”

 He takes him into his arms slowly and carefully, wrapping him up in the sheets until just the very tops of their heads poke out. He relaxes just enough so that he can maneuver him to where he likes, but he’s far from the sleepy pile he expected.

 “Hey,” he whispers, tucking his hair behind his ear, “you want to stay here with me, Re?”

 He blinks sluggishly. Roman bites back a curse and leans down to rub his nose against his.

 “Hey, hey, Re, you just focus on me, okay? Stay with me here—“ he tightens his grip— “right here…I’ve got you.”

 He frowns when he makes a small little noise that sounds like it could be his name.

 “Yeah, Re? You calling for me?”

 He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He kisses Remus’s forehead.

 “Nonverbal,” he whispers, “or just scared? Or both?”

 A moment passes.

 “Both it is then.” Roman tucks his head under his chin. “Why don’t you go ahead and close your eyes, Re, I’m right here.”

 They stay there, wrapped in the blankets, Remus warm and snug up against Roman’s chest. He plays with his hair, one of his legs slung over his to hold him close, working to lull him out of his frozen state. After a while, Logan stands from the other side of the room and pats Roman’s shoulder.

 “Your turn, Roman.”

 Roman rolls over. “Huh?”

 Logan nods his head toward the bathroom. “Shower.”

 Roman sighs dramatically and presses another kiss to Remus’s forehead, leaving his brother dazed, blinking up at Logan. Logan watches Roman leave before he turns his gaze downwards. Remus tries to pretend the shiver that goes through him at the way Logan softens his gaze is just the cold.

 “Remus,” he calls softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, “Remus, may I join you?”

 A pause.

 “Tap the bed twice if yes, once if no.”

 A pause, then Remus hesitantly reaches out to make two little taps.

 “Thank you.”

 He slides smoothly into the bed, reaching out to carefully slip an arm under his and pull him off of the sweat-soaked sheets—when did that happen?—and into his arms. Remus moves pliantly, tucking his chin into the space left between his chin and the pillow.

 “Hey,” he whispers, gentling his voice as he tucks his head closer to Remus’s, “hey.”

 Logan is warm. Is Logan—Logan said it made sense to be quiet. Logan knows. Logan understands. Logan always understands.

 “What’s the matter,” Logan calls gently, “can I help?”

 Remus swallows. “Monster.”

 “Are you afraid of the monster, Remus?”

 Remus nods. “Black eyes. Shadow. Kill you and Roman and Janus and then go find Patton and Virgil and Thomas. Bad.”

 “The monster isn’t real, Remus,” Logan says softly, running his hand through his hair, “it doesn’t exist.”

 Remus shakes his head. “We’re in the hotel on the island. It’s real. Roman left and the monster will kill him.”

 “Roman is just in the bathroom,” Logan corrects, moving his head to indicate the running water sound, “he’s alright. We’re not in a hotel, we’re in the mansion you two created.”

 “But the LED sign is buzzing outside.”

 “Would you like to look and see?”

 “No!” Remus wraps his arms tightly around Logan’s waist. “We’re not supposed to look out the window, the old man said not to.”

 “The old man isn’t here,” Logan says patiently, “I’m here. I have you. I’ll keep you safe.”

 “He said—he—he’s not real?”

 “No, Remus, he’s not real.” Logan gives him a gentle squeeze. “This is real. This is real, Remus, I’ve got you.”

 “You’re real.”

 “I am.”

 “You said it’s safe to look out the window?”

 “It is.” Logan squeezes again. “Would you like me to show you?”

 Remus nods. Logan leans up and pulls back the curtain, peeking outside. There’s no bright red light from the hotel LED sign. Just soft moonlight.

 “There’s no sign, Remus,” he murmurs, “you’re not in a hotel.”

 Oh.

 “The scar,” he blurts, his hand flying to his chest, “from the stab, what if it’s already got us?”

 “I don’t have a scar,” Logan says, lying back down and taking Remus’s hand, “here…feel.”

 Logan presses his palm to his bare chest, pulling his shirt out of the way so Remus can see. There’s no scar.

 “You don’t have one either…may I?”

 When he presses his palms against Remus’s chest, there’s no scar.

 “We’re…not there?”

 “No, Remus, we’re not there,” Logan says gently, “we’re here, in the mansion, safe, there’s no monster.”

 The water stops. A moment later and Roman emerges, tossing a towel over his shoulder. He sees the two of them in the bed and pouts.

 “You stole my spot!”

 “I had Remus to comfort,” Logan says smoothly, waving him over, “though you are welcome to help.”

 Roman ruffles Remus’s hair. Remus leans into it.

 “Ro, are you real?”

 “Yes, of course, I’m real, Re, what…” Roman trails off and his eyes go wide. “Oh, Re, did we—did I push you into hallucination territory? I’m so sorry, yes, we’re real, we’re here, we’re in our mansion, we’re safe, Re.”

 “Safe?”

 “Yeah, Re,” Roman murmurs, getting in to cuddle his brother properly, “we’re safe.”

 “Real?”

 “This is real.”

 Remus buries his nose in his brother’s real neck and holds him close. Logan stays by his side, stroking his hair and murmuring that Remus is here, they’re real, they’re safe.

 After a moment, Remus takes a deep breath and pulls apart.

 “You know the rules, Ro-Bro.”

 Roman grimaces, his head dropping to rest against Remus’s sternum for a moment before he nods. Logan looks back and forth between the two of them.

 “What are the rules?”

 “When Remus gets pushed into hallucination territory,” Roman says softly, “he sleeps alone.”

 Logan frowns. “But surely it would help to have us reassure you and help ground you?”

 “Wouldn’t help for the intrusive thoughts and hallucinations to include you too.”

 Logan winces. “I suppose not, but—“

 “Lolo we’ve tried,” Remus mumbles, “we—this works. It sucks and I hate it and so does Ro but this is what works.”

 “I trust you,” Logan says, squeezing Remus’s hand, “and I trust you to know what works for you.”

 “We’re just overprotective.”

 “I’ll say.”

 Roman gives him one last hug before standing and pulling Logan to his feet. “You know we’ll come as soon as you call.”

 Remus nods. “I know.”

 The room feels empty when they leave.

 The night passes.

 During the witching hour, he startles awake.

 The sheets are soaked in sweat directly under him. His eyes are wide. His breathing is too controlled.

 The monster is not here but the shadows are.

 Somewhere in this house, he knows, something is here. He can hear the voice in the movement of the curtains, hear the step in the way the floorboard settles. Hands never meet his tender flesh, a mouth never bites his fragile throat, but something is here.

 Step. Step. Step.

 The fear clouds his eyes as it drips into his ears. The light flickers. Something brushes a knuckle up and over his cheek. Something pauses outside his doorway.

 Through the depths of the fear filling his ears, something knocks.

 The chill rips its fingers out of his mouth and smears them over his throat. Something knocks again. There’s something outside. There’s something outside.

 “Sweetie,” he calls as he opens the door, “Sweetie?”

 Janus steps inside.

 “You’re awake,” he says, shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the bed, “it’s quite late.”

 “I know,” Remus says as he sits up, wary, “sorry.”

 Janus hums, reaching out to idly brush his hair off his forehead. The chill curls and lingers around his fingers, the shadows diving to hide in the lea of him, greedily drinking the fear from Remus. Janus goes to pull his hand away only to notice the prickles on Remus’s skin.

 “Are you cold, my dear?” He frowns and lightly dusts his forearm with his fingertips. “You look it.”

 Remus shakes his head. Janus raises an eyebrow, pressing his thumb hard against his arm to reveal a white imprint. It takes long seconds for the chill to let blood color the flesh again.

 “Let’s not lie,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back up to catch Remus’s, “shall we, sweetie?”

 Janus reaches up to trace the air around the curve of his cheek, one finger lightly tracing his jaw. The electrifying tingle clenches his hands in the sheet. He tilts his head and hums softly.

 “What’s keeping you awake, sweetie?”

 The chill snarls, refusing to let go of his throat.

 “You can speak,” he encourages, lightly knuckling the underside of his chin, “it’s alright.”

 “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head a little.

 “None of that, now, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He closes his hand around his. “To be afraid is nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie, you know that.”

 The shadows move slowly, wary of him, eager to taste his fear. The chill huddles around it, icing it in place, refusing to let him breathe without reaching its fingers into the pit of his throat.

 “Oh, my dear,” Janus murmurs, running his fingers along the side of Remus’s neck, “can I do anything for you?”

 He shakes his head quickly. Too quickly.

 “Sweetie…”

 “You’ll be annoyed.”

 “I’m concerned,” Janus corrects gently, “that’s all.”

 Remus risks a glance at the shadows.

 “And you know, Remus,” he continues, lifting his hand to press a chaste kiss to its back, “taking care of you is never annoying.”

 A different type of fear tingles along his fingers as they brush the curve of his jaw. This one reaches deep, deep along his fingers, up his arm, down to the curve of his shoulder, wriggling in between the cold knots to pulse against him. The shadows bloom in the corners of the room, shying away from the light flickering over his face, his shirt, his hand.

 Through the mouthful of fear, his tongue wets his lips. “You’ll find it stupid.”

 “Never, sweetie.”

 “The dark,” blurts shamefully from his mouth, “I’m afraid of the dark.”

 “The dark, sweetie? Is this about…”

 “I got pushed into hallucination territory earlier.”

 Janus makes a noise of sympathy, murmuring an apology for teasing earlier.

 “I can’t see anything but the shadows,” Remus whispers, squeezing his eyes shut, “and the noises, and how empty it is because I know it’s not empty.”

 “And what helps this go away,” he asks, still cupping his hand, “what makes the shadows leave my sweetie alone?”

 “S-stay? Please, with—with me?” Remus’s breath starts to catch again. “Don’t—don’t let them hurt me.”

 “Oh, sweetie, of course,” Janus murmurs, “of course I’ll stay.”

 The poor thing chokes out a sob. Janus reaches forward to lie him back down when his hand brushes the edge of the sheet. He frowns. Picking the sheet up between two fingers, he winces. He can feel his fingertips rubbing together, it’s barely warm enough.

 Remus’s breath still hasn’t caught when he returns with a thick quilt, spreading it over him to banish the last of the chill.

 “Hush now,” he soothes, smoothing the corners of the quilt, “hush, sweetie, it’s over, you did so well, shh…”

 Janus climbs into bed, pulling the shaking Remus to his chest, his arms wrapping tightly, tightly around the poor thing as he cradles Remus protectively.

 “Come here, my sweet,” he whispers, “come here, now, shh, shh, you’re alright now, sweetie, shh, shh…”

 His cries soften, gentled into mewls against his chest as he warms him against his skin. The poor thing is still clenched tighter than a fist. He croons, taking his wrist in his hand and pulling him flush against him.

 “It’s alright, sweetie, you did so well, it’s gone now, you did it, there you are, here you are, right here, sweetie.”

 The poor thing whines.

 “Oh, sweet one, shh, shh, shh, my dear, you’re alright…” He makes a noise of sympathy when he doesn’t stop. “What’s the matter, sweetie, tell me, say it, come now…”

 He brings his hand up to stroke gently under Remus’s chin.

 “Say it, sweetie, tell me what’s troubling you so, let me help, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

 “The shadows,” he whimpers, “the shadows, I can—I can hear them, they—they’re everywhere—I—they’re looking at me, they’re touching me, I can—I can feel them—I—“

 “I’ve got you, sweetie,” Janus murmurs, pressing a kiss to Remus’s cheek, “I’m right here, nothing can touch you, here—“

 He pulls the blankets up and over their heads, creating a little bubble of intimacy in the dark room.

 “I’m here, sweetie, it’s just me, I won’t hurt you, you know I won’t. Shh, shh, hush now, sweetie, it’s alright.”

 They stay like that for a little longer, Remus sobbing out the rest of the fear as Janus hushes him softly, pulls him close, soothes away the last of the tremors with gentle hands and tender words.

 After a while, Remus pulls away.

 “…thanks, Jan.”

 “I promised,” Janus murmurs, “I promised that I’d do it when you need me to.”

 “I know.” Remus sniffles. “I just…wish you didn’t have to.”

 “Don’t ever feel bad about needing something,” Janus chides softly, chucking him lightly under the chin, “especially not when you really need it.”

 “Already sent Lolo and Ro away for hallucinations, you—“

 “They’re fine, sweetie, a little worried, but they came and told me what was happening.” Janus kisses his forehead again. “They’re not angry, they don’t begrudge you needing things, and they’ll be here for you. They always are.”

 “I know.”

 Exhaustion begins to seep into his eyes. He blinks sluggishly.

 “This is real, right?”

 Janus gives him a squeeze. “It’s real.”

 “Can I sleep now?”

 “Oh, of course, sweetie,” he murmurs, leaning back up to rest his head on the pillow next to Remus, “you go right ahead. I’ll be right here. I’ll keep the shadows away.”

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[foursideharmony]

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 8)

Summary: Before there can be a mending, there must be a shattering...

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Unconsciousness, extreme self-doubt, ugly crying, profanity

Word Count: 3,923

Read on AO3: here

Patton knelt beside Roman and maneuvered an arm behind his shoulders in order to lift him into a reclining position. The Creative Side remained worryingly unconscious—the Witch's power had evidently been shielding him from the effects of cold exposure, and he had traded his ethereal pallor for a sickly one. “He's chilled,” Patton reported. “Maybe a little shocky from the stress. We ought to get him underground and into some nice warm blankets.”

“Maybe it serves him right,” Virgil muttered even as he slipped out of his fur coat and laid it over the prince, relying on his hoodie to keep himself warm enough in the meantime. “So now what?”

“Aw, all those cool gross monster things are leaving!” Remus said, peering down the slope of the hill. “I wanted to see a gory battle! From the inside!”

“Can't you?” Virgil said acidly. “I thought you said you'd get control of the Imagination if Roman got knocked out.”

“I said I'd get control if I knocked Roman out. It's part of the whole sibling rivalry thing. We fight over who gets to play with the good toys. Didn't you notice that nothing has really changed around here? We're still in Roman's story.” He looked pensive, which was always a dangerous sign. “I guess I could try to clock him one anyway, but I don't know if it would work when he's unconscious already.” He shrugged. “Oh well, maybe he'll get frostbite and his fingers and toes will turn black and fall off! That would be a hoot!”

“Eugh, why are you like this?” said Virgil.

“Don't you dare touch him,” Patton said firmly. “That's one experiment that is not happening today.” He lifted Roman a little more and tucked the edges of the coat under him.

“How's he looking?” asked Virgil.

“I don't think he's getting any worse, at least. I still want to get him inside one of the shelters.”

“Something tells me that's actually not going to be necessary,” said Janus, speaking for the first time since he had managed to trigger Roman's sudden turnaround. He pointed toward the area of thick forest roughly to the east of the hill. “I do so hate to correct you, Remus, but that looks like change to me.”

All the trees in a roughly circular patch had lost their coatings of snow and displayed either dark needles or bare gray-brown branches. The patch was slowly growing, and as they watched, a trail of the same phenomenon formed, leading off of the main area and meandering toward the hill. The forest sparkled as drops of newly melted water fell from twigs and caught the sun, and before long, those twigs began to mist over with pale green.

The trail reached the edge of the forested area, and there emerged from the trees...a tawny, long-haired cat. As it paced forward, the snow vanished under its paws, revealing dark, damp earth from which grass immediately began to sprout. The cat began to climb the Hill of the Stone Table, and with every step, the nascent springtime spread farther and, astonishingly, the cat grew larger . Before it was halfway up the slope, it was somewhere between a lynx and a leopard in size and still growing. Its shaggy fur clustered around its neck and shoulders, its jaws became heavier, its tail acquired a tuft at the end. It was a lion that reached the crest of the hill, the snow fleeing before him, paws striking the ground like miniature earthquakes, tiny white and yellow flowers bursting from the ground in his wake.

The response of the assembled Narnians was immediate, collective, and extreme. They didn't drop to the ground kneeling or bowing, as one might expect in the presence of their King, but ran to the Lion, keening with delight and adoration. Talking Beasts nuzzled his paws and flanks, Fauns and Dwarfs combed their fingers through his mane, and the whole throng constantly called out his name— “Aslan, Aslan!” —the various tones and pitches of their voices overlapping and blending together into a susurration like surf on a beach.

Aslan, for his part, returned their affection in full, dipping his head to brush whiskers with the beasts, swishing his tail to tickle the Fauns. Yet he maintained his pace as he continued toward the center of the hilltop, toward where the Sides were watching the proceedings with awkward astonishment, like the outsiders they were. Remus stared at the great Lion with mixed apprehension and fascination. Janus looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but understood that even the most casual exit would only attract attention. Virgil stood stiffly as if pinned in place, splitting the difference between terror and giddy excitement and landing somewhere in the vicinity of shock. And Patton...

Patton certainly hadn't forgotten about Roman, but at the sight of Aslan's approach, he was moved to lay the Prince back down on the warming ground and step forward, shy and sentimental, to greet Aslan.

“We've already met, haven't we,” he said. It wasn't a question. Aslan nodded. “Thank you, for what you did yesterday. It helped Ailim a lot. Me too.”

Aslan turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping to encompass the entire gathering in turn. At last he spoke, in a voice as heavy and rich as gold itself. “Things are beginning to be set right. But there are yet choices to be made.” He walked over to Roman and bent to sniff him, causing him to flinch and whimper, but not waken just yet.

“Is Roman going to be okay?” asked Patton.

“Physically, he will,” Aslan replied. “As for the rest...that is largely up to him.” He swept his golden gaze over the crowd once more. “Shouldn't there be one more of you?”

“If you're talking about Logan,” Virgil said, “he...wait, why am I telling you? Aren't you supposed to be all-knowing or whatever?

Aslan actually smiled slightly. “Indeed. Bring him here.” A small group of Narnians jumped up to fetch Logan from where they had hidden him earlier in order to make Janus's illusion convincing. “As for the rest of you...you may wish to cover your ears.”

They did (except for Remus, who tried to pull his off entirely and discovered too late that he couldn't), and even so, Aslan's roar was an almost solid physical force. A shockwave of sorts spread out from the hill at tremendous speed, and as it passed it obliterated the hundred-year winter—no slow melting of snow, no gentle emergence of leaf buds, but an instant replacement of one season by the next. In a mere moment, the white and gray world had been made over into one of azure and earthy brown and every possible shade of green, splashed here and there with delicate floral pastels.

And there was another instantaneous effect. The sheer noise of it woke Roman up. His eyes sprang open and he gasped, body twitching as every nerve and muscle was startled into full alertness. He flailed for a moment before managing to sit up just as the roar died away. He looked around wildly, apparently not recognizing his greatly altered surroundings, until his eyes focused and his glance fell upon the Lion.

Roman's face crumpled. He made a tiny noise of anguish and turned around so that he wasn't facing Aslan, or the other Sides, or anyone.

“Roman...” Patton said. “It's gonna be—”

“I'll go,” Roman said into his own knees. “I'll leave the Imagination running so you can keep the story going until you're ready to stop.”

“Roman. Do not run from this,” Aslan said softly. “You have wronged your companions. You must face those wrongs if you wish to ever dispel them.”

“Dispel them...” Roman repeated bitterly. “Are you sure I'm not meant to keep on compounding them?”

“Okay, Princey, enough,” said Virgil, stepping forward and grasping Roman's shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts friendly and forceful. “Lay off the self-pity already. Nobody here expects you to be the bad guy. Nobody here thinks you're the bad guy unless something goes really wrong, which apparently it did. And I can definitely tell you that nobody here wants you to be the bad guy. You owe us all an apology, but that can wait. The most important thing right now is that you fix that.” He pointed across the hilltop to where the Narnians were just settling the Logan-statue into place.

Roman's eyes found it, and his expression collapsed all over again, this time with a faint greenish tinge. But he steeled himself, got his feet under himself (pointedly ignoring Virgil's offer of a hand up), and made himself walk over to the quartz form of his friend. “I-I don't know if I can,” he said. “I used the Witch's power to...and I don't have it anymore. She has it back now, she's back, and—”

“Try,” said Aslan, the single syllable falling like the closing of an oaken door.

Roman made a short nod, gulping hard, and set his attention to undoing the enchantment. He drew his sword, willed it to act again as a magic wand, and focused on Logan. On making flesh (or whatever the Sides were, in the mindscape) instead of stone. On making him live again. He put all his power of wishing into it.

Nothing happened. Logan remained frozen in crystal. Roman staggered back a step or two, panting with distress. “I am losing control over the Imagination,” he said in a voice that was almost a squeak. “I can't even... It's probably for the reason Patton said. I...I...” Without another word, he dropped his sword and fled down the slope of the hill and into the green trees.

“Roman, wait!” called Patton, to no effect.

“Bye, bro!” Remus added with an over-the-top wave.

“I will see to him,” said Aslan. “But first...” He nosed Logan for a moment, then huffed out a breath over him. Satisfied, he padded away after Roman.

For a moment still, nothing changed. Virgil was the one to spot the subtle first sign: the dark lines filling themselves in on Logan's chest, tracing the shape of his logo, the bespectacled brain. The black color spread out quickly from there as his shirt softened into fabric, and within seconds, his face and hands flushed peach, his hair was brown and rippling in the light breeze, and Logan was back and... toppling over with a little shout of surprise as he overbalanced.

“LOGAN!” Patton exulted, tackle-hugging the Logical Side in his unbridled joy, adding to the confusion of his waking.

They decided later that it was, on the whole, worth it.

Start small.

It wasn't the first time Roman had lost control over the Imagination during an adventure. The stories sometimes took on a life of their own, after all, and that occasionally meant defying the author no matter how he tried to assert himself.

What was different this time was that he had also become the villain. The story had pushed him into it, but...had it, really? That was the question that needed answering.

I thought I was your hero...

Thomas doesn't want a wicked Creativity...

If he could take control back, then it meant he wasn't the bad guy after all, and things would be all right.

He had found a shaded grove with bare, reasonably dry dirt that he could sit on while he brooded and tried the smallest thing of all: making a mushroom. If he could coax a little fungus cap up out of the soil, he would know he wasn't too far gone. If not...well...better just focus on doing it.

So far, no luck. The ground remained agonizingly mushroom-free.

He became aware of a looming presence in the grove with him, and barely glanced over his shoulder at the bulky form of Aslan. “Oh. Hi,” he said. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

“I have restored Logan, and he is well,” said the Lion.

Roman turned back to his total lack of mushrooms. “Of course you did,” he sighed. “I made you to be able to do everything Aslan can in the books. Which is pretty much everything , since...you know. So why can't I do any of it now?” He blinked back a tear or two. “Why couldn't I fix Logan?”

“You did very well. You tried. That was all I asked.”

“For all the good it did.” He pulled up a handful of new grass and let the blades fall, a few at a time, through his fingers. “I don't know what to do anymore. I made all of this—I made you—so I could give them a fun, simple adventure and be the hero in a world where heroism and villainy are clean-cut...and it turned out I was supposed to be the villain all along. What do I do with that? Patton said it: Thomas doesn't want a wicked Creativity. I can't make his dreams come true if I'm not the hero...but even the Imagination doesn't want me to be the hero anymore...so what does that leave?”

Aslan circled around until he was in front of Roman and lay down on his belly, his bulk making the grove tremble. “Roman...do you really believe you are meant to be the villain?”

“I must be. I voluntarily went to the Witch. We...I stole your power! And then I took the Witch's power! I basically became her!”

“Yes. And then you released my power, and in the process gave up hers. You chose to turn away from that path. And I would say that the change began even earlier. Do you remember how you came to acquire the Witch's power?”

“Of course. I took it from her because she was...” Roman's eyes widened. “Because she was going to hurt the others, and it was the only way to keep them safe. I didn't even intend to take it for myself, it just happened that way.”

“Precisely. In a world where heroism and villainy are clean-cut...what would you call someone who thwarts a villain in order to protect the innocent?”

Roman made a half-hearted snicker. “You know, you sounded like Logan just then.”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

“No...but even if I was a hero in that moment, I sure went hard to the bad afterward.”

“Until you stopped yourself.”

For the first time, Roman actually lifted his head to meet Aslan's gaze. He studied the Lion's bottomless amber eyes, looking for even a hint of manipulation, but found only absolute sincerity. After a long moment, he found his words again.

“So which am I? The hero or the villain?”

“Any answer I could give to that question would be misleading. You worry too much about what you are. You might do better to think instead about what you choose to do. And what you will choose to do.”

“One thing's for sure...like Virgil said, I owe the others a major apology.”

“Indeed you do.”

“But I don't know if I can face them yet.”

“Try,” Aslan said as he had before...except that his tone was much lighter this time. “I will be with you.”

“Will they forgive me?”

“There is only one way to find out.”

Roman nodded slowly, and carefully stood. “Let's find out, then.”

At his feet, unnoticed, a tiny mushroom swelled from the earth.

A hush fell over the hilltop as Roman returned, walking stiffly as if he had to force every step. His head was slumped, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Aslan trailed him by several paces, and hung back when Roman stopped, a courteous distance from the other Sides. He didn't look up as he took a deep breath and said, “I...I have...something to say,” in a thick voice.

The others all traded glances. And traded glances again. “Go on...” Patton prompted in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

It seemed an eternity before Roman forced “...i'm sorry...” through a throat half-clogged with unshed tears. Suddenly he was sobbing into his hands, his knees slowly buckling.

Patton lunged for him, but to his surprise, Virgil beat him by a hair, gathering the Prince into his arms and helping him down into a kneeling position on the grass. “I gotcha, Princey,” he said. “Get it out, it'll be okay.”

“I'm so, so sorry!” Roman wailed, clutching at Virgil as he were the edge of a cliff. “It wasn't what I wanted at all but it seemed like the Imagination did and...Patton, I'm sorry about the ice, and Logan—oh, god, Logan, I'm SO sorry I...” He trailed off into more wrenching, ugly sobs while Virgil tightened the huge, Patton joined in, and Logan placed a steady hand on Roman's heaving shoulders. Without at any point speaking the words “I forgive you,” all three of them made them understood.

(Unnoticed by the four of them, Remus stepped forward and opened his mouth to say something. Janus calmly silenced him.)

Roman cried for a long time. He cried until he was out of tears and nearly out of breath, until the exertion of bawling left him limp in the others' arms. Only then did the storm finally subside, leaving Roman with a peculiar empty space inside him where something had drained away. At its center was a hard, sharp little knot of hurt, no longer wrapped in the resentment and bluster he had been using to cushion it. He sagged, depleted and hollow, in the embrace of his companions, and like opposing magnetic fields, their presence kept the nugget of pain suspended safely away from his emotional nerves, until by and by something new began to trickle into the empty place to shield him from the sharpest edges.

Roman took a deep breath, and felt as though he were breathing in light. “So,” he said, hoarse but with a genuine warmth that they had all been missing, “I've been acting like an idiot, haven't I?”

There was a pause, and then Virgil said, “You were acting?”

Roman shoved him away with amused annoyance, and the whole scene might have dissolved into absurdity had Janus not loudly and meaningfully cleared his throat. Roman was suddenly intensely, mortifyingly aware of their audience, and he got to his feet, slapping grass debris off his trousers, cheeks burning with more than just tear tracks.

“Far be it from me to interfere with you four,” Janus said, “but are we all done here? No loose ends to tie up?”

Remus pried his hand free of his mouth with his other hand. “Heh heh, you said 'tie up!' What about me, Roman? Don't I get an apology?”

Roman pulled a face. “I haven't done anything to you. And as for you...” he went on, turning to Janus, “...I don't know if I'm ready to be sorry yet.”

���Fair enough, I suppose. I appreciate your honesty.”

“Do you, though?”

Janus shrugged extravagantly, half-smiling.

“But to answer your question...you can all leave if you want. The Imagination will let you out. But I still need to deal with the White Witch.”

“But you were the White Witch,” said Janus. “Weren't you?”

“Not exactly. I took her...I'll tell you how that all worked later, if you want. The point is, she's back now, as herself, and she still needs to be defeated if this story is to have a proper happy ending.”

“That doesn't seem so hard,” said Patton. “Aslan is here and he brought spring back, you're here and we've made up...if we're following the book, then we're back on track!”

“Indeed,” said Aslan, startling the heck out of Roman, who hadn't heard him approach. “At your request, Roman, we can proceed with the story as you originally intended.”

It would be so easy...just hand the reins to the big omnipotent god-lion and let him take care of everything, secure in the knowledge that the story had already been written. “No,” Roman said. “Some stories are about a wrongdoer being redeemed by a higher power, and those certainly have their time and place.” He smoothed down the front of his suit, adjusted his sash and cuffs, and reclaimed his sword from where he had dropped it on the hilltop. “This story is going to be about the wrongdoer fixing his own fuck-up.” Patton gasped at the curse word, which was gratifying in its own way. “I'm going to fight her myself. She'll want revenge on me anyway, for stealing her power. I'm going to let her think she can get it...and take her down.”

“Ooh!” Remus quavered. “Sounds violent! I'm in!”

“N-no...well...I guess you can watch, but no interfering! I'm going to challenge her to a duel, for Pete's sake!”

“If Remus is going, then the rest of us should probably stick around too,” said Virgil. “Who knows how many of us it's going to take to keep him corralled? Besides, look what happened the last time we let you wander off to the Witch's castle by yourself.”

“Sure, rub it in,” said Roman. “So who all is coming with me?”

The Sides formed a line, standing shoulder-to-shoulder before Roman. “It would appear that we all intend to go,” said Logan.

“You don't have to face any more evils alone, kiddo,” said Patton.

“But let's make it quick, because I have a salon appointment at two,” said Janus, pretending to study his fingernails through his gloves. He glanced up and winked.

“And you do not wish my involvement in any way?” asked Aslan.

“No, I want...wait. Is indirect involvement a possibility? Because I'm suddenly thinking it's going to be a long walk to her castle, and it might be nice if you could...give us a boost? Please?”

“Certainly,” said the Lion. “Do not be alarmed.” With that, he blew out a long breath over the Sides, and the Hill of the Stone Table and its environs blew away as if they were only a flimsy façade, perhaps painted on scraps of paper. After that eye-wateringly disorienting moment, they took stock of their situation.

They were surrounded on three sides by tall, lush evergreens, and underfoot was mostly crumbly pine needles. On the fourth side was a brief meadow of patchy grass and sparse wildflowers, and beyond that was a lake, or perhaps a broad pond. It did not seem to have thawed completely with the springtime; there were plenty of ice chunks bobbing in the water. These may have broken off the large and solid bank or platform of ice near the center, upon which was the White Witch's castle.

It looked different by daylight, and out of the perpetual winter. The Witch's power yet extended as far as her own dwelling and a little area around it, but without a backdrop of oppressive snow to bolster it, the castle seemed a much poorer and punier structure. Some of the trees at their backs were taller than its spires.

“Thank you for the...” Roman said, trailing off as he realized that Aslan was not there.

“You did request only indirect assistance from him,” Logan pointed out.

“Yeah...” Roman swallowed and squared his shoulders. “Showtime,” he muttered, and strode forward toward the castle.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Six

Ao3,   Masterpost,   C.1   C.2   C.3   C.4   C.5

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality. platonic dukeceit, creativitwins, and dlampr.

Yet again there are no italics. its new years eve sue me. oh also happy 2021 nobody question my priorities thanks <3

Warnings: so much softness, implications of self-isolation, swearing, Lots of Feelings, sympathetic everybody, descriptions of the sides having non-human features.

Word Count: 3,962

Something Remus came to realize was that he, a bit paradoxically, was not used to people being in his space.

It was weird. Not weird in the way that people usually felt when he was the one interrupting- he wasn’t scared by it, or disgusted, or even really annoyed. It was just… surprising, to have somebody else hanging around him, unprompted by anything. 

Remus wasn’t known for having boundaries- or respecting them, for that matter- but he’d at least been attempting to restrain himself just a bit after being accepted by the others. Out of courtesy, if nothing else. 

And apparently he didn’t need to. Not after what happened with Patton, anyway. Now that Patton had deemed the two of them ‘close’- something he was absolutely happy to agree with, for the record- Remus’ world had flipped sort of around. Back to no boundaries, only he wasn’t the one crossing those lines, and nobody was running screaming. Least of all Patton!

Remus ran the thoughts over in his head, feeling like that day was shaping up to be a great example of the change:

He and Patton were sitting side-by-side in the living room, content, with the rest of the sides spread around in different seats and configurations just the same. The unlikely pair were at the fringe of the circle, close enough to be part of things but far enough to zone in and out at will (as both were prone to do). It was nice, amiable.

 But minutes before- forty of them at most- Remus had been up in his own room, happily dissecting some gooish creations and only vaguely aware that there was a meeting that day. His attendance to group meetings varied from week to week- sometimes he was bored and could use an argument, and other times he was having fun on his own and knew that it wouldn’t be all that important if he ditched. He joined more often than he used to, sometimes he was even asked for, but he was optional still. A favored option, suggestions taken now, sure- but still not mandatory. 

He was going to stay upstairs for that one, but Patton had come to get him. Had dragged him down in that sweet, puppy-dog way of convincing that worked so well and, knowing him, was totally unintentional. And even if Remus didn’t care about arguing his way through content production right then, Patton had promised that it was important for him to be there.

That was the word he’d used for Remus. Important.

How the hell could Remus say no to that?

At least the meeting was going by without a hitch, for once. He assumed it was- Remus was honestly paying very little attention- but the lack of anger or tension was practically palpable. These things were usually so spiteful that even Remus, renowned lover of chaos, could almost taste his headache when everybody started shouting and hissing and fighting. It just got sad.

But not that time, apparently.

As Logan went on his third ramble of the evening, smiling widely at a surprising lack of interruption, Remus turned to Patton. He whispered:

“Okay, when are they gonna snap? Did they all finally get lobotomized?”

Patton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean where’s all the screaming and crying? Specs and Prince Priss haven’t had a single one of their horny yelling matches, what gives?”

Patton smiled in a way that said he was trying very hard not to laugh, rolling his eyes.

  “These meetings have calmed down a bit, I guess,” he shrugged.

Remus glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. While that certainly seemed like the truth, he couldn’t buy it. 

“Yeah, I give it until one of them vaguely insults the others,  and then everybody’s gonna shut down for the next week. That kinda tension doesn’t just go.”

Patton didn’t say anything. Half-gazing at the carpet, he didn’t look like he’d even heard. He was smiling, but it was one of those jumbled up expressions, the type that tried to span a hundred different feelings. He had so many expressions like that, that seemed bottomless and swirling and so intricate on a humanoid face that, in reality, wasn’t built to display something like that. It was uncanny- not like an eerie doll, but like something with unearthly beauty. This face, though, had tones of upset.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around everybody,” Patton said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. While Remus wasn’t exactly known for keeping to himself, he couldn't be called sociable either. He dropped in to say something, usually random, and then he was gone as soon as he’d visited. Even before the first Patton incident, fuck, it had been weeks since he’d actually stuck around through something.

Since The Acceptance, now that Remus thought of it, he’d been spending more time alone than ever. Not all of  his time- he remembered being surprised at Logan talking to him, willingly, like friends, and after that had even come Virgil and Roman. He saw people, talked to them, yeah. The time spent was friendlier, more welcoming, but it was so much less. 

Well, it was obvious why: they visited him, but- like he’d mentioned, he’d been trying to give them some space.

“Sure, it's been awhile,” Remus admitted, “But I never expected shit to change so much around here, still.”

The haze on Patton’s face thickened like fog on the moors, a soft and sympathetic mist over his eyes that Remus knew was aimed at him (even if it was pointed more to a sort of middle distance). 

“I don’t think I did, either,” Patton’s mouth barely moved, his voice less of a whisper and moreso a fragile breath. “I was hoping for it, but… I’m still trying to get used to stuff being allowed to change, you know?” He picked at a loose thread along the seam of the couch. “I haven’t done this stuff in a while, either.” 

Remus’ head shot up, and he almost forgot that they weren’t the only two in the room. Somehow, he stopped himself from shouting:

“You- it has?”

A tiny smile. Something built up behind Patton’s eyes; a wave, dark and lonely and filling his bright blues with cloudy gray. “I just needed some alone time, after everything changed so much so fast. I still feel, I dunno, weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me- but…” he swallowed, his head lifting. “I’m really happy for them,” he was staring- so very loving- first at Logan, then Roman, then Virgil and Janus. It was a wonder none of them felt his gaze on them, Remus thought, because he was sure if anyone looked at him that way, he’d burn up like a fae upon iron. “They deserve it so much. I know that not everything is perfect still, but, I’m just so proud of us anyways. I- I think maybe-”

He cut himself off, blinking rapidly. Remus gave the room a quick once over to make sure nobody was looking their way- and nobody was: Virgil was very resolutely trying to get everyone to stay on topic despite Janus and Logan’s continued tangenting, and Roman was scribing furiously on several different pieces of paper- before he inched close enough to curve his arm around Patton. Touching like that had steadily become familiar to both of them, and it didn’t take long for Patton to fall untense against his side. He leaned into him, muttering: “I mean, they’re all doing a lot better than me, that’s for sure. I- I don’t even know what I’m for anymore. Maybe that’s why I’ve been… ditching, really.”

Remus squeezed his shoulder. There were so many things he could’ve said and done, but all of them loud and fervent and definitely not subtle enough to go unnoticed by everyone. So, for the sake of Patton’s privacy, he settled on this:

“That makes two of us, Morey.”

 The meeting that was planned to take two or three hours took the entire day, just as always. Hours and hours were spent in a room filled with excited conversation, of which the subject oscillated wildly between relevant topics and complete nonsense- which Remus and Patton did, eventually, tune back into (and contribute to as well, mainly in the nonsense department). Eventually, even Virgil gave up on trying to keep anything in order. 

But the meeting ended on a good note anyway. Lots of good notes, actually, if the stacks upon stacks of paper they’d scribbled up were any indication. Mess, the sides had come to believe, was usually a measure of their productivity: if crumpled pages were strayed across the room, if forgotten pens and pencils balanced on every surface from coffee table to TV stand, and if- in the process of snacking- they’d accumulated enough dishes to fill the sink for days on end? Shit. Got. Done.

Remus stared over the chaos with unfocused eyes. He felt distantly proud of the stormish state the living room was in. Draped over the back of the sectional, he gnawed idly on a wood pencil, stripping its yellow into beige. The paint fell off in bitter chunks, and the taste made him think of grabbing some non-acrylic dinner before closing the night off. Maybe he’d steal some of whatever saccharine sweet Patton usually made in the late evenings, and then spend the rest of the night with him, anyway. Remus debated what would be the most fun (or if he was tired enough to sleep yet), partially aware as he did so that he’d chewed and swallowed the metal-eraser end of his pencil.

“Ugh,” a drawn out groan broke his thoughts, petulant and whiny. “Do you have any intention of helping us clean up this, the common area?” 

Roman was kneeling beside Janus on the carpet, the pair surrounded by papers and binders and trashbags, the former of which they were sorting into either of the latter two, depending on how useful each page was. Roman had stopped working, however, to stare up at Remus indignantly. Remus glared right back.

“I’ve never had an intention in my life,” he answered.

Janus shrugged, smiling in that I-told-you-so way at Roman. But Roman, ever the nuisance, wasn’t letting it go. 

“Come on! It’s not like you’re even doing anything!”

“I’m doing something,” Remus’ words were wide and wobbly as he stripped another line of paint off the pencil, breaking some splinters off into his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” another chunk of wood, down the hatch. “I’m flaying all these leftover pencils until they’re lead-sticks.”

Roman hopped up from the floor and dropped himself onto the couch, shoving himself into the way so jarringly that it reminded Remus of himself. 

“Well, now you’re going to help us clean.” 

Janus rolled his eyes, not even glancing up. “Roman, just leave it alone, we-”

“We are all parts of this whole now, including him! Remus-” Roman rounded on him again, “If you’re going to come down here and help us make all this mess, with all of your numerous contributions that we have to write down, you’ll help clean it like anybody else. Do you think that I like any of- of-” he gestured, flamboyantly, at the room, “This? Ugh, please, I’m a prince! But, fair is fair, and fair means everybody.” 

And that was the point of the conversation in which Remus would cackle, push Roman backwards off the couch, and proclaim how much it’d go against his very being to clean a mess instead of cause it. He’d tell Roman how funny it was that he thought he could boss him around, because it always had been- that full-of-it Older Brother kind of attitude that had never worked. The Prince had never once managed to get him to do anything, and each attempt only got funnier than the last. 

He didn’t say any of that, though. 

Roman was bitching at him, not to go away this time, but to stay. Stay and help the group, because he was a part of said group. So he was asked to help them, the group that he was a part of, because he was part of it. That group. 

“Okay,” he blurted, “Okay, I’ll- alright.”

Roman blinked at him, a look of disbelief spreading across his face. “You- oh!” he smiled, utterly baffled. “That was- very easy?”

Janus, too, was looking up at Remus with bewilderment, his task of paper-sorting all but forgotten. Remus couldn’t blame either of them, but he still huffed, trying very hard not to be embarrassed by that whole… moment.

He shook it off, rolling off the couch and standing up, jittery. 

“Whatever, just- tell me what to pick up, okay?” 

They seemed not to hear him, the gawking continuing on until he started working unprompted, and longer than that still. Each time he (begrudgingly) shoved something into a trashbag, it earned him another Exchange of Glances from the pair. 

They got over it eventually, though, because there was a fuck-load more to clean than there was room to stare. So they cleaned.

Remus thought it would get old after a minute, and he’d finally gather up the guts to bail on them, but it just… never happened. It felt unnatural to be getting rid of a mess- like an animal having its fur brushed the wrong way, continuously- but by some point the sensation was distant. The rest of him was still busy processing, experiencing, maybe possibly overthinking this kind of recognition he’d never gotten before. It was handed to him now like it was something normal. The three of them worked together, and it was normal. 

Acceptance, as it turned out, wasn’t synonymous with ‘soulless assimilation’. In fact, it was pretty fucking great, getting to watch his brother and best friend find documents from the floor with his ideas on them, then tucking them into a binder marked important, instead of a trashcan marked to burn. It was… surreal. 

But the tidying was over in just an hour and a half- oh wow, never in a million years would Remus have thought an hour and a half of cleaning would be too little for him. He made a note to absolutely destroy something big and important later, to balance the universe out again. 

Roman sank through the floor as soon as they were done, complaining loudly about how very exhausted he was. Remus teased him on his way out, but it was just for the habit- he was way too mushy to think of anything properly mean at the moment. 

Janus watched him go, silent. He sat beside Remus on the couch, and despite his obvious tiredness, he waited a good few minutes before saying anything. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Remus shivered. Janus pulled him up into a hug (one that maybe dragged on for a little too long, but who was counting?), and it spelled out all the pride and care that he’d never been good at verbalizing. With that, he gave Remus a short nod, and then was gone as well. 

Which made everyone else upstairs, probably in their rooms and halfway asleep. Then there was Remus, antsy in the living room, itchy with feelings. 

Everyone but Patton, of course, who could still be heard humming in the kitchen; who never went up until he knew everyone else was in their rooms, true to the protective parent persona. Remus suddenly didn’t think he wanted anything else but to see Patton after what had happened, to talk to him, to… 

He walked to the kitchen.

“Pat.”

Patton looked over his shoulder at Remus, up to his elbow in sudsy sink water. A smile fell naturally across his face.

“Hi,” his voice was low, delicate. “You about to head up?”

Remus watched his friend work, trailing into the room slowly.  He grinned, “Are you kidding? I could stay up all night, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Patton asked him.

Remus thought on it for a moment. He shrugged, iunno, leaned against the counter by the sink. Patton turned away again.

It was so quiet. No wind. No footsteps. Not a muffled voice upstairs, even- just the sound of water and ceramic hitting ceramic. Everything was still.

Remus hated it. Silence was fragile, and he crawled with the need to break it. He felt it get tense as it stretched out, and he just wanted to tear the air apart with sound. It felt like nothing mattered anymore, when peace was so easily able to drown it all out. Cold and alone. He hated it.

Sometimes, Remus imagined that if the silence went too long, he’d never be able to make a noise again. There were few things that made him so unhappy, but the quiet… 

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked.

Remus jolted. Patton was staring, concern gathering in his eyes the longer he did. Remus took a deep breath- he remembered something, something small and unimportant that Janus had told him once. 

When one is so intensely happy, they can fall to agonizing upset even quicker than if they’d been mildly perturbed in the first place, because of the ferocity of the feelings. Something like that. 

“A lot more than I’m willing to throw on your shoulders, Pops.”

Patton pouted. Actually. Fucken. Pouted. The worst part was, his puppy-face was actually working.

“Ugh,” Remus rolled his eyes, “Just- could I- I dunno, have a hug, or some shit?”

If Patton was surprised, he hid it well. God knew, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Remus would ask for. He almost never asked to get attention- taking it was much easier, and much more entertaining. Besides, if he’d ever asked before that point… well, he already knew what answer he would’ve gotten. 

Patton’s smile only widened, until it was positively melting. “Of course you can,” he shut the sink off. “Of course.”

He reached haphazardly for a hand towel, to dry his arms. Remus, riding the high of that enthusiastic permission, absolutely could not wait that long. He latched his arms around Patton’s middle before the side had even finished talking, burying his face between his shoulder blades and hugging tight. 

Patton went still, like he didn’t know what to do. After it became clear that Remus had no intention to move, Patton laughed, dreamy and soft, and shook his hands as dry as he could. He patted Remus’ forearm; bead-bracelets clattered under the Duke’s sleeves. 

“Hey,” Patton said.

“Mmh?”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he laced his fingers with Remus’, squeezed them, “But I’d like it better if I could hug you back, ya know?”

Remus let go, reluctantly. In the true fashion of intrusive thoughts, there was a second he was so convinced Patton would run, now that he was freed. Make an escape from him, an escape from his claws.

He didn’t. He spun right around and pulled Remus against his chest- one arm linked around his torso, the other winding into his tangled hair. Anyone, at a glance, could see that Patton was huge- but up close the difference was dizzying: his wide chest, encircling arms that seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and padding, and that height, all made him so… comforting. Big and strong, a body that disguised power in soft edges and fat. If he squeezed just a little too tight, in fact, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Patton could make splinters out of his bones. Which Remus definitely, definitely wouldn’t mind, but the knowledge that Patton not only could do that but also wouldn’t ever do that- that was what really did him in. 

And he’d hugged Patton before- months ago, and somehow Patton had seemed so small then, when everything had started- but being hugged? Properly, too, not underwater while one of them was drowning- it was a world of difference. No panic, no breakdowns, just a real, solid hug.

He could just ask for this and then have it. He could smell sugar cookies and candle wax, and feel somebody- a willing body- pressing in. It was weird. He thought that someday, he might get used to it. He wanted a chance to get used to it. 

“Do you wanna talk now?” Patton prompted, forcibly reminding Remus that he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional distress. 

“I don’t know.”

Patton hummed, his fingers scratching through Remus’ hair. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“You didn’t have to bring me, if you thought it was gonna be bad.”

“I wasn’t worried because of you! I was worried because of me. Things have been… a lot for me, lately.”

“Oh,” Remus angled his head to the side, looking up at him. “Yeah. I feel ya.”

“But they were all so much more patient, weren’t they,” Patton’s eyes went a little misty, the way they always did when he talked about his family. “Everything’s different now, and I guess that scared me, but I think that now… it’s a good different, you know?” 

“Like us, right?” Remus laughed, “This is the craziest difference, if ya think about it.”

Patton chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest so that Remus felt it more than heard it. 

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten through with today without you, you know that?” 

It was deeply honest. There was a beat. 

“I-” Oh fuck, Remus was choked up, when did that happen? “I wouldn’t have even had a day like today, without you, so. Do with that what you want.” 

Remus buried his face in Patton’s sternum, just to avoid the sad understanding in his eyes. 

He- he wasn’t exactly made for the care he was getting, not the kind of softness in that face. Not when Patton was still patiently untangling his matt of hair while they hovered in the stillness of the dark, empty kitchen, and Remus desperately didn’t want to cry. 

Patton gave him a minute to breathe, at the very least, before:

“They like you, though. Janus loves you.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not-”

“I know how you feel,” said Patton, and did. “Like they couldn’t actually care about us, even though it doesn’t make sense for them not to. It’s one of those things that’s easy to forget,” Remus could hear the smile in his voice. “So it’s good we have each other, when we need to get out of our own heads. At least, it’s like that for me, I don’t know if you even-”

“No,” Remus curled his claws in the back of Patton’s shirt, something dark and emotional flooding like tar through his chest. “Nah, you’re right, Morey. This is good for us.” 

Remus shook his head at nothing in particular. He forced his hands unballed, pulled back, and wormed his way out of Patton’s hug after way too long. 

His skin felt like paper from the affection, like he’d been electrocuted, and while that was fun- was amazing- for a while, he didn’t think he could handle much more in one sitting. 

Patton let him go, smiling warmly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes were shiny and wet, but he was content. 

“Thanks,” Remus said.

“What for? The hug?”

“No- I mean, that too, but I was saying ‘thanks, for caring’. For giving enough of a shit about me to try and help.”

Patton smiled, solemnly.

“I told you so,” he breathed, “I promised I would like you when I got to know you, and then I did. I do!” 

Remus felt a grin returning to his face, sliding across his lips more naturally than anything else he’d had to deal with that night.

“Yeah. You aren’t too bad yourself, Pat.”

Chapter Seven

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls  @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[lovelylogans]

each crumb to reincarnate

Again and again, evenings winter into spring, he creates the most fragile of confections: madelines and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps and blue florentines; each crumb to reincarnate a woman – a savoring of what the living once could bring.

-a poem for will baking, susan rich

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: angst, food mentions, deceit and remus mentions

pairings: platonic/brotherly lamp+remus and deceit (dlampr? rdlamp?)

words: 931

notes: so, this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations​! today’s prompt is fall baking!

It’s a routine Patton’s had, it seems, for as long as he’s known how to brush his teeth and comb his hair and tie his shoes—he’s always known how to bake.

Some of the fondest memories of his childhood are in the kitchen, with his mother and brothers—learning how to flour a rolling pin, how to roll cookie dough into perfect little spheres, how to lattice pie crust, how to measure and mix and combine and plate, how to make them look as wonderful as they tasted.

Now, it’s just him.

He doesn’t mind it being just him, really. He loves to bake, never mind the addition or subtraction of people to do it with him. The only thing it changes is if he puts on music, if he laughs as often, if he flicks flour off his fingers to stick to shirts like dustings of stubborn snow, if that near-constant weight in his chest lightens a little with the aid of good company to help him carry it, just for a little while.

All that aside, though, the fact that he loves to bake doesn’t change.

He decides to make some apple cinnamon blondies. They’re not too labor-intensive, they taste amazing, and they’re something he can easily cut up into squares and give away so he doesn’t eat a whole pan by himself. It’s not a family recipe—Patton’s heart can’t take that added level of bittersweet sentimentality today, he thinks—it’s just something he found that looked good. Fun. Easy. Something to keep his hands and his head relatively busy, and something sweet to eat for an easy shortcut to comfort.

So Patton gets out a pan and a skillet and the ingredients as the oven preheats, and he settles in for his most-loved routine.

He cuts apples into chunks. He does not think of the yearly apple-picking daytrips that he and his five brothers and their parents went on as soon as apple season arrived, and gallon buckets of apples they’d all cart home, and the homemade apple sauce and apple pie and apple everything that they’d be eating for a month after.

He melts a tablespoon of butter in the skillet. He does not think of the time that his younger twin brothers distracted him to the point of forgetting a whole stick of butter was out on the counter and he came back into the kitchen to a disgustingly soggy puddle barely contained by a paper wrapper that once held a rectangular block of butter.

He puts the brown sugar and the apples in the skillet and lets them simmer together on low heat. He does not think of his brother shrieking after accidentally burning his hand on the stove, despite all his usual caution; he does not think of the big, watery smile and the hug he’d given Patton after Patton had helped him soak it in cold water and kissed it better. 

He melts butter in the microwave, whisks together more brown sugar and egg and vanilla and flour and salt. He does not think of his brother, eyes narrowed in concentration as he carefully stirred the contents of a bowl without tipping it over, giving him an even more snake-like appearance than usual.

He adds in the apples and cinnamon chips, mixes it all until it’s relatively uniform, and steals a little bit of batter-coated apple to sample the flavor. He does not think of tiny hands sneaking in and poking obvious thumb-sized dents into the batter in order to sample it, in spite of scoldings of the potential salmonella they’d all get.

He pours the batter into the pan and smooths it all over so that it’s even. He does not think of one of the twins deliberately making his baked goods lumpy and uneven and as unappetizing as they could possibly look, and seeming disappointed when they turned out tasting just as sweet as all the rest of them, anyway.

He puts the pan into the oven and spins the novelty timer shaped like a cartoonish rocket to 30 minutes. He does not think of the brother who gave the timer to him for his birthday or the cat-printed wrapping paper they’d all used for that birthday.

He tidies up his dishes as the blondies cook. He does not think about the assembly line of brothers, washing-drying-putting-away, in the aftermath of each and every kitchen experiment, the soap-and-water fights that would ensue more often than not.

He jumps as the timer goes off, lost in thought, and hastily pokes through a toothpick to see if it comes away clean. He does not think of his brothers poking through toothpicks of their own and then pretending to sword-fight with them, pouting as their toothpicks splintered due to too-hefty swings.

He sets the pan on the stove and allows it to cool as he puts away dishes. He does not think. He does not think. He does not think.

He slices himself a probably-too-soon-probably-too-big square and takes a big bite, ignoring the burn in his mouth in favor of savoring the sweet apple, the sharp cinnamon, the subtle vanilla. He eats it, slow and steady, letting the sweetness overwhelm his senses, refusing to think of anything else.

He eats, and he does not think of the phone that won’t ever ring, and he does not think about that too-heavy weight in his chest, and he does not think of times long gone and past and that will never, ever come back, no matter how hard he wishes.

He bakes. He cleans. He eats. He does not think.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Snap Part 4

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A lovely nonny sent this to my ask box: The way you write about Janus and his six arms is EVERYTHING. It’s so beautiful. Could I request some sort of hurt/comfort fic with Janus and his wonderful wonderful six arms as the comforter?

and I realised hey yeah there's some loose threads here to tie up let's uh fix that

Warnings: roman angst and everything that goes with it. self-esteem issues, self-hatred, insecurity. sympathetic everyone

Pairings: roceit, platonic DLAMPR

Word Count: 6488

Most things in life are flexible to some degree. You can push and pull and bend them in certain ways and, to some extent, they will comply with you. There are some things that you can bend and bend and bend. Creativity is one of these things. Creativity, imagination, dreams...they can be shaped and changed into whatever you want.

Bend...and bend...and bend...until they snap.

It isn’t easy. Of course it isn’t easy.

 Janus leaves him after a few hours, closing his door with a gentle click, leaving Roman on his bed, arms curled loosely around a pillow, the red clip and the golden crown still gleaming in his hair. He reaches up to touch it almost absentmindedly, rubbing his fingers over the dull spikes of the crown. For the first time in a long time, he’s tired. Actually tired. Not numb and floating in a grey haze, not slogging through using his body as a tool, just…just tired. There’s a pleasant ache in his arms and a soft mist in his gaze. He’s not really tired, just sleepy. Sleepy is nice. Brain empty. Just sleepy.

 He gets out of bed to change into his pajamas, wash his face, grab a drink. The mist doesn’t leave. It hovers, soft and fuzzy at the corners of his eyes. Is this what most people feel like when they’re sleepy?

 Roman curls back up in his bed, under the covers, head buried in one of the soft blankets, when he feels something nudge at the corner of his head. That’s right; he hasn’t taken the clip out yet.

 He reaches up and carefully unclips it, propping himself up on one elbow. Stretching over, he lays it carefully on the bedside table. The crown glints in the fading light from the window.

 And just that, just the subtle reminder that time is passing, is enough to turn the mist to fog.

 Roman doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to fall asleep. He doesn’t want to leave this place, this softness of being sleepy enough to have his eyes hang and his body sink into the warmth of his bed. He doesn’t want to get out of this headspace, drifting slowly back and forth with his head empty. He wants to stay here, right here, with the covers pressing him gently to the bed, with the others somewhere far away, not rushing him to do anything, with the everlasting sunset shining on the red hair clip with the golden crown.

 When he falls asleep this moment will be gone. It will be after Janus stayed with him, after he left, after it was okay to want for the first time and not have it be villainized. It will be before he has to go speak to the others, when what they will do remains in the future. When he can hope and dream that they’ll be kind, they’ll understand, that he’ll be right. When he wakes up, he’ll have to go do things. He’ll have to move on.

 He doesn’t…he doesn’t want to move on.

 He wants to stay here, where it’s safe, where it’s soft, where it’s warm.

 It’s okay to want.

 Doesn’t mean he’ll get.

 Roman falls asleep.

 He wakes with a cool breeze blowing across his nose.

 He gets dressed slowly. He makes his bed. His hand hovers over the clip for just a second before he decides against it and slips it into his pocket instead.

 He opens his door and starts to make his way downstairs, listening for the sounds of the others. It’s early; not so early that he knows no one will be awake, but early enough that he probably won’t run into all of them at once.

 The light clink clink clink of metal against ceramic comes from the kitchen as Roman goes down the stairs. The kitchen lights cast a warm glow over the still-dark living room. He turns the corner.

 Patton stands next to the counter, stirring a mug of hot chocolate with a spoon. Roman stops when he looks up. Something flashes across Patton’s face, too fast for him to name, before settling on something that looks…pleading? Apologetic? Soft?

 “Good morning, Roman,” Patton says quietly.

 “…hi.”

 Patton pushes the mug a little ways away from him and reaches up to the cabinet. “Would you, um, do you want something to drink?”

 “Uh…sure.”

 “Hot chocolate? Tea? Coffee?”

 “Tea is fine.” Roman edges into the kitchen as Patton pours from the kettle. This seems…fine, right? Sure, the worry about what’s going to happen is there, but it’s…it’s not overwhelming. Not yet. Patton hasn’t started crying, he hasn’t been telling Roman off, there’s been no weird apologies or scolding. This is fine. It’s fine.

 The noise of the kettle being set back down makes him jerk his head around, watching as Patton slides the mug with the teabag in it across the counter.

 “Thank you.”

 “Of course.” There’s a moment of silence as Roman carefully turns the mug until the teabag is resting against the side. “…Roman?”

 Something cold settles in Roman’s stomach as he fumbles with the teabag. “Yeah?”

 “Can I give you a hug, please?”

 Oh. Roman nods, pushing the mug away from himself as Patton reaches out, opening his arms. Roman steps forward and lets Patton wrap his arms around his—oh.

 Patton’s arms wrap tightly around his waist and pull him close, his head buried in the crook of Roman’s neck. There’s a quick moment where Patton’s hand flattens to the small of Roman’s back and then pushes, holding Roman close enough that he can feel Patton’s heartbeat through their clothes. Patton’s nose is cold. It lingers in the crook of Roman’s neck and makes him shudder, just a little, winding his own arms around Patton’s shoulders and holding tight.

 This doesn’t feel like Patton’s normal hugs. Patton’s hugs are normally sweet, playful, thrown about Roman’s shoulders in some exuberant display of sunny affection as Roman picks him up and swings him around. This feels—this feels—

 “I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Patton murmurs into Roman’s ear, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

 “It’s okay.”

 “No,” Patton corrects gently, pulling back just enough to look at Roman, “it’s not, Roman. We hurt you. Really badly.”

 “…but you didn’t know that.”

 “That doesn’t make it better, though, does it?”

  What are you doing? You want them to apologize, they’re supposed to apologize, why are you making this hard for them? What are you doing, Roman?

 “We don’t have to do this now,” Patton says softly, breaking through Roman’s thoughts, “but I just—thank you for letting me hug you.”

 “You don’t have to stop,” Roman mumbles.

 Patton grins and pulls him back in.

 When the timer beeps for breakfast and Patton lets go, Roman steps back, takes his mug, and moves to the couch. Patton watches him go, turning just a little so he can give Roman a little privacy. Roman sips his tea and waits for everything to be done.

 “Roman?”

 Roman looks up. Virgil sits down next to him.

 “Hey, Princey,” Virgil says quietly, “are you—uh, how are you?”

 “I’m okay.”

 Virgil opens his mouth to say something—probably to call Roman on his bullshit—but thinks better of it. “Good.”

 “Mm.”

 He tugs on the strings of his hoodie. “I’m sorry, Ro. I don’t—I didn’t realize how mean I was being to you.”

 “It’s okay.”

 Virgil snorts. “It’s not okay, Princey, I’ve been an asshole.”

 “…yeah, kind of.”

 “So I’m sorry.” Virgil knocks their shoulders together. “Can we, uh, can we talk? At some point?”

 “Sure.”

 Virgil’s shoulders sag. He smiles. “Great. Thanks, Ro. You, uh, you wanna be by yourself for a little longer?” Roman nods. “Okay. I’ll give you a shout when breakfast is ready.”

 Roman barely hears Virgil leave.

  What’s wrong with you? They’re apologizing, why are you making it seem like they don’t have to? It’s not okay, you know it’s not okay, so why are you saying it’s okay?

 He can hear Virgil and Patton talking in the kitchen. He focuses on the warmth of the mug between his palms, running his fingers over the smooth embossed ‘R’ in the ceramic. The tea bag sloshes back and forth.

 “Where’s Logan?”

 “He said he’d be down in a minute.”

 “What about the others?”

 “I dunno. They may have a thing this morning.”

 The stairs creak and Roman looks over just as Logan appears at the top of the steps. He looks back down and takes a sip.

 “Good morning.”

 “Hey, L.”

 “Hi, Logan!”

 There’s a momentary falter in Logan’s steps as he moves to the kitchen. A second later Virgil calls out that the food’s all done. Roman takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet.

 Logan gives him a glance and nods. Roman nods back. Patton pushes a plate towards him and goes back to talking with Virgil. Roman eats in silence. Logan doesn’t say anything. Breakfast has the decency to wait until it’s in his throat to turn to ash.

 When they’re finished, Roman expects Logan to offer to help Patton with the dishes, only for Logan to turn to Roman.

 “May I speak with you for a moment, please?”

 Roman nods. Logan moves them into the living room by the stairs, glancing over his shoulder briefly.

 “Is, uh, is something wrong?”

 “Hmm?” Logan looks back. “No, everything’s quite alright. I just wanted to make sure we had some modicum of privacy.”

 “Oh.”

 He adjusts his glasses. “I’m sorry, Roman.”

  Oh.

 “It’s okay.”

  What is wrong with you?

 “It isn’t, Roman,” Logan corrects gently, “you don’t have to let us get away with this. You deserve an apology.”

 “…yeah.”

 Logan nods, even though his brow stays furrowed. “I…I would like to have a longer talk with you, if that’s alright. To figure out what you want.”

 Roman swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

 Logan smiles. “Alright. Please, let me know when you want to talk. I’ll leave you be now.”

 He leaves.

 Roman hates this.

 He sinks out quickly, not quite making it to his room. Instead, he leans against the wall next to his door and lets his head thud back against the wall.

 What the hell is going on? Why is he saying everything is okay? It’s not okay, that’s the whole point! It’s not okay, he wants it to change, they apologized and that’s what he wants but why—why is he still saying it’s okay?

 Why is it okay for him to not get what he wants?

 He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to go back to the way things were. He doesn’t want them to not apologize. But he doesn’t know what to do with the apology.

 The cold weight that wrapped around the pit of his stomach when Patton first talked to him this morning isn’t going away. It’s still there. It reaches through him and makes him…’cold’ isn’t the right word. He’s not cold. That’s the problem.

 He should be. Normally he can’t walk around without some kind of long sleeve or moving around a lot, but he’s…fine. He sitting almost directly under a vent belting out cool air and he’s fine. He doesn’t even have goosebumps. Absentmindedly, he runs a hand over his arms. His hands don’t feel warm. His arms don’t feel warm. He’s just…kind of there.

 It’s cold. But it’s not cold.

 What’s wrong with him?

 He floats for the next few days. He tries to go back to his normal routine but he’s starting to realize how much he’s been doing.

 How much time he’s been spending making sure he’s not going to make one of them angry, that he’s not taking up too much space, that he’s not being inconvenient. How much time he’s been spending making sure he’s helping everybody else, doing his job, staying out of the way.

 How much time he hasn’t spent figuring out what he wants.

 And now everyone just wants to talk about that.

 Roman doesn’t want to talk about that. He doesn’t have anything. He hasn’t had time to figure that out and everyone is asking for that every day and he doesn’t know.

 The urge to put his head down and just work takes the cold weight and pushes it away. But that only makes the cold weight come back stronger. Because now they’re asking different questions. Is this what he wants? Is he happy with his work? What kind of feedback does he want from them?

 He doesn’t know what answers they want. He’s not sure he ever had answers to these questions.

 The others are being kind, he decides eventually. When he can’t come up with answers to their questions they just smile and tell him he did a good job, just let them know, okay? When he stumbles and fumbles his way through words or answers to what he thinks they want to hear they say that it’s alright, he can come and talk to them later. They’re being kind because they’re not yelling at him. They’re not scolding him. They’re not—they’re not—

 It isn’t easy.

 It’s fine.

 It’s okay.

 This is better…right?

 Roman floats.

 The cold weight hasn’t gone away. It’s better when it’s here. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no stabbing pains or flashes of hot anger or anything. He’s not being told he’s wrong.

 But he still doesn’t know what’s right.

 He does manage to get himself to stop spending hours and hours worrying about how to perform, how to be what they want him to be. Instead, he sits. He just sits. Not in his room, never in his room, where it would be too easy to dive into his work and never emerge again. In the hallway. In the bathroom. Sometimes in the living room but there are people there. He sits and he floats.

 He wonders if he’ll ever stop.

---------------------------------------------------

 Janus is on his way to the living room when he hears it.

  Wrong wrong wrong you’re still wrong you won’t let them apologize because you know you’re still wrong. Why won’t you let them apologize, it’s what you want, were you wrong about what you want? You still don’t know what’s right because they haven’t told you. You still don’t know what’s right so you’re wrong. You’re still wrong and you will always be wrong.

 Janus snarls as the bitterness washes over his tongue. He stops dead in his tracks and snaps his head around, looking for where it’s coming from. Spinning on his heel, he starts walking back toward his room. He can figure it out better from there.

 He rounds the corner and stops.

 Roman is sitting in the hallway.

 Janus glances around, looking for the others. No one is within earshot. He looks back. Roman hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even registered that Janus is here. He shuffles a little, letting his cloak fastenings clink together. Roman still doesn’t move.

 He looks around one more time, frowning as he realizes that no one else is here. Should he…should he get someone?

 Another wave of bitterness washes over his tongue and he bites back a curse.

 He takes a slow step forward, moving slow enough so that if Roman does realize he’s here, it won’t necessarily be when he’s right in front of him. Still nothing. He takes another. Nothing. He moves all the way up to Roman and Roman. Does. Not. Move.

  Oh, no.

 “Roman,” Janus calls softly, “Roman?”

 Nothing.

“Roman, can you look at me?”

 Roman doesn’t even twitch.

 As Janus edges closer, Roman blinks. Long and slow and sluggish. The first irrational thought to jump into Janus’s head is that Roman’s been drugged. He dismisses it quickly enough. Roman does it again, his chest barely rising and falling through slow, shallow breaths. Quickly, Janus tunes back into the lies that had coated his mouth in the acrid taste and yes, they are coming from Roman. Roman is conscious. Roman is here.

 Roman is hurting.

 Janus summons his staff and carefully, oh, so carefully tucks the curved end of it under Roman’s chin. Roman doesn’t move at the touch. His head isn’t heavy. Janus meets no resistance as he tips Roman’s head back. Roman’s eyes are glazed over and he blinks. Slow.

 He moves the staff away and Roman’s head doesn’t move. Dismissing the staff, Janus sits, waiting to see if there’s any sort of recognition from Roman. Nothing. Shit.

 He’s having an episode.

 Janus doesn’t know where these come from. All he knows is that sometimes, not often—or at least, he doesn’t think they’re very often—Roman will go through phases where he can’t move. He doesn’t pass out—clearly, Janus can still hear the lies running through his head—but there is some sort of disconnect between his mind and his body.

 The last time he had one of these was…well.

 Right before everything changed.

 Janus will be damned if he messes this up.

 “Roman,” he says gently, “sweetie, can you hear me?”

 Slowly, so slowly, Roman’s eyes lose some of their glaze, and Roman blinks.

 “Good,” Janus murmurs, “good. Can I touch you, sweetie?”

 Roman doesn’t move, but as Janus starts to reach for him, his eyes don’t lose any of their focus, nor does he tense.

 “Easy,” Janus murmurs when he finally cups Roman’s face and Roman’s eyes flutter shut, his next exhale coming out a little sharper, “easy…there.”

 Roman is cold.

 Janus shifts. He keeps one hand on Roman’s cheek steadying him as his other carefully runs down Roman’s arm. Roman is freezing but he has no goosebumps. Roman is freezing but he’s not shivering. The light press of Janus’s fingers against his arm leaves faint white imprints before the blood rushes back.

 “You’re okay,” he says instead, rubbing his thumb along the crook of Roman’s arm, “you’re okay, sweetie, this isn’t forever.”

  It won’t go away it won’t go away it won’t go away why don’t I feel cold he said I feel cold but I don’t what’s wrong with me?

 “Oh, Roman…sweetie, you’re okay. You’re safe, sweetie, I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

 Roman blinks again. His eyes lose their glaze entirely and the sudden panic behind them slams into Janus like a sledgehammer. A soft noise escapes unbidden as Roman’s breathing picks up.

 “Shh, shh, easy, easy,” he coaxes, cupping Roman’s head a little more firmly, “you’re okay, you’re safe, sweetie, it’ll be okay.”

  What’s wrong with me?

 “Nothing, honey, nothing’s wrong with you. It’s gonna be okay, you just breathe for me, okay?”

  Am I cold? I don’t feel cold, am I cold?

 “A little, sweetie, you feel a little cold, can you feel this?” Janus presses his hands gently against Roman’s skin. “Is that warm?”

 Roman’s eyes flutter and he shivers, leaning into Janus. Janus rubs at his arms encouragingly.

 “There you go, sweetie, that’s it, come on now, it’s almost over, you can do it…”

 A harsh gasp tears itself out of Roman’s throat and he sags against the wall, panting. Janus surges forward, holding him up as his head lolls back. The sound of his pants rings in the hallway. Roman shudders, his hands coming up to clutch at Janus’s sleeves.

 “There you go, good, good, sweetie, I’ve got you, it’s over now, shh, shh, shh, I’ve got you, you did so well.”

 “I’m sorry,” Roman manages amidst the pants, “I’m sorry.”

 “You don’t have to be sorry, sweetie, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

 “This is so stupid.”

 “Shh, shh, shh, you’ll work yourself up again…just focus on breathing, okay?”

 Roman breathes. He won’t meet Janus’s gaze, even when Janus reaches up to gently cup Roman’s face. When he stops panting so heavily, Janus carefully broaches the question of what happened.

 “I don’t know,” Roman mumbles, leaning into Janus’s touch as much as he can, “I just…I sat down and then I couldn’t get back up.”

 “Is this the same type of thing that’s happened before?”

 Roman nods. “I think it happens when I…um…”

 “Take your time, sweetie, I’m not going anywhere.”

 “…I don’t know what to do,” Roman says finally, his voice cracking, “I—it used to be better.”

 Janus’s heart breaks.

 “I—I didn’t always know what was right and what was wrong but I—you—they would at least tell me when I was wrong.” Roman shakes his head furiously. “And now everyone’s walking on glass around me and I don’t—I can’t—I don’t know the answers to any of these questions anymore.”

 Oh.

  Oh.

 “Of course,” Janus murmurs, mostly to himself, “of course…oh, Roman, I’m so sorry.”

 A pained cry worsens the ache in his chest.

 “What is it, what can I do?”

 “Everyone keeps apologizing and I can’t—I don’t—I don’t know what to do!”

 “Isn’t that a good thing? That they’re apologizing?”

 “It’s supposed to be,” Roman manages, “but it—I don’t—I just want to say it’s okay and have them not worry about m-me but it’s not okay and I know it’s not okay but I just want to—I want—“

 Roman buries his head in his hands with a groan. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

 Of course he doesn’t, he’s never been given that chance.

 Roman is the ego. Roman is shaped constantly by the wants and needs of Thomas. Roman is, through no fault of his own, very sensitive to any sort of comments or influence from the others. His very nature is shaped by what they think of him, or what they want from him. And when he doesn’t have that…well, he can’t really be much of anything, now can he?

 Because Roman needs the others to be happy with him to survive.

 Janus starts talking, low in his throat, explaining what may have been happening. Why suddenly Roman can’t move, gets stuck, why everything hurts. As he does, Roman’s brow furrows and he lets out a long, tired sigh.

 “Sweetie?”

 “Nothing.”

 Janus frowns. “Second chance?”

 “…I really am a nuisance, aren’t I?”

 “No,” Janus says firmly, “you’re not.”

 “This is so stupid.”

 “No, sweetie, it’s not your fault. Do you fault Virgil for needing reassurance?”

 “…no.”

 “Do you fault Logan for needing to be taken seriously?”

 “No.”

 “Do you fault Remus for needing to be listened to?”

 “No.”

 “What about Patton, who needs a family around him?”

 Roman shakes his head.

 “Then you don’t need to fault yourself for this, Roman. “ Janus strokes his cheeks with his thumb. “You don’t.”

 “How long have you known?”

 Janus blinks. “Hmm?”

 “How long have you known,” Roman repeats, “that I’m…like this? That I’m sensitive to what people say to me? Or say about me? That it’s the reason I’m…”

 “That this happens?” Roman nods. “I only figured it out just now.”

 “And what about the other part?”

 “…about…”

 “About how I’m susceptible to flattery and stuff, yeah,” Roman says, his gaze fixed firmly upon Janus’s, “how long?”

 Janus takes a deep breath. “…for as long as we have existed.”

 The flash of betrayal in Roman’s eyes makes him want to flinch away but he forces himself to stay.

 “Is that why you manipulated me? Flirted with me? Because you knew it would be easy?”

 “…yes.”

 Roman curses. “Did you ever care? That you were hurting me?”

 His silence is enough of an answer.

 “…it hasn’t stopped hurting, Janus,” Roman says lowly as he buries his head in his hands, shaking Janus loose, “you know it hasn’t.”

 “I know.”

 “You know what the worst part is, though?” Roman laughs miserably. “You’re the one that scares me the least.”

 He looks up at Janus with the most heartbroken smile Janus has ever seen.

 “Guess you must be good at your job.”

 “I haven’t been,” Janus murmurs, “and you know I haven’t. But I’m trying now. I told you, you don’t have to forgive me for what I’ve done to you.”

 “But I don’t want to be mad at you.” Roman’s hand clenches and unclenches. “Do you have any idea how much energy that takes?”

 “A lot?”

 “A lot.” Roman’s head lolls back against the wall. “I want to trust you. But it’s…it’s hard.”

 A clock ticks down the hallway. Janus turns his head for a moment, remembering the lies running through Roman’s head.

 “I didn’t just do it because it was easy,” he says finally, looking back at Roman. Roman’s head rolls around to look at him. “I did it because I wanted you to be happy.”

 “W-what?”

 “You’re the ego,” Janus murmurs, “you represent Thomas’s wants and desires. You make him happy.”

 “Patton—“

 “Patton feels happy, but he can’t make Thomas happy all by himself.” A small smile appears on Janus’s face. “You make him happy.”

 “…oh.”

 “I never—it was never my goal to hurt you, Roman,” Janus murmurs, “I just—I was too focused on making Thomas safe that I didn’t realize that meant I had to protect you.”

 Roman looks down, his hand toying with the spare fabric on his pants. Then he looks back up, the corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile.

 “Well, I can’t fault you for trying to keep Thomas safe.”

 The warmth in Roman’s voice makes Janus’s chest ache all over again. “You have so much compassion,” he says softly, “and you don’t get nearly enough credit for it.”

 Roman shrugs. “It’s not easy.”

 “No, I’m sure it isn’t.”

 “…it hurts.”

 “I know, sweetie.”

 Roman worries his lip between his teeth. “…but I don’t want to stop.”

 “Don’t,” Janus says, “please, don’t. It’s one of the best things about you.”

 “Janus, I’m scared,” Roman whispers, curled up on the floor, his back against the wall, freezing cold.

 A rush of warmth escapes his mouth as a comforting hum as he starts leaning forward. “I know, sweetie. I’ll look after you.”

 Disbelief and hope war behind Roman’s eyes as he looks up. His lips part. Then he closes his mouth again.

 “I’ll take care of you,” Janus murmurs.

 Roman’s mouth quirks. “It’s rotten work.”

 “Not to me,” Janus promises, “not if it’s you.”

 The quote lets him rest a hand on Roman’s cheek, cupping his face gently as Roman’s gaze searches his face. There’s a brief moment where Roman looks as if he’s about to say no, to pull away, but he doesn’t.

 “…is it really your job to protect me?”

 “Yes, my prince.”

 Roman shudders, turning his head to lean a little further into Janus’s hand.

 “…I’m a handful,” he tries weakly.

 Janus quirks an eyebrow. “A handful, hmm?” When Roman nods, he pulls back just enough to take his gloves off, shushing the stifled noise of protest as he does.

 “Which one?”

 “Hmm?”

 “Which handful are you, my prince?” At Roman’s confused look, Janus reaches out to take one of Roman’s hands. “This one?”

 He squeezes it tightly as he guides it up over his shoulder. “No? What about this one?”

 He takes Roman’s other hand and does the same, looping Roman’s arms over him.

 “Janus, what—“

 “What about this one,” Janus continues gently, settling a third hand on Roman’s hip, a fourth on the other, “or this one?”

 Roman squeaks in surprise as Janus pulls him gently into his lap, his lowest pair of arms holding him firmly around the waist, his middle pair wrapping around Roman’s chest, one hand drawing little doodles in the space between his shoulder blades.

 “Are you this handful,” he says softly, his fifth hand fitting snugly around the back of Roman’s neck, “right here?”

 “…J...Janus…”

 “Or this one,” he whispers, reaching up with his last hand to tuck Roman’s hair behind his ear, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

 He holds Roman tightly in his lap, his last hand running gently through his hair, scratching across his scalp. He leans to murmur into Roman’s ear.

 “If you’re a handful, my prince,” he whispers, “then it’s a good thing I don’t have six hands.”

 A laugh tears itself out of Roman’s throat, becoming horribly distorted into a strangled gasp. Janus just holds him firmly, as Roman begins to tremble, then shiver, before a wounded noise muffles itself in the crook of his neck and Roman sags into him, clutching him as tight as he can.

 Janus keeps murmuring soft reassurances, drawing little patterns on Roman’s back, and holding him as securely as he can. He peppers Roman’s face with chaste kisses, over his cheeks, over his forehead, across his closed eyelids, down his jaw, to his neck.

 “You’ve been doing so well, my prince,” he whispers, “so well, I’m so proud of you…I know the others are too. They’re not angry with you, sweetie, and they won’t be, not for this. You’re not alone, Roman, you won’t ever be, we’ll help you.”

 “I just—“ he can feel the roll of Roman’s throat as he swallows heavily— “I just want to be happy. A-and for that to be okay.”

 “A noble pursuit if ever I heard one.”

 “I’m so tired.”

 “Then you rest,” Janus promises, “right here, in my arms, in my lap. I’ll keep you safe, my prince.”

 “P-promise?”

 “I promise.”

 As Roman goes limp in his arms, his head turning to lie comfortably on Janus’s shoulder, cupped in his hands, Janus sinks them out to lie across the couch. He tugs a blanket over Roman’s shoulders and tucks him in, making sure not to jostle him too much.

 “…I don’t know if I can sleep.”

 “You don’t have to sleep, honey,” Janus says, “just rest.”

 He feels Roman nod and nuzzle into his neck.

 “Jan? Ro?”

 Virgil appears at the bottom of the stairs.

 “You guys okay?”

 “Just tired,” Janus says simply, scratching his fingers along Roman’s scalp. Virgil catches his gaze and nods, coming to kneel down next to the couch.

 “Hey, Princey,” he calls softly, “you have an episode?”

 “…yeah.”

 “Did anything…happen?”

 “Huh-uh.”

 “Okay.” Virgil reaches up to ruffle Roman’s hair. “You okay if I stick around?”

 “Mhmm.”

 Virgil pulls out his headphones and leans against the other part of the couch, his head just below Roman’s. Janus sees him glance up and quirk an eyebrow. When Roman’s breathing evens out a little more, he sighs.

 “I don’t know, Virgil.”

 “Were you there when it started?”

 “No. I walked in when I heard…”

 Virgil finishes the sentence for him with a sharp nod. “Okay. I haven’t seen anything specific.”

 “Do you…are there any specific signs?”

 “Kind of.” Virgil jerks his chin toward Roman. “We were gonna talk about it a little more.”

 Janus winces. “Has everyone asked to talk to him?”

 “Yeah why?”

 He briefly explains what they’d figured out. Virgil curses under his breath, looking back at the dozing Roman.

 “No fucking wonder he’s exhausted.”

 “Mm.”

 “Hey guys, have you seen—“

 Patton and Logan pause at the edge of the stairs, Patton’s hands quickly flying to cover his mouth at the sight of them.

 “Sorry,” he whispers as the finish coming down the stairs, “we were looking for Roman.”

 “What’s up?”

 “He mentioned that he wasn’t feeling well this morning,” Logan says quietly, taking a seat on the couch behind Virgil, “we wanted to see if he was feeling any better before we started dinner.”

 “Oh shit is it time for dinner already?”

 “Almost.”

 Patton sits next to Virgil, reaching up to carefully tuck a fluttering strand of hair out of the way. “Episode?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Okay.” Patton stands up. “I’m going to put the water on for pasta.”

 “I’ll come help.” Patton reaches down to pull Virgil to his feet. “We just gotta be quiet.”

 Logan scoots a little closer as the two of them leave. “Is Roman alright?”

 “…I don’t know.”

 “I don’t think any of us do.” Logan glances around. Janus follows his gaze.

 Patton and Virgil keep sending glances their way, obviously checking to see if anything’s going wrong. Logan looks more openly concerned than Janus has ever seen. And Janus, of course, still has every single arm wrapped as protectively around his sleeping prince as he can.

 “Does he still believe he’s…wrong?”

 Janus nods.

 “I think I have an idea.”

 ---------------------------------------------------

 Roman wakes up warm.

 A soft golden haze lingers in his brain as he shifts, a soft moan coming out as his muscles begin to wake up. Is he in bed? He doesn’t remember going back to his room. The last thing he remembers is—

 “Easy, sweetie,” Janus’s voice floats in from above him, “you’re safe. I have you.”

 …that.

 “J’nus?”

 “Yeah, sweetie, it’s just me.” A hand cards gently through his hair. “How are you?”

 “…floaty.”

 A deep chuckle comes from the chest underneath him. “Well, there are worse things to be.”

 Something in Roman’s neck catches and he winces. He must’ve slept wrong. Janus catches the soft hiss of air through his teeth.

 “Do you want to sit up?” At Roman’s nod, he loosens his grip enough for Roman to move away. He tries, only to be thwarted when his head rushes. “Would you like a hand? Or six?”

 Roman’s sleepy brain giggles as Janus wraps his arms around him again.

 “Alright, we’re going to sit up now. If you feel dizzy, you just hang onto me, alright?”

 Sitting up is slow, a little fuzzy. Janus isn’t quite warm, but he’s there and he’s solid and he holds Roman securely. When they’re upright, Roman blinks a few times, waiting for his vision to clear.

 Oh. They’re in the living room. Okay.

 “Janus?”

 Is that Patton?

 “You want to come give us a hand?”

 Janus glances at Roman. Roman nods. He gets a hand cupped lightly around his cheek as Janus moves away, tugging his gloves back on as he goes. Wait, were his gloves off the entire time?

 The couch sags on his other side and he looks around to see Logan, who smiles softly and opens his arms.

 “If you’re still cold,” he says quietly, “I’m more than happy to cuddle you.”

 “Um, y-yeah, thanks.”

 Logan moves in swiftly, wrapping his arms around Roman and pulling him to his chest. His chin rests against Roman’s head and—oh. They opened the blinds.

 Soft golden sunlight streams in through the window, bathing everything in a warm light. As Logan tucks him in close, The light streams across the floor, making Roman’s vision a little fuzzier. Logan smells like coffee and fresh paper.

 “Are you feeling a little better?”

 “I think so. Everything’s kind of fuzzy.”

 “In a bad way?”

 “…no?” Roman blinks a few times and looks up at Logan. “Just…kinda.”

 “You may still be a bit drowsy,” Logan explains gently, “and that’s alright.”

 Quiet clattering comes from behind them.

 “The others are making dinner,” comes the soft answer, “it’s almost ready. Do you think you can eat?”

 “Probably. Is…is that the plan?”

 “To eat dinner? Yes.”

 “And after?”

 Logan shrugs. “I don’t know. We may just lie about on the floor.”

 “Wait, what?”

 “It’s warm.” A hand rubs circles in the small of his back. “And it may be nice to simply exist around each other for a little while.”

 “Logan, what—what’s going on?”

 Logan pulls back a little so Roman can look directly at his face. “You’ve been stressed lately because no one will tell you what’s right and wrong, is that correct?”

 Roman’s eyes widen. Has it—is it that obvious? Did he tell someone that?

 “Janus mentioned you discussed it briefly,” Logan murmurs, “you had an episode earlier.”

 “…I remember.”

 Logan nods. “Normalizing spending time together without expectation may…help.”

 He pauses, then leans forward to rest their foreheads together. Roman’s groggy brain doesn’t quite have enough energy to fully process anything other than the smell of coffee and books and the warmth of Logan.

 “We care about you, Roman,” he says softly, “not what you can do, not what you can make, but for you. And we would be more than happy to stay by your side while you figure out what that means.”

 A massive lump appears in Roman’s throat as Logan’s sincerity burrows deep into his chest.

 “…don’t make me cry before dinner, Specs.”

 “As you wish,” comes the gentle reply.

 Remus shows up about halfway through and plonks himself right next to Roman.

 During a moment where the others are in a loud conversation about…something or other, Remus leans in close. “You good, Ro-Bro?”

 “I…I think so.”

 “Good.”

 Remus’s leg stays pressed against his the whole time.

 After dinner is over and Patton whisks away the dishes, Remus scoops him up in a princess carry and marches over to the sunny spot, lays him down, and promptly flops on top of him.

 “Remus!”

 “Cat pile, bro.”

 “Sounds good to me,” Virgil shrugs, lying down closer to the window, only to let out an oof when Patton lays down on top. “A little warning next time, Pop-star.”

 “Sorry!”

 Logan just chuckles, lying down on Roman’s left and pressing himself up against his side. He nudges Remus’s side until Remus rolls his eyes and, well, rolls.

 “Remus!”

 “Don’t squish Logan!”

 “I’m not!”

 “You clearly are!”

 “I’m not gonna stay here!”

 Roman sits up. “Remus!”

 “What’re you gonna do about it?” A second later, Remus yelps indignantly as Roman pushes him off. “Hey!”

 A moment later Remus is sprawled across another area of the sunlit floor, his head next to Virgil’s. Logan simply huffs, sits up, and threads his fingers through Roman’s, laying their hands on his warm stomach.

 “Are you warm enough?”

 Roman shifts. He’s not warm…but it’s not…the cold weight in his stomach is starting to go away.

 Then Janus lies down on his other side and opens his arms.

 And somehow it’s the easiest thing in the world to let him coax Roman into the warmest cuddle he’s had in ages. He hears Logan murmur something and feels his hand in his, stroking his palm gently. Janus’s hands run up his side, only to pause when they feel a lump in his pocket.

 Roman reaches in and pulls out the clip with the little gold crown.

 “…that’s where you keep it?” Janus asks, too quiet for the others to hear.

 For the first time, right before he drifts back off, Roman’s mind clears a little.

 He sees Virgil and Patton, on the floor with him, happy to just be here. He sees Remus, sprawled out a little ways away, keeping watch. He feels Logan’s hand in his, a reassuring weight. He sees Janus, feels him hold him tightly.

 He sees the little golden crown and it doesn’t feel quite so sharp anymore.

 Roman slides the clip into his hair and lies back down, letting Janus press a kiss to his temple, right below the shiny red clip and the golden crown.

 It isn’t easy.

 But as Roman floats with his family, with strong arms around him, he thinks it might be getting easier.

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[foursideharmony]

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 9)

Summary: It's time to end this...

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Swordfighting, a wee bit of blood, swearing, total exhaustion

Word Count: 2,738

Read on AO3: here

There was no obvious way to cross. Roman stopped with his toes nearly brushing the surface of the water. “JADIS!” he called across the distance. “Usurper! I, Prince Roman, do hereby challenge you!”

For the briefest instant, a paper-white face appeared in one of the high windows of the castle, displaying a subtle but unmistakable expression of pure disdain before its owner moved out of view again.

Roman was crestfallen, but Virgil moved up alongside him, saying “Pfft, rude.”

“I would have thought she'd be thrilled to take out her vengeance on me.”

“I'm sure she is...but she wants to do it on her terms. Why answer an open challenge when she can wait a while and then ambush you when you least expect it?”

“Well, she's getting an open challenge whether she wants one or not. I just have to figure out how I'm getting to her.”

Logan tossed a pebble out into the water. It made a very satisfying plunk, with rows of even ripples. “The water is at least a few feet deep. I recommend against swimming or wading—immersion in liquid that supports a large quantity of floating ice is almost certain to cause hypothermia.”

“Maybe we can somehow get the ice chunks to line up and form a bridge...?” Roman suggested, but he didn't sound confident.

“Can't you just make a bridge? Or a boat or something?” said Patton. “Now that you're back to being the Creativity we know and love?”

Roman made an exhalation that was halfway to being a sob and said, in a voice with a hairline crack, “I suppose it can't hurt to try...”

He closed his eyes, cupped one hand beside the other as though sheltering a tiny flame, and focused all his power on making something, anything, that would enable them to cross the water. Please...I'll accept anything...a raft...a rope...come on, please!...

He couldn't even say who or what he was begging, but whatever it was...it answered. Roman knew his attempt had worked—more or less—when he heard Patton snicker behind him. He opened his eyes and turned around.

Roman hadn't known what to expect, but he definitely had not expected a buff-colored mushroom the size of a dinner table for eight, with Logan examining it curiously and Remus poking the spongy substance and giggling. Roman blinked at it several times before the irony hit him, at which point he abruptly doubled over with guffaws, bracing his hands on his knees in order to keep from falling over.

“Roman? You...good?” asked Virgil.

“I finally made a mushroom!” Roman wheezed. “After all that angst back there...”

“Roman, what are you talking about?” said Logan.

“I'll tell you guys later,” Roman said, straightening up and rubbing fresh tears from his eyes. “For now...” He unsheathed his sword and severed the mushroom's cap from its stalk almost effortlessly. It landed at the water's edge, floating high. “All aboard who's coming aboard!”

They all fit easily enough, though they had to crowd together to keep their feet from getting wet. Roman took up a perch at the side of the mushroom facing the bank, braced his boot against the earth, and shoved, casting them off. Their peculiar vessel spun gently as it drifted toward the White Witch's castle. Now and again an ice chunk would approach, and whoever was closest to it would kick it away, altering both the spin and the drift in little ways. It took several minutes before the mushroom grounded itself in the far side of the lake.

The portcullis was closed, its iron lattice too tight to admit anything larger than a loaf of bread. But Roman was unfazed. He had made a mushroom. He whipped his sword through the air a few times, and a man-sized section of the bars simply collapsed. He led the other Sides through the courtyard—now empty of statues, as though Aslan's spring had freed the petrified creatures without his direct involvement—and down the corridor to the White Witch's throne room.

They were expected.

Jadis sat enthroned, flanked along the dais by the captains and lieutenants of her armies, a fair sampling of the horror monsters Roman had brought to the Stone Table only that very morning. Many of them carried spears, axes, and clubs. Maugrim paced along the floor in front of the dais in an oddly catlike fashion, his eyes never leaving the party as they entered.

“And here he is!” the Witch declared as though Roman had been the topic of conversation in the room. “I knew you would not be long in returning to me, Prince Roman. And you've brought your fellows with you! Tribute, perhaps? They will look lovely in the courtyard.”

Roman marched to the middle of the hall and leveled an accusing finger at her, eliciting gasps from the assembled creatures. “Usurper! Pretender to the throne of Narnia! Why do you still sit there? You have lost—Aslan has returned, your endless winter has given way to spring, and I...” He swallowed. “...I have purged myself of your malign influence.”

“An influence you welcomed,” Jadis said smoothly. There was the faintest hitch of breath behind him, and her smile broadened. “Why, Roman. Did you not tell them how you came to be the White Warlock?”

“Not yet,” Roman said, trying to sound casual about it. “Don't change the subject. The jig is up, Jadis, and you will quit this castle, take your followers, and leave Narnia forever.”

“Or?” she prompted. Her voice was like a shower of slender icicles pattering down from a shaken branch.

“Or face me in single combat. Me, Jadis. The one who stole your power, stole your very being, into myself, when you were on the brink of victory. Duel me for the right to say what will become of you and your armies.”

Something unprecedented happened.

Jadis laughed.

It was nothing hearty or prolonged, just a quick scoffing exhalation, but it was a laugh. “Or perhaps I shall simply ignore your demand, kill you all, and carry on as I have. Aslan's return means nothing with no candidates to place on the thrones of Cair Paravel.”

“You may find that difficult,” Roman said through gritted teeth, “if I drop the scenario right now and all this vanishes.”

“Oh shit, he's going meta!” Remus stage-whispered.

“Watch your language!” Patton scolded.

“Is that an extreme measure?” Logan asked.

“Are you kidding, Five-Eyes? It's the last resort for a creative type! He's talking about scrapping the story before he gets to the ending!”

“Bollocks!” shouted one of the lieutenants, a goblin-esque creature. “If he has that kind of power, why even offer a duel?”

“My reasons are my own,” said Roman. “The point, Jadis, is that you are being offered a chance. You're a proud woman, but suicidally proud? I don't think so.”

All Narnia held its breath as the Witch considered. After a moment that seemed longer than it was, she rose to her feet. “I accept. We shall duel here, and at once. It begins as soon as I descend to the floor.” She began to walk down the steps of the dais, directly toward Roman.

“Weapons only! No magic from either of us!” Roman said hastily.

“Agreed,” said the Witch with the confidence of someone who is stronger and has longer reach than their opponent. She drew her long stone knife from the sash at her waist.

“No one is to interfere!” Roman added, fighting the urge to back away.

“Agreed.”

Jadis's foot hit the floor, and she charged.

Roman launched into motion himself, and met the charge.

That first blow, stone blade meeting steel, threw up a shower of sparks too bright to look at. The Witch pressed Roman until his boots skidded on the frozen floor, and only by reacting immediately, breaking the blade lock and flinging himself to the side, did he avoid being stabbed then and there.

He rolled onto his back—and she was on him, forcing him to block again, one hand grasping the hilt of his sword, the other awkwardly pincering the blunt edge of the blade. He managed to get his knee up and threw her off, over his head, while ruthless physics sent him slipping in the opposite direction. He scrambled to rise and got as far as a sitting position just in time to see the Witch roll, turning her tumble into a graceful slide, one leg bent under her and the other extended off to the side, her arms counterbalancing.

Elapsed time of the duel so far: perhaps six seconds.

Lewis really undersold her, Roman found himself thinking lightheadedly.

And now the spectators were finding their voices. The prince's spirits lifted when he first heard Patton crow “You can do it, Roman!”...but in the next instant, it was drowned out by the gibbering howls of the Witch's followers from every side of the room. That was all he was able to register before she came at him again, her knife lashing the air in a pattern almost too complex for him to follow.

Almost...Somehow, he managed to parry every strike and even offer a few ripostes. The very end of the sequence gave him an opening to lunge and swipe—she dodged the blow handily, but his sword sheared off a lock of her coal-colored hair. She shrieked with rage.

“Yeah! Shave her bald!” Remus cackled.

“Not helping!” Roman barked.

But it hadn't really hurt either. The prince was getting the hang of fighting on the slick surface; his footing became surer, his movements more confident, his strikes more forceful. The Witch was taller and stronger and had the home-field advantage, but Roman had the superior weapon—two feet of folded steel compared to eight inches of carved stone—and with his insecurities about the arena ironed out, it began to make a real difference. She could lunge at him with inhuman speed and grace, but if he brought up his blade in time, she had to pull her blow lest the knife break on the sword's edge...and that instant of hesitation would give him an opening. The tide of battle turned, and Jadis began to be driven back within her own throne room. The shouts of alarm from her followers were nearly deafening.

(It was at this point that Maugrim, who was nothing if not loyal, began to slink around behind the rows of spectators, looking for a chance to rush to his queen's aid. He thought he found one and tensed to make his move—only to find himself physically stopped by an arc of steel wrapped around his neck exactly as though he were a wayward sheep. He turned to snarl at the interloper and was greeted by a slit-pupilled eye as frightening as any in the White Witch's armies.

“None of that, naughty puppy,” Janus said in silken tones. “No interference, remember? I'm sure your mistress would much rather you strive to keep her honor intact.”

Maugrim's hackles went up and he prepared to overpower Janus through sheer bulk and muscle, but then...)

A gasp went up from Jadis's followers, followed by an immediate hush that blanketed the entire hall. Roman had disarmed her, sending the stone knife tumbling end-over-end across the chamber. She desperately ducked his sword and scrambled to retrieve her weapon, but it struck the wall point-on, digging deep into the frozen surface and sending out cracks that spread rapidly until a section of ice the size of a mattress was sheared off. It barely missed her as it crashed to the floor and shattered, the impact throwing her off her feet.

She looked up into the tip of a blade. “Yield,” Roman said coolly. “You are defeated.”

“You mean to let me live?” Jadis said with a bitter smile. “You know I would not do you the same courtesy.”

Roman winced almost imperceptibly. “I have caused enough death in Narnia. Yield...quit this land forever, and take your creatures with you.” When he got no response, he thrust his sword at her face, drawing a single drop of blood from her chalk-colored cheek.

“I-I yield,” she said, wide-eyed.

Roman half-turned to address the room, keeping his sword trained on his downed opponent. “You have all witnessed her surrender!” he declared. “This regime is at an end!”

One of the monsters raised a keening wail, an acknowledgment of defeat, and was soon joined by others. Those who bore weapons threw them down, and a few made florid obeisances in Roman's direction.

For the first time in days—since he had first begun to feel that he was being steered toward the role of Edmund—Roman felt the tension begin to bleed out of his shoulders. With the wails of the Witch's followers blending into a sort of white noise in his head, he let his eyes slide closed and his sword arm droop, and took a moment just to breathe—

“Roman! Look out!”

—and his eyes snapped back open just in time to see Jadis springing at him with her wand raised (where had she gotten it from?) and there was no time, no time to do anything but drop his sword and bring up his hands to grab—

There was a flash of light, as bright as lightning at the same distance, and a horrible cracking, crunching sound. When it subsided, Roman and the White Witch stood perfectly still, holding her golden wand aloft between them, her face frozen in a snarl of fury, his in understated alarm that hadn't had time to gel...neither one blinking.

Utter silence reigned in the throne room for a long moment. When sound returned, it was in the form of a whimper. “Both of them...both...” Patton muttered, before he broke the stillness and ran up to the twin statues. He lifted a hesitant, trembling hand to touch Roman's shoulder...

Roman blinked, and sighed, and his posture sagged...not stone after all. He let go of the wand as if prying his fingers free of some powerful glue, and as Patton seized one of his hands in a desperately relieved gesture and the other Sides jogged over to the two of them, his knees began to buckle in slow motion. He wound up in a sprawled kneeling position, his legs bent out to the sides, gazing up at the petrified form of his enemy. Her marble complexion was now literal, her hair sculpted waves of obsidian, her lips a scarlet flaw in the surface of the stone, parted to show more white marble behind.

“I did it...” he said in a tiny voice.

“You did do it!” Patton agreed. “Roman, you were amazing!”

“Indeed, I never realized before just how adroit you are at swordsmanship. Well done,” Logan added.

“I defeated the White Warlock...” Roman continued.

“You mean the White Witch,” said Virgil.

“Yes...her too.” Roman closed his eyes again. He was exhausted. “It's time to go home,” he whispered, or maybe just thought. A proper denouement would have been nice, but his energy well had finally run dry. The throne room slowly faded to white around them.

“Uh...” Virgil observed.

“S'all right,” Roman murmured. “Remus, can you...”

“Brilliant idea, giving Remus an open-ended question,” Janus remarked dryly. Curiously enough, however, the other Creative Side was already drawing lines in mid-air in a hurried fashion. Color and texture filled them in, making the image of a miniature door, about half the size of a normal one.

“Whoops, drew it too far away,” said Remus. “Well, come on, it's not going to pound itself until it bursts open!” He set out at a brisk walk.

Virgil and Patton helped Roman to his feet, one arm over each of their shoulders, and more-or-less carried him the short walk to the door.

“Remus, while we have your attention,” said Logan, begging a rather important question, “I have a more defined question for you. Specifically: five eyes?”

“Yep!” Remus replied, arriving at the door and rapping on it in an uneven pattern that had to be a code of some kind. “The two in your eyesockets, your glasses, and the one on the end of your—”

Fortunately, the door opened before he could end the sentence.