#Sanders Sides fanfic

[elliehase-blog]

We're simply meant to be

I just had to write something about them. ❤️💜 This time it's longer than usual, and not proofread (sorry) but if you enjoy this little piece, you can read the rest on AO3.

~*~

In the afternoon, Roman is still quite relaxed. He polishes the blade of his sword, humming verses of Sally’s song. Hey, why not? He is only 51% sure that this is a kind of date tonight. It’s not as if Virgil was in any way clear with his all-but-nothing sentence.

»You're right, Roman. We can live like Jack and Sally if we want to.«

There. The word 'date' has not been used in any form.

Virgil had laughed at this point, to Roman’s utter bewilderment. A delightful little laugh that took up all of his attention and everything else outside had ceased to exist. And of course Roman had not known how to help himself other than to take the whole thing to the next level.

»And sit together, now and forever,« he had said, and had taken Virgil’s hands carefully in his. In this moment, Roman had only felt his heart pounding against his ribs in a whirling drum solo.

After that, Virgil had turned away in embarrassment and mumbled something that sounded like, »See you later.«

So maybe it is a date after all.

Perhaps.

(It’s certainly not.)

For seconds Roman bites his fingernails helplessly. He had seen so many cheesy romance movies in his life that he liked to consider himself an expert in the field. There was nothing to surprise him, as he knew all the signs and all the rules. And if you can no longer rely on cheesy romantic movies, then what?

But somehow all these rules never apply to Virgil.

How did they get here in the first place? Aren't they supposed to argue and fight like in the good old days? Sometimes, Roman likes to picture the deep, passionate rivalry he and Virgil have for each other. He imagines them having endless discussions about Disney characters, staring at each other in a fiery way. And when no one is around, Roman sighs deeply and longingly at this point and buries his heated face in velvety soft red silk pillows.

In the evening, Roman takes a look at his imaginary wardrobe and starts hyperventilating. He’s never had a no-date before. With nobody.

He has no idea what to wear and if he has any piece of clothing that says, 'When you look at me, I can’t breathe, and whenever you’re around me, I talk a lot more nonsense than usual, but if this is a date, I’d be totally fine with it.'

Lately, Virgil had just been too nice and peaceful around him. He means, nice… within the scope of his limited possibilities. Roman can’t say that this is terribly unpleasant, it’s just very… irritating. He has to do something. Or rather, he has to delegate this problem very quickly so that someone else does it for him.

Roman was great at delegating. This talent was practically innate. That's why he calls Logan.

»We have a… situation,« Roman explains dramatically. »I don't know what to wear!«

Logan throws a 'What do you want from me?' look at him. He raises his eyebrows wordlessly and completely unimpressed and makes absolutely no attempt to move even a millimetre from the spot.

»C’mon, Teach, I need your advice here!«

Usually, Logan would not have been his first choice in terms of clothing and taste, but he also has that unclouded and focused sight that Roman needed right now.

»Pleeeaaase!«

Logan sighs and Roman strongly assumes that this is supposed to mean agreement. Probably, Roman had convinced him with his astute argumentation and natural authority. That, or Logan, for once just doesn’t think a discussion is worth the trouble.

»What's the occasion?« he asks without further ado, pushing his glasses up in an unconscious gesture.

»Something… important,« Roman says vaguely.

[prodigal-explorer]

sanders sides controversial opinions poll!

hi, guys! i've been in the sanders sides fandom for a few years now, and i've been really curious about where the majority of fans stand in terms of the most hot topics in the fandom right now. i made a nice little google form, and i'd love it if you guys filled it out with your opinions, anonymously, of course! there are no wrong answers, it's just opinions, and i want to know the real information, so don't worry about getting flamed or hated on because that's not going to happen!

also please reblog or send to your fander friends! i want this to reach as many interested people as possible!!

[goldnskyart]

Almost forgot to post this here oops- but here’s the final drawing for this au (at least for now) god I love them so much

This is the first time I’ve done a full background in years so I’m very proud lol hope y’all like it too

I’m also writing a fic for this au here is a link to that post and here it is on ao3 if you wanna read it!

Some other versions below just cause I think they’re nice :3

Here you can even properly see the background I worked so hard on- and a closeup on the kiss ofc😌

[lovelylogans]

the parent trap

the masterpost

“So,” Remus says slowly. “If your Dad is my Dad…”

“...and your Pa is my Papa…”

Remus stares at the seam of the wedding photo, made whole again after more than a decade. His Pa, Patton, familiar with his cowboy-handsome, weather-beaten face and his dimpled grin and his big, calloused hand resting over his new husband’s, even if Remus has never seen him look this smitten ever. 

“And we’re both born on October 11… then, Roman. You and I are… like… brothers.”

And his Dad—Janus—smiling coyly, handsome in the way of magazine models, so completely a stranger to Remus with just this scrap of a photograph to serve as any way to know him, really know him. The way Roman knows him. The way Remus has been dying to know him all his life.

“Remus,” Roman breathes out, disbelieving. “We aren’t just brothers. We’re twins.”

Remus wonders, in a daze, if seeing the opposite life he could have had is as strange for Roman as it is for him… if they’d just been switched at birth, it’s the life Remus could have had, knowing his Dad instead of his Pa, but then…

But then it clicks.

“Roman,” he says, turning to grin at his brother—his brother! “I have a completely perfect, totally awesome idea!”

or: it's a parent trap AU for @tss-storytime with fanart by @tastic-in-its-finest!

warnings: pranks and practical jokes, smoking, drinking, brief mentions of underage drinking (in the context of a child trying a sip of wine), sibling rivalry and bonding, please let me know if i've missed any!

pairings: janus/patton, logan/virgil, brief patton/male oc

word count: 80k

notes: a few notes before we begin: first, thanks so much to morgan for their fanart for this fic!!! it's so cute, please like and reblog and do all that fun stuff!!! second, thanks to the folks over at the big bang for organizing this whole event—i know firsthand how complicated that can get, and you are so appreciated!!! this is technically a '90s au, but a '90s au in terms of the fashion and lack of social media/cell phones, not any of the homophobia. i hope you all enjoy!!!!

chapter one: prologue Across the world from each other, two very different families help two very similar boys pack their bags.

chapter two: welcome to camp walden! Welcome to what we like to think of as the most beautiful spot on God's green earth—Camp Walden.

chapter three: en garde The boys come to blows. (With practice épées, but in their minds, it’s equally as serious.)

chapter four: riposte The boys come to blows. (With words and stitching.)

chapter five: black card The boys come to blows. (With a temporary reversal of gravity, oodles of chocolate sauce, and finally, some semblance of adult interference.)

chapter six: isolation station The boys spend a great deal of their time considering coming to blows. Until suddenly, they don’t want to fight at all anymore.

chapter seven: operation augustus The realization of having an identical twin does quite a bit to spur some out-of-the-box levels of creativity.

chapter eight: let's get down to business! The boys begin to plot. Camp Walden trembles in fear.

chapter nine: to defeat… the family civil divisions of napa and london respectively! The boys plot. The world all over ought to be trembling in fear.

chapter ten: domine dirige nos Remus spends a great deal of time weighing the most British way to say hello. He’s going to have to repress throwing in a what’s all this then, guv’nor? the entire time.

chapter eleven: eureka! Roman spends a great deal of time weighing the most American way to say hello. He thinks he probably shouldn’t come right out of the gate with howdy, y’all!

chapter twelve: a wench in the works This absolutely was not in their multitude of blueprints!

chapter thirteen: riding is magic and friendship is power and love is everything to everyone Roman gets to meet his pony. He should, by all rights, be much more excited about it, but someone had to go and ruin it for him.

chapter fourteen: in which virgil attempts to hold a poker face (and fails miserably) Virgil curses being so observant.

chapter fifteen: all of my change spent on you Remus has a particularly fun run-in. Well. Fun for him.

chapter sixteen: so your sons have swapped places and are in foreign countries This particular subject was not covered in the parenting books.

chapter seventeen: hopped off the plane at lax with a dream of civil reconciliation with my ex-husband Remus plots. Grandfather aids and abets. Janus panics. Logan suffers them all.

chapter eighteen: small world and getting smaller Janus is officially the father of the two most troublesome twins in the galaxy.

chapter nineteen: you got me tripping, stumbling! sinking, fumbling! Patton makes a splash.

chapter twenty: the queen elizabeth the second the second The twins attempt to revive the past. The parents wish to change it.

chapter twenty-one: i said a boom chicka boom! Logan’s swept off his feet. As is Maddox, in an entirely different way.

chapter twenty-two: i said a boom GO TO YOUR ROOM The twins’ plots bear oh-so-satisfying fruit.

chapter twenty-three: where dreams have no end A hello, a goodbye.

chapter twenty-four: the concorde(ance) A goodbye, a hello.

chapter twenty-five: epilogue Two very similar boys help their two very different families assimilate into one.

[tss-whumper]

please believe me - a sanders sides whump one-shot

summary: roman has always been a little bit more fragile than he wants to admit. he gets dizzy spells and vertigo, and struggles to walk often because of this. but when he discovers that he can use a cane to better his mobility, he's amazed and delighted...until he tells the other sides, who do not take this well.

word count: 4.3k

content warnings: internalized ableism, ableism, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, bullying, emotional abuse, concussions, dry-heaving, all of the sides except for roman, remus, and logan could be seen as unsympathetic.

Roman liked to consider himself strong. Though he knew that all of the other sides were stronger than him physically, he also knew that he had a lot of stamina and fortitude of his own. After all, he was the only side who would regularly go on adventures of his own imagining, slaying pretend dragons and running through the forest. He also knew that he was often the one asked to do strenuous tasks, because he was the only one who had the energy to go from start to finish without slackening even a little.

But lately, that energy had been burning out quicker than usual.

Roman would be walking through his imaginary forest, and then suddenly, his vision would blur. His head would hurt. His heart would pound. And he would stumble and fall, gasping to catch his breath as his heart raced. But by the time he realized what was happening, he was on the ground, and it was going away. At first, Roman thought nothing of it. Probably lack of nutrition. So he ate more. It helped a little, but not a lot. Lack of sleep? He got his beauty sleep, ten hours a night. But even when he increased to eleven hours, the dizzy spells did not stop.

The longer it went on, the worse the spells got. They would last longer, and be more severe. There would even be times where Roman had to stay on the floor for minutes at a time, just to get his heart to stop pounding and his body to stop trembling. He was always thirsty, always hungry. No matter how much he ate and drank. And he started to grow wary of going into his forest alone. What if he collapsed and couldn't get back up? Each time he fell, it grew harder and harder to pick himself up. It started to feel like his bones were becoming brittle and useless.

Until one day.

He went for a little walk after a frustrating argument with Remus, making sure to keep close to his bedroom door, just in case. But this time, when his vision blurred and he teetered to the side, he held out his arms, grappling for something to keep him upright. And his hands wrapped tightly around a branch of a tree. The dizziness was still there, and Roman could see the world around him moving. But he was still. And he knew that he was still, because the branch did not move. The branch kept him steady, and helped him figure out where to slowly and shakily move his feet to keep walking. The branch made things feel less terrifying, like he had more control over his body and the situation.

It was revolutionary.

Ever since that day, Roman started to cling to branches and trunks and whatever he could to keep himself upright. And it went from being whenever he felt dizzy to all the time, that way, it didn't take him by surprise, and he would know that he had something to hold onto if the dizziness came on in a flash, as it tended to. And Roman felt so safe and secure, and more than anything? He felt brave again.

---

"Janus, your cane is so pretty," Patton marveled one day as all the sides gather for a movie night, "You never did tell us what it's for. Is it just for decoration?"

"Not really," Janus shrugged, sitting on the couch, "It's to help keep me from putting too much weight on my weak joints. It's just easier to walk when I'm holding onto something."

Roman's eyes went round as saucers when he heard this. He stared at Janus' cane, black polished wood, with a curve on one end for Janus to hold onto, and a flat base on the other for it to keep his body steady on the ground.

"You mean you just use the cane, and it keeps you from falling down?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

Janus wrinkled his nose, clearly confused by Roman's fascination with his cane and his disability. He pulled his cane closer to himself.

"I don't fall down," he said, "But it does help with keeping me upright when I'm feeling a lot of pain."

The other sides asked their own questions about Janus' cane and his disability, but Roman couldn't hear any of it. All he could think about was that cane. It was just like the tree branch in the forest. It kept Janus grounded, it gave him something to support himself with when his body gave out. It was perfect.

Roman gracefully excused himself, rushing to his room, stumbling inside and falling to the ground as another dizzy spell hit him. But he didn't mind being splayed out on the carpet, grinning like a child in a toy store as he started to conjure up a cane. The perfect cane. It wouldn't be black like Janus'. It would be red, so Roman could always find it. And instead of having a curved area for the hand, it just went out horizontally a few inches, and the handle was a nice plush material that was nice to hold. The bottom was flat like Janus', but it was wider. Roman thought about the strong trunk of the tree, how the wider the foundation was, the stronger the tree stood. Roman made the bottom of his cane about two inches wide, so that there was plenty of sure flatness for him to lean upon.

And then, it was finished. Using the cane, Roman struggled to his feet, clutching the cane tightly. Getting up was much easier when he had something to hold onto. The world rocked and spun around him, but as he gripped the plush handle of the cane, Roman didn't feel so scared. He didn't feel like one wrong step would cause him to crash back down. Slowly, he dragged the cane forward, and then, he took a step. He did not lean heavily on the cane, but he did rest about half his weight on it. The cane was perfect for orienting himself. Letting his body know where it was in space.

It was amazing. Roman almost cried from joy. How did it take him this long to figure out such a simple solution to his problem? Now, he would never topple over from a dizzy spell again!

---

The very first day Roman walked to the kitchen with his cane, he was all smiles. He dragged it gently in front of him, the way he had in his bedroom. Now, it was decorated beautifully. Roman had gone to the forest and delicately wrapped chains of dried flowers around his cane, making for a simple but elegant decoration. Roman felt as if he was glowing from the inside out. Every step was so certain. Every step felt like flying.

"Roman, what the hell is that?"

Air deflated from Roman's chest as he heard the intense hostility in Virgil's tone.

"It's my cane," Roman said, smiling at Virgil as widely as he could, though fear danced in his eyes. "It helps me walk. I get dizzy a lot, and I've been falling over. The cane keeps me from falling."

"You fall over," Virgil repeated, very deadpan in his delivery, "I've never seen you fall over."

"Well- yeah, it mostly happens in the forest," Roman explained, "When I've been running and playing for a while. But sometimes it comes on all of a sudden. I'm glad I found the cane before it happened in front of any of you guys. It's very unbecoming of a prince to be collapsing at random!"

But Virgil did not laugh at Roman's lighthearted remark. His gray eyes narrowed and he stared at the cane for a long time.

"You know, I hate Janus," he said slowly, "You know that. I hate him more than Thomas hates carrots. But there are some lines you can't cross when making fun of him. I can't believe you'd do something like this, Roman. It's a real jackass move."

"What...?" Roman felt tears form in his eyes, "What are you talking about? What's a jackass move?"

"This! All of this!" Virgil cried out, gesturing to the cane, "Faking some dizzy thing to try and get attention? To try and make some sort of mockery of Janus' literal disability? That's not cute, Roman!"

Footsteps could be heard, and Patton and Janus entered the hallway from the kitchen. Patton was holding a mixing bowl. Janus was holding a spoon in one hand, and his cane in the other. Roman was trying his hardest not to cry, biting his lip so hard that he could feel blood dripping down his gums inside his mouth.

"What's going on in here, kiddos?" Patton asked, "It's a Saturday morning, there's no need to yell."

Then, Patton laid eyes upon Roman's cane. And Janus did too.

"It's another one of Roman's little ploys for attention," Virgil hissed, glaring murderously at the creative side, "He must have seen Janus' cane yesterday and gotten all pissy. Because the attention wasn't all on him."

"That's not true!" Roman choked out, desperate for support as he gazed imploringly at Patton, "I swear, it's not true- I- I've been getting dizzy for weeks! Before I even knew about Janus' cane, I was struggling with this- why won't you believe me??"

"If you were struggling, why didn't you tell us?" Janus asked quietly, "Everybody knows that little Princey can't keep a secret to save his life. Why now? Why this?"

"I..." Roman choked on air. "I didn't want to worry you guys. I didn't know what it was, and- I was trying to fix it on my own. I don't understand. The cane helps me walk, just like it helps you."

"Roman, honey," Patton said gently, approaching Roman and placing a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sure you do get a little dizzy from time to time. That's normal for somebody as active as you. And your diet isn't exactly the healthiest, what, with all that fruit you eat. So much sugar, and you barely eat anything at mealtimes."

"I eat plenty at mealtimes," Roman tried to reassure, "I swear it. This isn't something that can be solved by that stuff- at least, I don't think so."

"I know you want people to pay attention to you," Patton interjected, his voice gentle, but his eyes glistening with a warning, "I know you like being the center of everyone's focus, buddy. But you're a big, strong prince! You're Roman. You're supposed to be a valiant and brave prince. Don't you want to be a prince, Roman?"

"Of course I do," Roman whispered, a tear rolling down his face.

"Can you name any princes who use a cane?" Patton asked sweetly, and when Roman faltered, Patton continued, "Exactly. You're a big boy, Roman. You don't need stuff like this. Let's leave the canes to the actual disabled people, alright? It's the respectful thing to do, sweetheart."

Roman started to feel dizzy. He was not sure if it was from a dizzy spell or from the extreme overwhelm of emotions that were weighing him down. Perhaps it was both. All he knew was that he needed to get out of here. He gripped his cane and turned to go, but he found that something was keeping him there.

Virgil's hands were holding tightly onto Roman's cane, keeping him from moving it. Roman's fragile, trembling fingers were no match for Virgil's strong and certain ones.

"Please," he whispered, "Give me my cane."

"No," Virgil glowered, "You can walk ten steps to your room by yourself. I know you can. I've seen it. You're being a real dick, Roman. I just want you to drop the act, okay? I'm not asking for much."

"I need my cane, please," Roman begged, more tears dripping down his chin and his upper lip. "I feel dizzy."

"Of course you do," Janus muttered, rolling his eyes, "Of course you magically feel dizzy while we're calling you out. And here I was thinking I was Deceit."

Janus turned and walked back into the kitchen. But Patton stayed standing in the doorway, and Virgil stayed holding Roman's cane.

"I'm not backing off from this," Virgil said, "Go. Walk."

Roman realized that he was outnumbered by a long shot. Nobody pitied him. Janus was giving him the cold shoulder. Patton was staring at him with such disappointment in his eyes. And Virgil looked ready to kill him. There was nothing Roman could do. No other way to escape.

Slowly, his grip on his cane loosened. Immediately, Virgil snatched it from underneath Roman, causing the dizzy man to stumble. He caught himself, but it was clear that Roman was trembling wildly, not just out of fear, but out of fragility. His vision was going blurry, and it kept blacking out on him. His heart was pumping blood through his body so fast that Roman felt as though he might burst from the inside out.

But he had to walk. He had to escape.

Slowly, he put one foot in front of the other, even though he couldn't tell which way was truly forward. The ground seemed to zig-zag and contort. But Roman closed his eyes, hoping that the lack of vision would help him better figure out how to move in a straight line. It did not. He only felt more unsure. But when he opened his eyes again, he felt his knees give out, and before Roman could get his bearings, he had crashed down onto the bright white carpet of the hallway.

He didn't even hear the thud of his body hitting the ground. But what he did hear was the cruel, barking laughter of Virgil.

"You can't fool me, Roman!" he called out, "That's some good acting, though!"

"Roman, come on, honey," Patton goaded, "Walking is not hard for you. I've seen you do it hundreds of times. No more of this silliness, okay?"

Acting.

Silliness.

Maybe Patton and Virgil were right. Maybe Roman was faking all of this. Slowly, he tried to sit up. His head hurt so badly. A whimper escaped Roman, but he kept going. He had to keep going. He had to get away from the laughter, from the stares.

So he pressed his hands tightly onto one knee, and tried to prop the other upwards. So he could try to stand up. But as his body lifted off the ground, shaking like a fawn's, the walls and the ceiling swirled around him in such a confusing and dizzying haze that Roman fell right back down again. White hot pain burst through the wrist he fell on, and a sickening crack resounded through the hallway.

Roman waited for more laughter and taunting. He waited for more critiques, more chastising. But none came. Only a deep bellow from a voice that was typically so composed that it sounded like a computer.

"Give me the cane, Virgil."

Roman blinked blearily. He was facing away from where Patton, Virgil, and now, Logan, were standing. He could not tell if Logan was mad at him like the others were, but he could hear Logan's quiet footsteps moving towards Roman's shaking body.

"You gonna beat him with it?" Virgil sneered, "I guess I wouldn't expect anything less from Mr. Anger Issues, but maybe Roman deserves it. He's being such a bitch about this whole thing."

"Maybe he needs a little punishment," Patton agreed solemnly, "I'm not a violence guy. You know that, Logan, but- well...Roman isn't listening to us any other way."

Roman froze up for a moment. Was Logan really going to beat him with his cane? There was not a lot of strength left in Roman's body, but what little he had, he used it to curl up tightly, protecting his neck with his hands, and tucking his head between his legs. He held his breath and waited for the first strike.

But none came.

"This is ridiculous," Logan snapped, "Utterly ridiculous."

The logical side leaned down towards Roman, trying to make eye contact. Roman looked up, but everything was foggy and hazy. He could see three Logan's, but at the same time, he couldn't quite make out the details of any of them.

"I'm sorry," Roman mumbled, "'m so sorry...I didn't mean to- to make fun of anyone, honest! I just- I- I just wanted- to- to-"

"Shut up," Logan whispered to Roman, "You're a bit dilated...you hit your head on the floor, didn't you...?"

Roman didn't know what to say. He didn't know what the right answer was. He opened his mouth to try and say something, to try and plead for mercy, but when he did so, a wave of violent nausea passed through his body, and he retched, dry heaving in writhing spasms on the floor. He had not eaten yet, so nothing came out of his body except for a few globs of saliva.

"He's concussed," Logan mumbled to himself, and before Roman could figure out what was happening, he felt himself being lifted into the air by two large and soft arms. Instinctively, Roman leaned against the touch.

"Oh, please," Patton said with a little laugh, "I never knew you as somebody to coddle, Logan. Especially Roman. You've got to know he's faking. In all the years you've known him, have you ever seen him get dizzy?"

Roman whimpered as he waited for Logan to change his mind. To stop with his kindness and drop Roman onto the floor, joining in with Patton and Virgil.

But no.

"I have," Logan snapped, "I have seen it, and if either of you had a speck of intelligence, you would have seen it too. Roman's been compensating his whole life, probably before he was even aware of it. Don't you remember when we were younger? Roman would always cling to the stair rail when going up and down stairs. Ever wonder why? In the kitchen, every single time I've seen Roman in the kitchen, he's leaning against the counter and gripping onto the side of it."

"If all of this is true, then- then why haven't you ever brought it up?" Virgil snapped defensively.

"It's not my business, first of all," Logan shot back, with just as much ferocity, "And second of all, Roman's a stubborn idiot. He would never admit to having a physical problem, especially because of the torture you two are subjecting him to the second he tries to do something about it! If I'd known that you two would react like this if I had a disability, then I would never tell you anything!"

"K- kiddo, that's not what happened," Patton stammered, "You've got it all mixed up! We weren't doing anything akin to torture, that's- that's such a nasty word, and-"

"Yeah? Is it nasty?" Logan asked, "Well then, consider yourselves nasty. You really thought I would beat Roman with his own cane when he's already showing signs of a concussion? He collapsed right in front of you, and you still don't believe him? It's clear that you don't care at all. And the problem is not the disability. The problem is that it's Roman who has it. You call Roman a fake? You're the ones that are faking, pretending that you care about him. If Roman has any sense in his head, then he'll never trust either of you again after today. Though knowing him...he'll likely give you a lot more mercy than you deserve."

And with that, Logan turned on his heels and marched out of the room, carrying Roman and holding his cane tightly. Roman could not speak. He could not move. Everything was fuzzy and far away, like he was being shoved farther and farther towards the center of the world's largest teddy bear. And throughout it all, his head throbbed, each pulse stronger and more agonizing than the last.

"It's alright, Roman," Logan mumbled, setting Roman down on a surface that he recognized as his bed.

Roman blinked and let out a soft noise as he felt his soft red comforter be pulled over his trembling body, and an eye mask be put over his tear-filled eyes.

"Sleep now, Roman," Logan goaded gently, "You need rest. I'll be here with you. Don't be afraid. Just let yourself sleep."

So Roman let himself sleep. And soon, the room was silent, other than Roman's soft snoring echoing off his bedroom walls.

---

When Roman woke up, his head hurt, and so did his wrist. And the very first thing he saw when he took off the eye mask was Logan's face, staring down at him with an immensely worried gaze.

"Hi," Roman said, a bit awkwardly, "What's going on?"

"Seriously...?" Logan asked dryly, "You get your cane stolen from you, you fracture your wrist and get a concussion due to Patton and Virgil's mistreatment, and the very first thing you have to say is hi? What's going on?"

"What am I supposed to do, make a royal proclamation?" Roman quipped softly, groaning as he tried to sit up. "Why did you say all that stuff to Patton and Virgil? Now they'll be mad at you. Besides, they're right. I am faking. This stupid cane was just a way for me to get attention."

Logan glared sharply down at Roman, causing the man to shrink back against his numerous pillows.

"Don't you ever say that again," he snapped, "You are not faking. And you did not make the cane to get attention. Perhaps you were looking for positive attention when it came to the decorative aspect. But you were not using your disability as a ploy or a game. Don't let the others convince you of something that is so nauseatingly untrue."

"Don't talk to me about nausea," Roman mumbled, "I feel like I'll throw up just looking at food."

"Well, that tends to happen when you're concussed," Logan replied, "But don't worry, Remus is coming back as we speak with some medication that should ease that. But we need to talk, if you're feeling up to it. We need to do something important."

"I'm up for important," Roman said, "Anything but more sleep."

"Alright," Logan said, and he picked Roman up, soon setting him down on a strange cot-like appliance.

Roman winced as he felt straps tighten around his form, keeping him tied down to the table. And he did not remember much after that. He just remembered feeling everything tilt up and down, up and down, over and over. Like a hazy, torturous roller coaster. Throughout it, Roman wondered if this was Logan's special way of punishing him. If Logan had been waiting until Roman trusted him to harm him the way Patton and Virgil wanted him to.

But when Logan was finished, he quickly unstrapped Roman, and placed him back onto the bed, waiting a few moments for Roman to reorient himself and feel well enough to listen and speak again.

"I'm sorry about that," Logan said, "But that was a tilt table test. I was monitoring your levels while moving the table, to check a theory I have about you. And I was correct, as I tend to be."

"A theory...?" Roman mumbled blearily, "What theory...?"

"Roman, it looks as if you have postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome," Logan said, "Otherwise known as POTS. This is a medical disorder that would explain your, as you describe them, dizzy spells."

"You mean...there really is something...?" Roman asked softly, "I'm not faking it...?"

"Yes," Logan said, "There is something. But even if there wasn't something, you are not and never was faking anything, Roman. Mobility aids are nothing more or less than what they are defined as. Items that aid mobility. It does not matter the medical conditions of who uses them as long as they actually help the person in question. If you were getting dizzy spells and you found that a cane helped you in day-to-day life, then whether or not you have a medical disorder, that is a valid thing you can do."

"But Patton and Virgil said-"

"Patton and Virgil are wrong," Logan said firmly, "And so is Janus. It was abundantly clear that you were not mocking or making fun of anything. You were not playing a prank. They were merely uncomfortable with the idea of you being more fragile than they expected. They didn't want to challenge their preconceived notion that you were some...invincible, endlessly strong caricature."

"Princes are supposed to be strong," Roman murmured, his eyes dimming, "Patton's right. There isn't a single prince who uses a cane."

"You are very strong, Roman," Logan protested, "Regardless of whether or not you have a cane, your physical and mental fortitude are unmatched. Why, I don't know anybody else with so much energy, even in the morning. I don't know anybody else who has the determination to live out each day the way you do. It's...astounding. It's admirable. The cane is inconsequential. All it does is help you. The amount of help you need from an inanimate stick does not determine your strength."

"Thanks, Logan," Roman said after a long moment of bewildered silence, "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"I know we have our qualms," Logan admitted, seeming a bit embarrassed, "But nobody deserves the abuse you endured. The abuse you've been enduring. You shouldn't have to hide your struggles to be treated with respect. I won't agree with you on everything, but...I'll always believe you, Roman, if you come to me with a personal problem. I trust you."

That was the only thing that Roman had wanted to hear in the whole wide world at that moment. By the time the door opened and Remus was there with medicine, Roman was crying, and Logan's eyes were a little bit teary, and Remus was admiring Roman's cane and threatening to light it on fire, the way that siblings tend to.

"I love you both," Roman sobbed, a wide, grateful smile on his face, "Thank you so much. Thank you for believing me."

---

(hee hee. yes i have pots and i am projecting onto roman. hush. also, i will be coming out with a part two on this one if i remember to, so stay tuned for that!)

[pencilpat]

I ALMOST FORGOT IT WAS DUKECEIT WEEK I AM FERAL! So! I've queued days 1-3 to post throughout today to make up for the lost time.

@dukeceit-week-2024

Here's day 1: sunflower/ocean! In which a selkie and a farmer care for each other greatly. There won't be a fic every single day but this one called to me. Janus is a harbor seal! The spots were chosen to mimic his scales hehe :)

[1,096 words]

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A boy lies barefoot on the jagged cliff rocks on the beach near his father’s home, listening to the choppy water slap itself onto them and spray him with the scent of salt. This water would drown a man instantly if he tried to swim it, carry him far below the waves to his watery grave. It’s very dangerous a spot. To a man, at least. He is waiting, watching, to see if his visitor will come to him today. As he gazes, far in the distance, he notices a small grey speck against the green of the water, observing him as well.

He sits up with a massive grin splitting his lips, his fingers clutching onto the gift he brought. No matter how much he trusts his visitor, his family has driven into him deeply the knowledge that you must always offer a gift to the fae to stay in their good graces. The grey, speckled coat of his visitor dives back beneath the waves, gone for a moment before surfacing right at the rockface. The seal barks at him, and the boy laughs with delight, waving vigorously. “Hi, hi! You came to see me again!”

The face of the seal splits in an invisible seam, and falls to the sides like a hood to reveal the speckled face of a man. “Hello, farmer boy,” he chirps at him, treading water the rest of the way to the rock before pulling himself up. His reddish hair is soaked through with brine, and he smells of pure ocean, of places that man will never go.

“Janus!” the boy proclaims as he scoots towards him, hesitantly reaching out to touch his shoulder, avoiding his coat entirely. “It’s gotten so cold lately, I thought for certain your kind went out with the seals to warm water, don’t they?” He brushes wind blown hair out of his own face with frustration, to which Janus reaches up and holds his hair back for him with a coy grin.

“I don’t share secrets of migration, Remus. One slip of your tongue and you’d have my kind hunted for sport even in our safest spots.”

Remus pouts at him visibly. “I wouldn’t do that! Don’t be silly!”

Janus laughs, showing off his mouth of very inhuman teeth, made to eat fish and oysters rather than the soft cooked vegetables and meats that Remus’s family consumes. “You’re a human, and they are very bad at slipping up. Both on rocks and with their words. That’s why my kind avoid you, or at least one cause.” Janus’s gaze is caught by something in Remus’s opposite hand, and his dark eyes fixate on the bright colour instantly with barely restrained interest. “What gift did you bring me?”

Remus’s smile widens even more, his eyes raking over Janus’s curious face with fondness. “It’s a flower! You remember the coral you brought me, the bright yellow stuff? This is almost the same colour, isn’t it?”

“It is…” Janus says, greedy hands reaching for it, only for Remus to swipe it away playfully. He jumps up and dances backwards across the rock towards the shore.

“Nope, not getting it that easy, seal boy!~” he shouts teasingly.

 Janus lets out an indignant huffing sound and stands, not chasing him outright but obviously following him across the rock and sand. “Farmer, just give me my gift! What is this?”

“We’re playing! Er, I know it’s not exactly how seals play but-“ Remus cuts himself off as Janus's eyes darken and glimmer, a grin breaking his lips apart.

“Oh, playing, huh?” He gets into a hunched pose as if he’s going to charge at Remus. “Get over here and I’ll drown your ass, ‘playing,’ c’mere!” And then he does charge him. Remus shrieks out a delighted laugh and begins running through the shallow water right at the sand, Janus’s sloshing footsteps right behind him. As they get closer and closer, Remus suddenly turns around on him and begins running towards him instead.

Janus yelps, but doesn’t have time to course correct in any way, so Remus catches him and swoops him up into the air in his arms, whooping victoriously and swinging him in a circle as Janus barks at him in surprise. “You idiot, put me down!” he laughs. “I’ll curse your entire bloodline for this, slaoiste!” Janus swears at him, jokingly beating at his back until Remus settles down and just holds him there in place, the two laughing together with locked eyes as the freezing ocean pelts their legs.

Remus sets his companion down again after a moment, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You can have it now, here,” he says, brushing back Janus’s hair and resting the flower on the top of his inhuman ear steadily. “There we go, beautiful.”

Janus smiles at him, a quite genuine one for once, reaching up to touch the petals and finding them to be incredibly delicate. He gazes over Remus sadly, huffing. “I do have to go for winter, to somewhere warmer. I won’t be able to come see you until at least spring.”

“You could stay here, with me! On land? That offer obviously will always stand, you know, right?” Remus tries to mask his sudden engulfing sadness with a hopeful smile, but Janus’s face only falls further.

“I can’t, Remus,” he says, subconsciously clutching on tightly to his coat. He knows Remus wouldn’t steal it by now, but every time Remus asks him to stay, the stories his people tell of the inescapable love spell fill his mind with fear. “I’m not a land creature. I don’t belong here, with you. At least not all of the time.” Janus looks at the ground to avoid the crushed face Remus makes at him. “I’m sorry.”

Remus shakes his head. “No, don’t be, please. I get it, you know?” No one wants me enough to stay forever, no matter what I do, he finishes the thought in his mind. He takes in a deep breath to steady himself. “You promise you’ll be back, in spring?”

“Yes, farmer boy.”

Remus holds up his pinky. Janus tilts his head with confusion, looking him up and down. Remus chuckles. “It’s a pinky promise! We shake pinkies, and that makes it an extra solid promise.”

Janus laughs, but he reaches up and shakes their little fingers together soundly. “Okay, Remus. How silly. It’s a pinky promise.” He releases him, and turns to face the sea, clutching at the hood of his coat. He steps further into the water, breathing in the salt and brine of his home. He can see other seals in the far distance, no doubt someone curious coming to find him. “Well… I have to go.” He looks back to his human, shooting him a sad smile. “I’ll see you again. Pinky promise.”

“Pinky promise,” Remus whispers, waving his selkie off with a forlorn smile and eyes as wet as the sea.

[edupunkn00b]

Fanfic Reblog Party 🥳

In all seriousness (and complaints about our Beloved Hellsite’s ™️ busted excuse for search aside), I’m not seeing a lot of stories on my dash. Like none.

Wonderful writers, please reblog your stories and tag me. Old stories, new stories, links to AO3 or big fancy Tumblr posts, reblog and tag me and I’ll reblog. And then more people can reblog those and…

Let’s get this party started!

[part-time-zombie]

Not Bad

pairings: platonic dukexiety

summary: Virgil liked to sing, but refuses to do so after realizing no one likes hearing him sing. Well, almost no one...

tags: warnings: hurt/comfort, roman is kind of a jerk at the start, remus is a good friend

word count: 1970

A/N: The first part of this takes place before Accepting Anxiety and Virgil's name reveal, so Virgil is referred to as Anxiety at the start.

Anxiety didn’t like showing up for very long, and for good reason. It had been made very clear to him that he wasn’t welcome, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t care. He was only doing his job, just like everyone else, and even if they weren’t always on the same page he hoped that they’d at least understand that even if they didn’t respect it.

They sure as hell didn’t respect him, anyway.

He wasn’t trying to bother them this time, he was just hoping to grab a quick bite of food and he’d leave again. By the looks of it, they were all more than fine with that, as they tried their best to ignore him as he quickly slinked into the kitchen in search of a snack.

He had come prepared, of course, with his headphones already blasting his playlist loud enough to drown out even Roman’s own dramatic singing. He always found a way to insult Anxiety when he felt like he was being an issue, and he wasn’t about to hear any of it if he didn’t have to.

He perused the snacks in the kitchen while the others busied themselves in the living room, and it seemed they were actually going to leave him alone this time. Letting himself feel emboldened by the thought, Anxiety took his time, quietly humming along to the music under his breath.

It was one of his favorite songs to listen to, one he’d sing along to on occasion when he was alone. There was just something about it that cheered him up a little, and he always felt better hearing it.

Eventually he found something that looked appetizing enough, and he gingerly walked back to the stairs with his snack in tow, not even aware that he was still humming along.

Roman, meanwhile, was very much aware.

“Geez, Anxiety, if you were gonna make us listen to your edgy music you could’ve at least let the actual band play it,” he teased from his spot on the couch. “Or better yet, let me do the singing around here. At least I’m actually good at it.”

Anxiety whipped around to face him, pulling the headphones down around his shoulders. He had already heard Roman loud and clear, thanks to an unfortunately timed lull in the music, but he was hoping he didn’t properly hear what he thought Roman had just said. “What?”

“I’m just saying, music isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

“Roman, be nice,” Patton interrupted, much to Anxiety’s relief.

Roman didn’t listen or let up. “What? I’m just being honest. He’s got a bad singing voice, is all.”

“Technically, there aren’t any ‘bad’ singing voices, only untrained ones,” Logan added.

“Alright, fine, he’s got an ‘untrained’ singing voice, it still sounds bad either way.”

Anxiety felt his face twist into a defensive scowl. It was only humming. He wasn’t even singing any actual lyrics, for crying out loud. Sure, he’s no professional, but Roman didn’t have the right to go and say something like that out of nowhere, especially not when Anxiety and the others have been letting him sing his own lungs out plenty of times.

Then again, that was Roman. He’s the prince, the fan favorite. Anxiety is just… Anxiety. He’s the villain, the problem. Why would they go easy on him? It’s not like they have any reason to, they sure as hell don’t like him. Now they have something else to taunt and torment him about all because he was stupid enough to drop his guard. It just so happens that this something is much more personal to him, and it’s gonna hurt a lot more later on.

It already hurt badly enough now.

Anxiety stormed back upstairs and kept his door firmly shut behind him, turning the music up even louder than before in the hopes that it would drown out the cutting words that had already made their way into his head. The music kept playing, but Anxiety wasn’t singing along anymore.

Virgil slouched at the kitchen table, quietly picking at his cooling breakfast. No one else was in the kitchen with him, much to his relief, as the others had all already finished their food and were busy carrying on with the rest of their morning routines.

Not anymore, never again.

The food was alright, he just wasn’t feeling hungry. Last night had been rather rough for him, and right now all he wanted to do was curl back up in bed and sleep for the rest of the day. Of course, he couldn’t do that. There was plenty of stuff he had to do today, and he knew that if he went back to bed he’d only stress himself out even further about it.

Sighing to himself, he put on his headphones and started up his playlist. It had gone through plenty of changes through the years, with plenty of songs being added and a few dropped, but it still helped him get out of any slump he found himself in, even one as small as this.

He pressed play and let the opening chords of his favorite song fill his ears, already relaxing into the familiar melody as he finished his breakfast.

The music continued to play as he cleaned his finished dishes in the sink, with the playlist eventually landing on Forbidden Fruit. Virgil almost thought to change it, still unsure as to why or how it was even on his playlist to begin with, but he just sighed and let it play out. His hands were still covered in soapy water, and it would be too much of a hassle to dry himself off and fish his phone out of his pocket just to skip one song. Besides, he had to admit it was pretty catchy.

The rhythm worked its way into his head, and Virgil found himself idly humming along as he finished the final dish. He dried his hands on a towel and turned back to the kitchen table, only to nearly jump out of his skin when he saw Remus crouched over it and staring at him with a wide grin.

“Holy shit, Remus, what the hell are you doing?” he gasped, pulling his headphones away from his ears and taking a few deep breaths. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, y’know that?”

“You were singing my song,” he replied, his smile only growing wider.

Virgil’s heart leapt into his throat, and he felt like kicking himself as the realization and shame set in. He had gone and done it again, exposing his dismal lack of talent in another moment of weakness. It’s like he didn’t learn his lesson the first time. “Shit, yeah. Just forget about it, okay? Sorry.”

Remus quirked his head to the side, replacing his grin with a confused pout. “For what?”

Virgil shrugged, only feeling even more awkward. “I dunno, for humming too loudly, I guess. It’s probably pretty annoying, and I bet I only ruined it.”

Remus made a face before jumping from the table. “I don’t think you ruined it. If anything, I’d say you made it better.”

“Yeah, right. That’s just because you’ve got bad taste,” Virgil scoffed.

Remus crossed his arms, expression smug. “If my taste is so bad, why were you singing my song?”

Virgil didn’t have a response to that one.

“Whatever, just leave it alone, alright?” he grumbled, quickly sliding past Remus and out of the kitchen. He wasn’t dealing with this again. Once was enough.

“I can’t just leave it alone,” Remus called after him. “How can I leave it alone when this is the first time I’ve heard you sing in years?”

Virgil stopped and slowly turned to face him. Remus looked sincere, almost concerned. At least, that’s what it looked like, but Remus never feels concerned about anything, least of all Virgil.

“You used to sing all the time back then,” he continued, taking a few steps closer. “It was so awesome hearing you having fun like that, why’d you ever stop?”

Virgil shuffled in place, not looking at Remus. He had heard him? Virgil thought he was safe when he would sing, but Remus was listening this whole time? How much had he overheard before Virgil stopped, and how much did he laugh about with Janus or Roman?

“I didn’t think you’d hear me,” he muttered, nervously fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. “You don’t need to tell me how stupid it was, I know it sounds bad.”

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment, and Virgil looked up at him to see what was going on. His face was slack with confusion and an unreadable emotion.

“Who told you that?” he asked, voice frighteningly low. “Who convinced you that you shouldn’t sing because they’re too stupid to realize how awesome it is?”

Virgil took a step back, almost repelled by Remus’ stare. “Look, it’s no big deal, alright? I know I suck at singing, it’s just a fact.”

“Hell no,” Remus snapped, stepping forward and forcing the distance between them to close. “I loved listening to you sing, and if someone went and made you feel like shit for it then they’re in for a fucking fight!”

Virgil froze, not only because he was very sure Remus would follow through with his threat even if it would be towards his own brother, but also because of what he had said just before it.

“You… like it when I sing?”

Remus scoffed in disbelief, and Virgil worried for a moment that this was all just another joke.

“Of course I fucking like it! There’s a reason I always let you pick the music, and it wasn’t just because you’ve got awesome taste, which you totally do by the way.” He said with another grin.

Virgil narrowed his eyes, searching Remus’ face for any signs of a lie or trick and finding none. This wasn’t Janus he was talking to after all, it was Remus, and Remus always spoke his mind no matter what was on it. When he said something rude it was because he meant it, but the same goes for if he said anything nice.

“You really mean that?”

Remus gave him another smile. “I don’t know which part you’re talking about, but yeah I did.”

Virgil felt himself returning the smile, albeit more subtly. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t sweat it. I just hope this means you’re gonna start singing again, I really do miss it.”

“You know I’m not the karaoke type.”

Remus shrugged. “Maybe you should be. You’re definitely good enough, if you ask me.”

That’s not exactly what Roman told him back then, but he’s been wrong before. He’s actually been wrong about a lot of things, and really so has Virgil. They both thought that it had to be right vs wrong, but Roman hadn’t always been very good, and right now Remus wasn’t being all that bad.

Virgil couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at that realization.

“What’s got you laughing like that?” Remus asked, leaning in far too close to get a good look at the grin that was starting to form on Virgil’s face.

“It’s nothing, just thought of something,” he explained, trying and failing to force the smile away.

“And you won’t tell me?”

“Nope. You wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Remus gave him an exaggerated pout, but Virgil just shook his head and headed back upstairs. He adjusted the headphones back over his ears and let the next song play, this time humming along even louder than before.

Singing really was something personal to Virgil, something special. It made him feel more confident and hopeful on his darker days, and if Remus at the very least liked it, then maybe it isn’t that bad.

taglist:

@keitaisghost @rougeside4 @britt-ish123 @new-zee-land @nico-the-overlord @can-i-take-a-stab @oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat @lio-the-chaotic-nonbeanie-weenie @yuckypuppie

[dndeceit]

Fander Fic Rec Friday (#8)

Halloween Hangover Edition

(Scary, Soft, Sad, and Silly Sides stories to finish off Spooky Season.)

The Is There Anything Left of Patton? series by Adrianainthesnow Post-Apocalypse/Zombie AU (Logicality) Rating: T When Virgil takes shelter from the apocalypse with Logan in his home, he soon learns that the man's late husband is haunting it in more than a metaphorical sense. Notes: I'm an absolute sucker for more hopeful zombie stories, and this is one of my absolute favorite series in that vein. This one starts out heart-wrenchingly sad, but the ending, while bittersweet, is well worth the trek you take to get there.

The iZombie AU by soysaucevictim iZombie AU (Prinxiety, Dukeceit, Intrulogical) Rating: NR It seemed like such a noble cause when he got recruited to the fight against the undead, brain-eating monsters lurking among them. At least until Roman's first target turns out to be his own estranged brother. Notes: Look, more zombies. There's so much in this series. It's morbid and emotional and actiony, dark in some places and funny at others, sometimes both at once, and overall just fantastic.

The Monstrous Roomates series by Willowanderer Supernatural AU (LAMP, Remile) Rating: T-M The interconnected stories of a paranormal polycule and their baffled and baffling ghostly roommate, Thomas. Notes: A long-running series of stories across several eras focused on a universe built around the Sides' monstersonas from Embarrassing Phases, and one that wrings absolutely everything possible out of its premise. At turns funny, fluffy, suspensful and heartbreaking.

Mold by FlowerMeat Canonverse (Gen) Rating: T Something is slowly taking hold of Roman: an infection, an itch that no amount of scratching seems to satisfy... Notes: A very different (and delightfully gruesome) take on how how Remus came to be. Very creepy, very fun (well, not for Roman).

From Time Immemorial by DramaticGarbage Vampire/Soulmate AU (LAMP) Rating: G At the rate at which his timer is moving, Logan doubts he'll ever get the chance to meet his soulmate... That is, until he is attacked one night and suddenly finds that he has all the time in the world to wait. Notes: A softly spooky, romantic story about four soulmates born centuries apart.

Monkey's Paw by alicat54c Canonverse (Gen) Rating: M Remus gets to make five wishes on a monkey's paw to change Thomas's mind to his liking. Notes: A very Remus twist on a classic horror story.

Under the Moon by Iceshard1011 Werewolf AU (Intrulogical, Anxceit, eventual Prinxceit) Rating: T When Remus is bitten by a werewolf, Roman's loyalty is put to the test. With no idea who to listen to and who to trust, he finds himself on the run with his brother, trapped in an endless chase to keep his brother alive. Notes: Or, Roman and Remus's Nightmare Fugitive Roadtrip. This one is a ride, packed beginning to end with suspense, anguish, betrayal and (eventually) forgiveness.

on crimson nights like this by AndTheyreOnFire Supernatural AU (DRLAMP) Rating: T Roman is a werewolf, tired of feeling like a burden to his partners and his brother. The ritual he finds when they search a haunted house one night could hold the answers he's looking for... Notes: Some spooky hurt/comfort with a softly happy ending.

The Creature Under The Bed series by MagpieMorality Supernatural AU (Intruality) Rating: T Remus is a demonic gremlin creature that has fallen madly in love with Patton. And, when Patton is thrown into danger, Remus is willing to fight both the Light above and the Dark below to earn their happy ending. Notes: Utterly strange, cute and terrifying and weirdly romantic.

Unlikely Hero by LeftoverParadox Canonverse (Gen) Rating: E A dangerous entity is unleashed within Thomas's mind: a side calling itself "Reflection", but known to the dark sides as the Mirrorman. When the others disregard Janus's warnings, it falls to Remus to save his fellow sides from themselves. Notes: Not the traditional horror story, but still very effectively terrifying. The Mirrorman is one of the most disturbing and memorable OC sides I've read.

Monster AU by Tapper_PlushieMama Supernatural AU (DRLAMP) Rating: M Logan discovers five men living together under a monstrous curse. Unable to tell him the details of how they were cursed or how to break it, it's up to Logan to try to unravel the puzzle at hand. Notes: Or, Logan gets to solve a mystery and wins himself five boyfriends in the process.

The Night Fellow by Miranda_tries_their_best Cryptid AU (Gen) Rating: T Logan goes in search of the mysterious local cryptid known as the Night Fellow. Notes: Spooky fluff. Cryptid!Virgil somehow manages to be both terrifying and adorable.

Loop by blue_toothache Ghost AU (Gen) Rating: T Logan is the only tenant on the top floor of his apartment building. Or, at least, he thought he was until recently... Notes: A very effectively haunting ghost AU. The rest of the series is also good, but this first fic stands so well on its own.

Afraid of the Dark by Giantsketches Supernatural AU (Intrumoceit) Rating: T So badly afraid of the dark that it's disrupting his sleep, Patton is talked into buying a nightlight. But maybe what hides in the darkness isn't actually all that frightening. Notes: A short, cute fic about cuddling shadow monsters. The adorable artwork is an added treat.

WIPs

Far From Boring by Hoard_of_hyperfixations Post-Apocalypse/Zombie AU (Dukeceit) Rating: M Remus is a zombie with (slightly) more brains than most, and just enough luck to run into the one survivor curious enough not to simply shoot him on sight (and with morals just loose enough to keep his ravenous new companion properly fed). Notes: Yet more zombies. Featuring traumatic family reunions and the glorious indignity that is Remus's embarrassing post-mortem crush on Janus.

Vultures by FlowerMeat Serial Killer AU (Gen) Rating: M The sides are a tightly-knit group of serial killers, each with their own unique methods, and all willing to help the others cover up their crimes. Note: This one is super dark, but still each side's particular MO feels so uniquely them. Patton's chapter in particular is something I'm not likely to forget any time soon...

[ironwoman359]

Our Own Villain Ch. 9

Prologue, Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.7, Ch.8, Ch.9, Ch.10

Word Count: 5,570

Chapter Summary: Everything Roman has worked for threatens to crumble around him as Logan puts his plan to save his friends into motion.

Pairings: Logicality, could be read as romantic or platonic, platonic Moxiety

Chapter Warnings: Anxiety, guilt, isolation and anger, overworking, fantasy violence, just generally unhealthy thought patterns going on for Roman.

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

AN: IT'S HERE! As always, I cannot post this story without acknowledging the incredible @theinvisiblespoon, who helped me edit this and resulted in over 400 extra words of flavor for this chapter. They're the absolute best! Also, shout out to @teacupfulofstarshine for helping me get over some writers block with a few of these passages, she's an absolute darling <3

— — —

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

The captain of the guard bowed low before Roman, a faint tremor in his posture betraying his nerves.

“I’ve had my men up all night, searching the city from top to bottom,” the captain continued, “but there’s been no sign of the fugitive.” 

The man kept his head low, glancing tentatively up at Roman who paced back and forth across the floor of the throne room, arms crossed across his chest. He barely noticed the captain’s discomfort, lost entirely in thought. 

Where could Logan be? There was no way he could have left the Imagination, so how had the guards not found him yet? Roman supposed he could have snuck out of the city somehow, but there was nothing for him out there but wilderness, and it was cruel, even for Logan, to run away without even trying to rescue Patton and Virgil. No, he had to be hidden somewhere, somewhere that he thought was clever enough to escape Roman’s notice. 

“Keep searching, Captain,” he ordered. “He must be somewhere in the city. Perhaps he has enlisted the help of one of the townspeople and is being kept out of sight. Issue a decree that anyone found to be harboring criminals will face charges of treason. I want every-”

“Your Highness!” a new guard burst into the room, and Roman spun around with a glare. 

“What is it now? Are you men so utterly incompetent that you’re incapable of following the most simple of commands? I said that I was not to be disturbed!”

“It’s just, your highness,” the guard stammered, cowering in the face of Roman’s rage. “There’s an attack at the gates–” 

“What on earth makes you think I care about the gates right now?” Roman exclaimed. “There is a traitor loose in the city, corrupting the people and conspiring against me. Nothing at the gates could possibly be more important than finding–”

A roar pierced the air, and Roman went rigid, his hand automatically gripping the hilt of his sword. 

“Dragon Witch,” he hissed, and the guard nodded frantically. 

“She was spotted flying down from the mountains, your highness. The gate guard sent me to warn of her attack.” 

Roman slammed his fist down on the table. 

“Of course she would strike now, when we are distracted and unprepared. Captain, send criers through the streets to order your men to mobilize at the main gate. And bring me my armor! We must not let her take the city!” 

The soldiers scrambled from the room, and for a moment, Roman stood alone. After everything he’d done, everything he’d worked for, he now was faced with this. His oldest and strongest enemy, coming to challenge him when he was at his weakest. Did she think he would simply cave before her might? He was Roman, Prince of the Imagination, Thomas’s Hero, the last bastion of goodness left for the entire mindscape. He wouldn’t be overthrown by a mere construct. He laughed to himself. No one was around to hear it.

The next several minutes were a flurry of activity, and soon Roman was on his horse, his silver breastplate glinting in the first red rays of sunrise poking over the horizon as he cantered through the city streets.  

The thought of Logan somehow escaping the city during the battle briefly crossed his mind, but he pushed the idea away. They would find the logical side eventually; after all, there was nowhere for him to run. 

Outside the city wall, the Dragon Witch let out another roar, and Roman urged his horse forward, drawing his sword. 

Right now, Logan didn’t matter. 

What did matter was making sure that his realm did not fall. He was Roman, Creativity, creator of this realm and Prince of the mindscape. He was a hero, the only hero Thomas had left after all the others had fallen prey to the wicked machinations of those accursed Dark Sides. 

And nothing, not the others, not the Dragon Witch, nothing, was going to stand in his way.

— — — 

Screams rang out through the streets as another of the Dragon Witch’s roars shook the city. Seth pressed himself up against the wall of the alleyway, peering out from behind a corner. The palace drawbridge lowered and Prince Roman and his guards in full armor appeared. The thunder of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone and with the blare of the soldiers’ warhorns echoed all around Seth, and he ducked out of the way as the battalion rode past his hiding spot. 

The market was quickly emptying as merchants and shoppers fled the streets, and he intended to take full advantage of the chaos. Now that he had secured a place by the square, he hoped to pilfer enough foodstuffs from the merchants to be set for at least a week. Seth waited until the last terrified shopkeeper had disappeared from sight, then he crept out from the alleyway into the square. 

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly pulled him back into the shadows. He spun with a cry, his fists up in an instant ready to strike, but he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw who had attacked him. 

“Maddie?”

“We had a deal, Seth,” the girl said, glaring at him. 

“But I saw you…the Arachnids…”

“Show me the servant’s entrance, please,” Maddie interrupted, folding her arms. 

“What, now? We’re in the middle of a siege! Come on, let’s comb through the market and see if we can get any–” 

“Seth, if you don’t show me that servant’s entrance right now, I will ensure that you spend every waking moment for the rest of your life fighting tooth and nail for that market spot. I said it was yours once you showed me the entrance, and unless you take me right this second–” 

“Okay, okay!” Seth said, raising his hands in surrender. “Sheesh, Maddie, what’s gotten into you?” 

“It is vitally important that I gain access to the palace. The reason why doesn’t concern you,” Maddie said as Seth led her up the street towards the palace walls. 

Luckily, the entire city guard had ridden out to the gates with the Prince to fight the Dragon Witch, and the barred gate where Seth met his contact on the palace staff stood unprotected. 

“There’s a door on the other side of the garden that the servants use,” he said, pointing through the courtyard. “Though I don’t know why that would matter to you, it’s not like you could get in. There are easier places to steal food from, especially since the city is under attack right now?” 

Maddie didn’t bother answering, she just pushed past him and pulled experimentally on the gate. It was locked and didn’t budge, but she didn’t seem put off by that fact. 

“Thank you, Seth. Our deal is complete. The spot by the market is yours. Now, I suggest you take cover; as you so aptly pointed out, the city is under attack.” 

“What about you?” Seth asked.

“I have something I need to do,” Maddie answered, pulling a small glass vial from her dress pocket. She uncorked the bottle and poured a few drops of its contents on the gate’s lock, and Seth stared in awe as the metal melted away like ice on a summer’s day. 

“Now go,” Maddie ordered. “I’ll explain later…if we ever manage to resolve this whole ordeal.” 

Part of Seth wanted to stay and see what on earth the girl was up to, but just then the very sky seemed to explode, bright purple lightning and blue streaks of light flashing all around as the ground shook. Seth became overwhelmed with nausea, and he fell to his knees, retching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maddie still standing, seemingly unaffected by whatever strange spell had caused the world to fall apart around them. He tried to call out to her, but she slipped through the gate and disappeared into the palace grounds before he could force his mouth to form words.

As soon as it began, the lightning stopped, and after a moment of gasping, Seth regained his bearings. He looked at the open palace gate, but then another roar rang out, and he turned and ran back through the city towards his new market spot. Maybe after he scavenged what food he could, he’d risk the gangs and take cover in the sewers until this was all over. Whatever had Maddie acting all weird, he didn’t want to know about it. He’d have a hard enough time surviving the Red Sun as it was. 

The Dragon Witch’s roar echoed through the streets and Seth stumbled as he skidded around a corner. 

When would this madness end?

— — — 

“Prince Roman!” the Dragon Witch called out, her voice reverberating through the city. “Show yourself and face me!” 

She hurled a spell at the city walls, and they buckled and folded beneath the weight of her magic. She stretched out her wings and roared, the very sound of her fury sending a squad of guards who were approaching to draw back in fear. A few of the gate guards tried to stand their ground, but she batted them away easily with a swing of her tail. 

Slowly, she stalked into the city, giving the peasants in the streets plenty of time to run screaming from her mighty presence. The slower and more dramatic she was in her approach, the more time it would give Prince Roman to muster his entire guard and ride out to face her. 

After a few minutes of her lazy destruction, the sound of battle horns rang out in the distance, and the Dragon Witch smiled. Looking up, she caught sight of Prince Roman’s black and red banner fluttering in the breeze, signaling that her quarry was coming within her grasp.

“Ready, little hero?” she asked quietly. She felt the grip of the human sitting on her back tighten. 

“As I’ll ever be,” came the answer, and the Dragon Witch chuckled. 

“Don’t worry,” she reassured. “Just stick to the script we practiced and you’ll be fine.” 

Prince Roman came into view then, and she had to give him credit where it was due. Even in this mindset, when the very fabric of her reality was changed because of his pain and anger and frustration, he was personally leading the charge against her. How many tyrant kings would send their armies out to die in a battle that they wouldn’t dare to risk themselves?

He wants so badly to be good, she thought as the prince stared up at her, his face twisted in a look of disgust. Not just good. Perfect. If only he could see the truth. 

“So it comes down to this!” Roman called up in a loud, clear voice. “I have to admit, I didn’t think you capable of this level of betrayal, Logan.”

He spat the name out like it was poison, and the Dragon Witch felt her passenger tense. 

You can do this, little hero, she thought. Save us all. 

“Prince Roman!” Logan’s voice was firm and unwavering, and the Dragon Witch couldn’t help the small swell of pride she felt at the sound. 

“Release your prisoners and surrender, or see your realm destroyed!” 

— — — 

Roman stared up in disbelief as the Dragon Witch sneered down at him. Of all the possible outcomes, of all the ways that he’d expected a confrontation with the last remaining free Light Side to go, he’d never expected this. 

Logan sat on the Dragon Witch’s back, staring down at Roman with a determined expression on his face. He looked almost comical, in his simple polo shirt, tie, and glasses while riding atop such a majestic and mighty beast, but Roman wasn’t in the mood to find humor in the situation. 

“Release my prisoners?” Roman repeated. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, we will destroy the realm,” Logan repeated simply. 

“If you think that I and my forces won’t be able to defeat the Dragon Witch before she destroys the city, let alone the realm, then you’re sorely mistaken.” 

Logan frowned, tilting his head. 

“You would risk your entire world’s existence, rather than accept defeat?”

“I’ve not been defeated yet!” Roman shot back. “Besides, I made this world. If it is destroyed, then I will simply make it again. Your threat is meaningless!”

“And the lives of the people living in it?” Logan demanded. “Are they meaningless too?”

Roman opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, the world split apart. Purple lightning filled the sky, and he let out a cry of anguish as a wave of emotion slammed into the walls he’d placed up between his realm and Thomas. 

There was the same fear and anxiety from Virgil as there had been before, but there was also sadness, doubt, and guilt, manifesting in bright blue flashes throughout the storm. The guilt was somehow even more debilitating than the fear, and as he fought to keep the emotions from reaching Thomas, he could feel his grip on the realm itself slipping. 

No… he thought, desperately trying to hold on to his composure. No, no, no… 

— — — 

It has to be perfect. If it’s not perfect, then I’m just a fraud, I’ve basically been lying to my fans this entire time, and I can’t let that be true, I won’t let them down like that, it has to be perfect.

Thomas let out a gasp as his creative flow slammed to a halt, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread. 

“It will be good enough,” he said aloud to his empty room, but the swirling thoughts of dread and despair only grew stronger. 

But what if it isn’t? What if you’ll never make anything worth watching again and all the sacrifices you’ve made, all the friendships you’ve harmed along the way, all of that will have been for nothing? Your dreams will never come true and your friends will all abandon you. You’ve never really been that good a person anyway, why on earth would they stay? You’ll end up all alone for the rest of your life, and it will be your fault.

“What is going on?” 

Thomas started to reach out for his sides, but he wasn’t sure who exactly to summon. Who could be responsible for this type of thinking? He’d never felt like this before, as though his thoughts were being forcibly pulled out of his control, except…

Except for that time when Virgil had ducked out. He hadn’t been as aware of it, but his thoughts had felt just like this: foreign and strange and fully divorced from what he was directly experiencing.

Thomas frowned, and decided that the best thing to do would be to summon all the sides together. He started to reach out with his mind, but before he could contact anyone specific, somebody appeared in the corner of his vision. 

Unfortunately, it was the last side he wanted to see. 

“Janus?” he asked. “What are you doing? What’s going on?”

“I think you should take a break, Thomas,” Janus said quietly. “Put the laptop away and try to get some rest.”

“What? No,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “I need to keep working on this, it’s my best idea ever. It could completely change the course of my creative career, I just have to get these feelings under control and then I’ll–” 

“Thomas,” Janus interrupted sharply. “You’ve been working for fifteen hours straight.” 

Thomas glanced at the time on his laptop and was startled to see that Janus was right; it was nearly three in the morning, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d stopped to take a break. 

“You need to stop,” Janus said, his voice firm. “Your magnum opus can wait until tomorrow.” 

“I guess…” Thomas said slowly. “But what’s going on with the others? I felt…strange, just now.” 

“Get some sleep,” Janus said. “If everything goes right, you’ll feel better in the morning.” 

Thomas frowned, giving Janus a skeptical look. 

“Is that my Deceitful side lying to me, or is it the truth?”

“At the end of the day, does that really matter?” Janus asked with a tight smile. “Either way, you need the rest.” 

“I suppose,” Thomas said, stifling a yawn even as he spoke. 

Janus watched as he closed his laptop and got up, a strange expression on his face. Thomas tried not to pay him much attention, quickly swapping his jeans out for some pajama pants before falling into bed. 

“Summon the others tomorrow,” Janus said as Thomas closed his eyes. “By then, they should have things straightened out.”

Thomas was already drifting off, and he felt more than heard Janus’s final words. 

“I hope.”

— — — 

Roman was losing his control. He looked up, and he could see the imagination around him beginning to crumble away. He noticed bits and pieces from his room, the bright white of his bedspread, the shine of the lights around his mirror, the blood red of his sash where he’d thrown it on the floor. The fantasy around him– his soldiers, his city, the Dragon Witch, even Logan himself– it was all flickering in and out of existence as the mental barrage continued. 

“NO!” 

Roman stopped trying to channel the emotions away and instead closed his eyes and pushed, forcing his mental walls back up, stronger and better than before. 

“You won’t take this from me!”  

He opened his eyes, only to see that the outburst of energy had reverted the Dragon Witch into her human form. She stood before him, leaning heavily against her magic staff, Logan now on his hands and knees at her side. Roman drew his sword, pointing it at the pair with a shaking hand. 

“You. Can’t. Take this from me!” 

Logan’s entire body was trembling, but he looked up and met Roman’s gaze, glaring at him even as a tear rolled down his cheek.

“You’re insane,” he whispered. 

Roman let out a bitter, hollow laugh.

“If you just now figured that out, then you’re…” he trailed off, looking down at the shaking side. 

He had begun to fade away as Roman’s control over the imagination loosened, but he was fully solid again now. His breath was ragged and his skin was pale, as though he’d just attempted to run a marathon while running a fever.  

“You’re…not part of this realm,” Roman said slowly. “You’re part of Thomas. You shouldn’t have disappeared.” 

Logan still looked ill, but at Roman’s words he pushed himself to his feet. 

“What was that word he used?” Logan asked, looking over at the Dragon Witch, and a small, triumphant smile spread across his face as he looked back to Roman. “Checkmate.”

Roman’s eyes widened, then the Dragon Witch lashed out suddenly, her staff glowing as she swung it towards him in a wide arc. Roman threw his sword up and blocked her strike, and her spell went ricocheting off through the city.

For a moment, all his attention was on the fight, on blocking and parrying and counter attacking, but he’d sparred with the Dragon Witch dozens of times, in both of her forms. By the third strike from the witch, he’d settled into a familiar rhythm, and turned his attention back to Logan…or what he’d thought was Logan.

“Who are you?” he shrieked. “You can’t be him! He shouldn’t have disappeared! So you must be–” 

“Meaningless?” asked a voice he’d never heard before.

Roman pushed the Dragon Witch away and took a step back, staring in disbelief as Logan’s form began to flicker, just like the rest of the imagination had, just like all the other characters Roman had designed to fill his vast fantasy world had done when he was losing his control over the scene. But he was back in control now; this shifting had another cause. He’d barely had enough time to form the thought before the image of Logan was gone. 

In his place stood a barefoot girl in a tattered dress, her hair a wild mass of curls and her fists clenched at her sides. She looked somehow…familiar, and Roman tilted his head. 

“Do I know you?” 

The girl didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. He remembered now, for the longer he looked at her the more he recognized where she’d come from. When he’d first created the town surrounding the castle, he’d decided it needed citizens to make it feel more lived in. He’d made soldiers, peasants, shopkeepers, tradesmen and artisans, and then, to make the place more realistic, he’d made a handful of street urchins. 

He’d scarcely given the creations any thought after forming them and setting them loose in the city, and why would he? They weren’t meant to be important; the girl had no family, no backstory, no real role to play in his realm. So how on earth had she ended up here, fighting alongside the Dragon Witch and impersonating one of Thomas’s sides?

She looked up at him and he could see fear in her eyes, but there was a quiet strength too. The girl folded her arms and took a step towards him, and the Dragon Witch held out an arm, as if to shield her.

“Careful, little hero,”she murmured, and Roman looked back and forth between the two in disbelief. The girl ignored the witch and took another step, looking up at Roman with a determined expression.

“Like I said,” she repeated. “Checkmate.”

Roman turned and ran, knowing even as he did so that he’d never make it back to the palace in time. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should have known something was wrong! Why else would the Dragon Witch attack now when she’d never attacked during the Red Sun before? Why else, except to draw him and all his guards away from the palace, leaving the castle vulnerable to an unseen enemy, a more crafty enemy… 

A shadow fell over him, and he glanced up as he ran to see the witch in her dragon form flying along above him, the little girl on her back once more. She quickly overtook him, and landed in the market square, spreading her wings out and blocking his path to the castle. 

“You’re too late, Prince Roman,” the Dragon Witch declared.

“I’ve defeated you before,” Roman cried, shifting into a fighting stance. “I can defeat you again!”

“You can defeat me all you like,” the Dragon Witch replied, her mocking voice echoing his own inner thoughts. “But you’ll never be able to outsmart him.” 

— — — 

Logan had no idea what was causing Roman’s realm to fall apart, but he was exceptionally grateful for it. 

The few remaining guards inside the castle were too overwhelmed by the effects of their very fabric of reality unraveling around them to notice a small girl running through the corridors searching for the dungeons. 

He found the correct door after only a few minutes of searching; Roman’s penchant for the dramatic meant the one door that very obviously looked as though it led to a dungeon did in fact lead to a dungeon, and he pulled the vial of acid the Dragon Witch had given him out of his pocket. Technically, the Dragon Witch had described the liquid inside as a magical potion that would dissolve any substance besides its own container, but the ‘potion’ was functionally identical to a freakishly effective vial of hydrochloric acid. 

Tomato, Solanum lycopersicum, Logan thought as he poured a few drops onto the door handle of the dungeon. After a moment of sizzling, the lock dissolved away and he pushed the door open. 

The room was dark, faint torchlight flickering ominously off the stone walls. Six cells lined the room, and the two at the end of the row were occupied. 

“Patton?” he called. “Virgil?” 

The prisoners looked up, and relief flooded through him when he saw their faces. 

“Maddie?” Patton cried, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Who is that?” Virgil whispered to Patton, but Logan ignored the question. 

“Not Maddie,” he said breathlessly. “It’s me.” 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another vial, downing its contents in a single gulp. A strange tingling sensation enveloped his body, and he had to admit that in this case, he didn’t have a scientific explanation for the shapeshifting potion that the Dragon Witch had given him.

“Logan?” Virgil asked in disbelief. 

“Watch your hands,” Logan said, stepping forward to pour the remainder of the acid on the locks on their cell doors. 

“I knew you’d figure something out,” Patton said, his eyes shining with pride. “I just knew it.” 

In a moment, both cells were open, and Patton rushed out, pulling Logan and Virgil both into a bone crushing hug. For once, Logan didn’t think, didn’t analyze or worry, he just wrapped his arms around his friends and let himself slump into them. 

They were all safe, and they were all together. For one, shining moment, that was all that mattered.

“Are the two of you alright?” he asked when he eventually pulled back. “You’re not injured, are you?”

Patton shook his head. 

“We’re fine, Logan,” he said, and Virgil nodded in agreement. 

“My head will be a bit sore for a few days, but I’ll live. What about you? We heard the Dragon Witch attacking…” 

“I’m fine,” Logan reassured him. “In fact, the Dragon Witch attack is my own doing.”

“What?” Virgil exclaimed. 

“The potion…” Patton said, his eyes widening. “That’s where you got that potion that made you look like Maddie, isn’t it?” 

“Technically, the potion made me look like myself, as it was an antidote to the spell that she cast to make me look like Maddie–” 

“Hang on, where is Maddie?” Patton interrupted. 

“She’s with the Dragon Witch…pretending to be me.” Patton’s jaw dropped open, and Logan grimaced. “I know! I tried to tell her that it would be safer if she stayed behind in the cave, but she insisted. She said that the distraction would hold Roman’s attention for longer if I appeared to be aiding the Dragon Witch directly in her assault.”

“Back up,” Virgil said, holding up his hands. “You let the Dragon Witch cast a spell on you?” 

“She is Roman’s biggest villain,” Logan said simply. “Asking her to help us defeat him was the only logical choice left.”

“To be fair,” Patton admitted, “It’s not that much crazier than what we tried to do.” 

Logan frowned. 

“What you tried to do?” 

“We’ll tell you on the way out,” Virgil said. “Right now, we should move, before the guards come back.” 

Logan nodded, and the three turned and began making their way out of the dungeon. 

“Remember what happened on the bridge?” Patton asked as they climbed the stairs, and Logan nodded. “Well, I had a feeling that it wasn’t Roman who caused it…I thought it might have been Virgil. And it turns out I was right!” 

“You caused the Imagination to fall apart?” Logan asked, looking back at Virgil. “How?”

Virgil shrugged.

“I’m not exactly sure. I had an overload of anxiety, but something was blocking me from channeling it away the way I normally do.” 

“Roman’s cutting off our access to Thomas,” Patton added. “I think that’s also why we can’t sink out. Reach out for him now; you can’t feel him, can you?” 

They’d reached the top of the stairs, and Logan paused. Normally, he was at least subconsciously aware of whatever external stimuli Thomas was experiencing, so that he could filter through the information and assist with decision making. He’d been so distracted by the quest to save Virgil and Patton that he hadn’t even noticed the lack of that awareness.

“I can’t,” he said aloud, and Patton nodded. 

“I can’t either. Whatever Roman’s done, it’s making him our only access point to Thomas. So we’ve been waiting for the right time to try overloading that access point.” 

“When we heard the Dragon Witch attacking, we thought it would be our best shot,” Virgil said. “And for a minute there I thought we would actually do it, but just before we could break through, the wall went back up again. Somehow, Roman was still stronger than the two of us put together.”

“Perhaps…” Logan mused. “But nonetheless, the two of you did have a strong effect on the Imagination. I wonder…would it be successful if all three of us tried to breach that barrier?” 

As they spoke, Logan led them outside and through the palace gardens to the servants’ gate in the side of the wall. The three stepped out onto the street, and Virgil looked around hesitantly. 

“So…now what?” he asked. 

Logan opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a familiar roar sounding from the market square. He grimaced, and looked back at his companions.

“Our original plan was to try and sneak out of the city. But simply escaping from Roman isn’t actually going to solve this problem.” 

Patton glanced at Virgil, and at a small tilt of the anxious side’s head, he locked eyes with Logan and nodded. 

“You’re right,” he said firmly. “This whole thing happened because we’ve been ignoring this problem. The only way we’re going to bring an end to this is if we confront it head on.”

“Guess we’ll get a chance to test out your hypothesis, Logan,” Virgil added as they hurried towards the square.  

“If it comes to that,” Logan agreed. “I do still hope that we’ll be able to use reason with Roman, though after all we’ve done to reach this point, I don’t know if that will be effective.” 

“Probably not,” Patton said quietly, and Logan glanced at him. 

Patton met his eyes for a moment, and Logan was surprised at the amount of melancholy he saw there. All through their ordeal, Patton had maintained a level of optimism that bordered on recklessness. As much as Logan had found that to be unrealistic, he also had relied on it for strength more than he’d realized. That Roman had somehow managed to dampen that was almost more offensive than the fact that he’d locked Patton and Virgil up.

Before Logan could think of an appropriate response, the trio rounded the corner into the square, then immediately skidded to a halt. Patton let out a gasp and Virgil swore under his breath; all Logan could do was stand there blankly and take in the scene.

Guards in full regalia lined the square, blocking off every possible avenue of escape. The Dragon Witch lay sprawled out on the ground, a deep wound in her side causing her breath to come in quick, pained gasps. 

Roman stood over her fallen body, and the red sunlight shining down on his silver breastplate made it look as if he was bathed in blood. His face was twisted in a terrible mix of fury and triumph, and he brandished his sword at his defeated foe, as though daring her to stand and challenge him again. 

She was in her dragon form, but as her wound spilled blood down onto the cobblestones, that body fizzled away, revealing the humanoid woman Logan had first met outside her lair. Her robes were torn and bloody and her face was deathly pale, but her eyes still blazed with a defiant fire as she stared up at her opponent.

“Any final words, Witch?” Roman asked in a steely voice.  

The Dragon Witch opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a high pitched cry rang out through the square.

“Stay back!” 

Maddie darted forward, putting herself between Roman and the witch’s body, gripping Dragon Witch’s staff tightly in both hands. The thing was nearly twice her height and she brandished it clumsily, but Roman still paused in his advance. 

“Out of my way, girl,” he said, but Maddie shook her head.

“I said back!” she insisted, shaking the staff towards him. 

“Run along now, little hero,” the Dragon Witch coughed, reaching weakly towards the girl as if to pull her back. “Your part is done.” 

Maddie shook her head again, and Roman frowned. 

“I won’t tell you again. Stand. Down,” he said coldly. 

Maddie shifted her feet and gripped the staff more tightly, but she did not move, and Roman sighed, raising his sword. 

“Enough!” Logan shouted before he could bring the blade down.

Roman looked up, his eyes flashing with hatred as they landed on his three fellow sides. Logan’s confidence faltered as the full force of that glare landed on him and he swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. 

What if it doesn’t work? What if it’s not enough? I have no more tricks up my sleeve…if this plan fails, then what are we going to do?

Logan’s racing thoughts were pulled to a stop with a sudden, simple touch. He looked down and saw that Patton had stepped forward and intertwined their fingers. The moral side glanced up at him and nodded, a slight waver in his smile the only sign betraying his own nerves. Virgil stepped up beside them, locking eyes with Logan as he wordlessly took Patton’s other hand. An understanding passed between them, and Logan smiled, giving Patton’s hand an encouraging squeeze. He looked back to the square, and took a deep breath.“Enough, Roman!” he repeated, his voice steady and strong. “This ends now!” 

— — —

AN: So I know that LAST time I updated I said I wanted to update the fic more and then almost 5 years passed, but I can say with confidence that THIS YEAR chapter 10 at least will be released, if not the entire end of the fic (I won't actually know whether the conclusion takes one or two chapters to write until I, you know, write it, but it's outlined, I promise). I've been trying to finish this story for so long, and I know it looks like nothing happened between these updates, but rest assured, I thought about this story and how much I wanted to finish it often during these past few years. Thank you so much for being patient with me, and thank you to anyone who still has stuck around to read this, even after all this time. I love each and every one of y'all <3

(If you were on the Our Own Villain taglist, I will be tagging you in a reblog, tagging has changed so much in four years that my taglist copy-paste doesn't even work anymore)

[onthevirgeofdestruction]

Welcome to "Come into the Water" by @annaizscribbling

You won't be coming back out the same person. We were paired together for the @tss-storytime and this story is an absolutely fantastic trip you should go on.

(no reposting/editing/feeding to an AI, etc. be respectful and also go read the fic, thanks! give Anais comments!)

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Cryptid

Roman is determined to prove that his friend Patton's fears of a spider cryptid in the forest was unfounded, so joined by his best friend (and maybe crush) Janus, he ventures into the forest at night. Surprisingly, the night takes a surprising twist.

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| Ao3 |

Warnings: Spider imagery, slightly creepy, and one slightly suggestive comment right at the end but nothing like, bad.

Pairings: Anaroceit

Word Count: 1336

Notes:

Hello everyone!!

This is a very short little fic for day 2 of @anaroceitweek!! This is for the prompt 'Conspiricy' which makes me think of Cryptids haha, and Cryptid Virgil is very very fun :3

This is a very silly short fic I wrote in one sitting haha - I still really like it though! I hope you do too :3

----

“Why are we out here again?” Janus drawled as he pushed back a tree branch with his gloved hand, climbing over a root in the dark. Roman shone his flashlight down so that they could see where they were walking. The forest behind the suburbs where Roman lived was fairly thick and mostly unmanaged, so there weren’t any proper paths to follow.

“You’re the one who chose to come out here with me,” Roman huffed as he climbed down a little ridge, “You didn’t have to be here.”

“Oh certainly not, but seeing your face when Patton is proven right will be worth it I’m sure,” He said with a shrug and a grin as Roman shot a glare behind him at his best friend/maybe crush. It was hard for Roman to see in the darkness, so he wasn’t entirely sure exactly where Janus was, but he was sure that he’d seen the glare. 

“Well you’ve wasted your time, then, because I’m right,” He said, hopping onto a boulder and then hopping to another one, “There are no weird creepy horrifying spider cryptids out here in this forest.”

“Careful,” Janus said, making Roman stop just before he walked face first into a giant spider web. 

“Oh haha,” Roman said, turning so he could walk around the other side of the tree the web was attached to, “Next you’ll be telling me the spider creature made that.”

“Mhm,” Janus nodded, grinning a little as Roman frowned.

Well… there were certainly a lot of webs in this forest, Roman had never actually come this deep before. He was determined, however, to prove to his friend Patton that there were no scary spider creatures in the forest out to get him. For some reason Janus, who seemed to believe Patton’s theories for whatever reason despite how unfounded they were, had come along as well. 

Roman heard something that sounded like a distant clicking and a woosh, as though something had run past. Turning to look in the direction of the sound, however, gained him nothing, even as he swept his flashlight around the clearing they were in. Other than the number of spiderwebs present, he saw nothing, and dismissed it as some kind of woodland creature, maybe a possum, those were creepy as hell. 

“I wonder what that was,” Janus said, in a tone that Roman thought sounded incredibly condescending and honestly that was just unnecessary. 

Roman shrugged anyway, though, “Probably just a regular, normal forest creature.”

“Mmmhm, if you say so,” Janus shrugged. The clicking sound was back, followed by a soft rumble and another few clicks, Roman whipped around, trying to figure out the source of the sound. 

After a long moment of silence, Roman yelped and reeled back a little as his eyes met another pair in the underbrush - a pair with piercing white pupils and softly glowing purple irises - plus black sclera, as if that wasn’t creepy enough already. 

“What the fuck…” Roman whispered as he noticed a second, third and fourth pair of the same eyes open, he took a step back and ended up grabbing onto Janus’ arm.

“Hello there,” Janus said, only then did Roman realise he was smirking, “You can come out, he won’t hurt you.”

Roman’s eyes widened as he looked from Janus to the eyes. He wouldn’t hurt it?? He was slightly more worried about the other way around, actually. 

In a way that was almost shy, the creature stepped into Roman’s torch beam, making him gasp. 

He was humanoid and tall - taller than both Janus and Roman by a long way. Roman thought he must be at least seven foot tall - he had to have been crouching before. 

His hair was pitch black, but the texture looked to be curled, almost frizzy. In the light of the torch Roman could see that his skin was mostly a light, pastel purple, through which darker veins could be seen, making his skin look almost like marble, though down his arms his skin got darker and darker - until at his fingertips it was pitch black. His limbs too were oddly proportioned, in a way that looked just ‘off’ to Roman, he looked like a person, he was shaped like a person, but his arms and legs were too long and it gave Roman an odd uncanny feeling as he looked at him. Mostly, though, he was just…. Incredibly intrigued. 

“Woah,” Roman said softly, staring wide eyed, “You’re uh… real?”

“Last I checked?” He said, seeming… weirdly nervous as all eight of his eyes blinked. Roman thought he should have probably found it creepy, the cryptid - because that’s the only thing that it could have been (Roman might have been wrong, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud).

“You’re… beautiful,” He said, to the surprise of basically everyone there as he slowly detached from Janus to approach. The spider guy looked shocked as Roman walked up, circling him before stopping to look up at him, “Wow…” He said softly.

“Wh-what?” the creature said, turning his head to track Roman but not fully turning around. Janus was smirking in the background, “Hey - you cut it out, stop smirking at me.”

“I told you he’d like you,” Janus said, sounding very smug. Roman looked back at him. 

“You were in on this?” He asked, glaring at him, “You knew?”

Shrugging, Janus walked over, placing a hand on the spider’s arm, “Well I’d hope so, considering we’re dating.”

“You what??”

“Are you gonna be surprised by everything?” The spider guy asked, tilting his head.

“Well- I- yeah, actually, I am!” He said, eyes wide, the cryptid startled a little bit, “I just found out the spider cryptid in the woods is real and apparently dating my best friend!”

“And beautiful, don’t forget that,” Janus hummed, Roman went bright pink.

“I- Oh my god, I’m sorry-” He said, looking between Janus and the thing, “I didn’t mean to hit on your cryptid boyfriend.”

With a snort, Janus shook his head, even the spider was smiling.

“It’s fine,” He said, “And I’m Virgil, by the way - um, if you really want to hit on me you can.”

“What.”

“I mean, I’m just saying, I don’t mind,” He defended, “I mean - it’s fine if not, I know you humans are weird about monogamy sometimes, but-”

“No no no - that’s not the problem,” Roman said, raising his hands, he was perfectly happy with polyamory, he’d experimented with it before in a relationship and found it appealed to him (though the lack of communication in that particular relationship had put him off a while)

“I’m okay with it too,” Janus said, “If that’s the problem, you are… fine.”

“That’s Janus talk for ‘I like you’,” Virgil translated, making both Janus and Roman turn beet red. 

“So, wait,” Roman said, putting up his hands, “Let me figure this out.”

Both of them nodded. 

“So you,” He gestured to Virgil, “Are a spider cryptid who lives out here in the woods?”

“Mhm,”

“And you,” He gestures to Janus, “Are dating him?”

“Yes,” Janus nodded.

“So…. was this whale thing just a ploy to get me out here?”

“Potentially,” Janus smirked, Roman groaned, “Well - Patton’s fears are very real, of course, and him asking you for help was simply convenient, so I talked to Virgil about it - because normally you wouldn’t have found anything.”

“He told me he had a really cute friend he thought I’d like who was coming out ‘cryptid hunting’ in the forest tonight so I agreed to actually show up.”

“And?” Roman asked.

“And…?”

“And… do you like me?” Roman asked, leaning forward a little, Virgil smirked.

“Yeah,” He said with a shrug, “I believe so, do… you like me? Janus said you would.”

Smirking, Roman nodded, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do - but uh… I’ve never dated a cryptid before…”

“Oh trust me, it’s a lot of fun,” Janus grinned, making Virgil blush a deeper, richer purple colour. Roman giggled.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

----

Tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti @scalesfeathersnfur @oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat @littlerat2 ( if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

[oatmealdaydreams]

I know I got no choice, got no choice, but to love myself

Please let me know if you want to be added on or taken off the taglist!

Pairing: Intrulogical

Warnings: violent thoughts, violent imagery, intrusive thoughts, insecurity

Description: Logan admires Remus’ consistent love for himself. Remus doesn’t think it matters. It’s not like he had a choice.

Extra: the title is from the song Reaper Man by Mother Mother. It's a Remus song and I will die on that hill.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[fic under the cut]

In the late hours of the night, Logan and Remus lay together on the edges of falling asleep. Both dressed in cozy pajamas, under warm blankets and covers. They drift into a calm atmosphere with each other. It’s been a long day for the both of them, and resting with one another is just the thing they need. Curtains are drawn to let in soft moonlight from windows that peek into a nightscape in the Imagination. An idea Roman had, and one Remus helped install into every bedroom in the Mindscape. It’s peaceful and quiet, though both of them remain somewhat awake in each other’s arms. 

“Cephy,” a quiet, sleepy voice calls. 

Remus’ own sleepy voice hums in response, content as the first runs a hand through his hair. 

“I’m not one to be sentimental,” a sleepy Logan starts, only for Remus to snort at him. “But, I do admire your consistent strive to love yourself. It’s wonderful to witness.” 

At that, Remus turns his head to Logan, eyebrows furrowed. Logan moves his hand with him, keeping up the gentle and calm gesturing of running it through his partner’s hair. The small bits of confusion across his face confuse Logan. 

“You...you what?” Remus mutters. 

Logan gives a soft smile, “I admire your sense of self-love. You have this strength to just love all these parts of yourself, even if certain others don’t. I admire it.” 

Remus can only scoff. Logan’s face shifts from soft fondness to worry, and his hand in Remus’ hair stills. Remus noticeably tenses, eyes darting away from his companion. 

“Cephy,” Logan calls again, his hand moving to cup Remus’ cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Remus doesn’t look at him.

“Nothin’, nerd,” he answers quietly. 

“Hey, if there’s something bothering you, you can talk to me. I will listen,” Logan thumbs Remus’ cheek soothingly, and Remus has to close his eyes before he dares to melt from a simple gesture. 

“I know. You’d—you listen, I know.”

“Then what’s the matter, dear?”

“There ain’t anythin’. That’s the thing, it don’t matter. It’s just somethin’ I have to do.”

“I...I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Remus sighs, “‘Course, ya don’t.”

He winces. It wasn’t meant to be that sharp. He doesn’t mean it like that. He didn’t mean it. 

He’s trying to be there for you, and all you can do is fuck it up! Rude, rude child. Fuck-up. Stupid little rat man. 

Logan is patient. A hand still thumbing his cheek, still keeping him steady and here, still warm against his face. Logan’s listening. He always listens, and, yeah, it’s a whole lot fucking better than not being listened to. God, why must he be so fucking observant? Why can’t Thomathy have a stupider Logic that doesn’t care about shit? Fuck you, Thommy Salami. Fuck you and your stupidly sweet Logic who cares and worries. 

“You said you like how I love myself,” Remus continues, rubbing his cheek against Logan’s palm apologetically as he opens his eyes. “It ain’t somethin’ that matters. I kinda have to do it.”

Logan sits up a little, bringing Remus with him. He cups his face with both hands now, a sadly withdrawn expression in his cephalopod's stark red eyes. Remus looks at him, shrugging, as they sit there. He nearly closes his eyes again as Logan thumbs both cheeks now, soft and warm and grounding. 

“What do you mean by ‘you have to do it’, Cephy?”

Remus furrows his brows, giving him an of course, I do look. 

“What do you mean when you say ‘it doesn’t matter’?” Logan tries. 

“‘Cause it don’t? What else would I mean, Professor Dork?” Remus says nonchalantly. 

“How could loving yourself not matter? It’s important.”

Remus makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging again. 

“It matters, my dear. Of course, it matters. You’re important, and you loving yourself always matters,” Logan insists. 

Remus searches for the lie, his eyes gazing intensely into Logan’s beautiful grey and indigo. C’mon, he lives with Jannie of all Sides, he’s learned not to take anything at face value. Sure, yeah, JanJan doesn’t always speak in deception and threads of yellow, but living with that guy teaches you how to twist through what’s said and what’s meant. 

After not finding anything for a good few minutes, Remus slumps. There’s an odd silence that makes him itch to scream, so the silence can’t cut his throat out. He doesn’t like the silence. 

I wonder how silence could cut your throat. With a dagger? Like wind so sharp it cuts through wood? Would it sting? Would it bleed like a waterfall and stain Logan’s carpet? Blood’s hard to get out. You shouldn’t make such a mess, you stupid fucking bastard. Bad, bad, bad. 

Logan plants a gentle kiss to Remus’ nose that pushes out a soft whine from the Duke, his eyes closing again as his skin tries to savor the affection. It sends delightful tingles that his mind doesn’t comment on. 

“Why do you think you have to love yourself, Cephy?” Logan asks, a serious tone bleeding through his tongue. 

“I, um…” Remus doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he forces them open to focus and shifts them away from Logan. “Who else would fuckin’ love me?”

Logan’s breath hitches, heart clenching uncomfortably in his chest. 

“What?” is all he can utter. 

“I’ve gotta do it ‘cause no one else will. ‘S not like ‘m wanted much by everyone, anyway,” Remus continues, unaware of the horribly bare concern that washes over his nerd’s face. “I ain’t got a choice, Lolo.” 

He looks back at Logan, and a worried noise slips from his lips. Logan’s mouth is slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed, and looks every bit ready to cry. 

“Lolo—”

“You, you’re...Remus,” Logan will cry any second now, and it’s Remus’ fault. 

Remus squirms under the whimper of his own name, a small flinch shuddering his body. Logan doesn’t call him by name anymore. He calls him ‘dear’ or ‘Cephy or sweet little nicknames that he’d never admit were sentimental. He doesn’t—he doesn’t call him ‘Remus’ unless someone fucked up or it’s really serious. Did he fuck up? Oh, he fucked up, didn’t he? He fucks up a lot of things, but Logan is the one thing, the someone, he doesn’t wanna fuck up. He’s sorry, he didn’t mean to fuck up. 

“Hey, hey, shh. I’m not mad,” Logan’s voice cracks near the end as he tries to reassure his boyfriend. “It’s okay, Cephy.”

The return of an endearing nickname eases Remus, and he pushes his face out of Logan’s hands and into his chest. Logan moves to hold him properly, helping him to lay his head in the crook of his neck. Logan’s arms hold him tight, and he pulls Remus securely into his lap. Remus snuggles into his companion, chasing the nearly overwhelming warmth from being held. He shivers, and Logan wraps a blanket around them. 

“You’re loved, Remus. Of course, you’re loved. I care about you, and–and—” Logan mutters into Remus’ smelly hair, not giving a flying fuck. “Janus cares about you, too. He likes taking care of you. And Roman’s missed you.”

Remus separates his nose from the crook of Logan’s neck, head sharply turning up to look at him. He can’t stop the look of utter disbelief echoing in his eyes, nor can he stop himself from scoffing again. Roman’s not...why would he miss him? He said he didn’t like him! You’re not supposed to miss the people you don’t like, right? How’s that supposed to work? He said he didn’t like him, and it’s not like he’s tried spending time with him much. Of course, he doesn’t miss him. Remus misses him...but that’s him, and not Roman, because he isn’t Roman and Roman isn’t him and Roman doesn’t want to be anything like him. He doesn’t miss him! He doesn’t...he—he—

“He’s—Ro what?” Remus stammers. 

“Roman misses you. He told me himself that he misses you but doesn’t know how to connect with you because it’s been so long. He cares, Cephy,” Logan explains, uttering quietly as they’re both caught up in emotions. 

“No. No, he don’t. He said he don’t like me, how could he miss me? That’s not—no—”

“Cephy, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. ‘Cause if he misses me, then why won’t he try? He should know—he should...he’s not...I…”

Remus buries himself back into Logan, as if he were trying to burrow into his chest like a little mole. Logan holds him tighter, engulfing him, protecting him. 

“You’re loved, my dear. You’re loved, I promise, you are. You’ve got people who care about you. You don’t have to depend on only yourself to feel loved and wanted. It’s okay, Cephy, I’ve got you,” Logan mumbles into Remus' head of messy hair. 

“I don’t—I dunno if I can believe you, Lolo…”

“That’s okay, little fry. I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

“Even if I do?” Remus’ voice is small. 

“Even then,” Logan’s voice is wet. 

A few, tiny tracks of tears flow down Logan’s face and hit Remus’ head. Remus glances up, wiping away his companion’s tears and not giving a shit about the grossness of crying. He wraps his own arms around Logan, clinging to him as his nerd does the same. They slowly lay each other down—the blanket coming with them, warm and soft—and Logan pulls the cover back over them. 

It’s late in the night as Logan and Remus lay together on the edges of tearful slumber and comforting embraces. Both remain dressed in cozy pajamas, under their warm blankets and covers. They drift deep into each other, burying their bodies together. It’s been a long day, and an emotional night for them both. Curtains are drawn to let in soft moonlight, the Imagination sending in calm breezes through the windows. It’s peaceful and quiet as they cuddle there, ready to sleep, ready to gentle each other’s worries away. It’s there Remus realizes he isn’t alone, he’s wanted and loved. It’s there Logan holds on tightly to his love, trying so desperately for his fondness and care for his companion to be felt through how he holds him. It’s there they let silent tears fall and quiet hearts heal. 

It’s there, in the middle of the night, that Remus starts to feel wanted by someone who isn’t him. 

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20 @thegoldenduckie @not-sure-what-im-feeling

[kytiapseud]

A Long Time Coming

Emile is a vampire who has been running his bar for vampires and humans for a long time. Remy is a human customer and friend who has been coming for a while (by human standards). He is known for being down for almost any vampire there to feed from him. So Emile is surprised when one day Remy asks Emile to be the one to feed from him. Why does the thought fluster him so much though?

Set in @edupunkn00b's 'Beside Me' universe

Pairing: Emile/Remy

Wordcount: 2662

Warning: blood drinking, suggestive content

Notes: Vampires have been on my mind lately. So that lead me to rereading again one of my favorite vampire fic series, 'Beside Me'. This prompted me to get several ideas related to that series. Since I've gotten Edupunk's enthusiastic permission to do so, stay tuned for some of those. I think I have maybe four other ideas aside from this one.

This fic makes more sense if you've read those fics, but I do try to give context in it that is needed to understand the premise.

This is set after the second fic in that series, 'Dee'.

Emile hummed as he prepared a tray of drinks. It was still early into the night, but a lot of times his evenings at his bar became pretty routine. It wasn’t hard to catch the types of drinks his regulars preferred. Most of his customers were regulars after all. There weren’t a lot of new vampires to have to prepare for anyways. It actually wasn’t a common thing. Aside from Virgil’s group that was.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” A familiar voice said. Emile smiled and turned to Remy who had just sat at the bar. He was a human regular who often arrived early into the night. Something about having more opportunities for willing vamps to feed that way. Emile giggled. Then he got Remy a glass of water. Remy was totally down to drink, but he usually didn’t right away. Some vampires weren’t comfortable drinking from an intoxicated human. He typically didn’t want to chance a rejection.

“Good evening, Remy. Would you like for me help pick out a vampire to feed from you?” Emile asked.

“Actually,” Remy lowered his sunglasses and looked at Emile, with less caution than he really should. He knew better too.

“I was hoping you could feed from me,” He said.

“W-what?” Emile asked and then cleared his throat. He was usually more composed than that.

Remy smirked.

“You heard me, Em. I’m in the mood for my favorite vampire to feed from me. You work hard here. You deserve to get a treat,” He said.

Emile let out a bit of a nervous laugh.

“I appreciate the offer, Remy. But I don’t usually feed while I’m on the clock,” Emile said.

Remy shrugged.

“So take a break. There’s gotta be someone who can fill in for you for a little bit.”

Emile sighed.

 “I also don’t need to at the moment. When I need to feed, I tend to do so before arriving here,” Emile said.

Remy sighed a bit dramatically.

“Well, when is the next time you’ll need to feed?” Remy asked.

Emile blinked, a bit surprised Remy was still offering for the future.

“Uh, not for a while,” Emile said.

Remy hummed and shrugged.

“Well, I guess I’ll just wait until then,” Remy said.

That was really not like Remy. He had a tendency to take on many vampires in one night. Emile had never seen him willing to wait for a specific vampire, let alone for him. Remy had been going to this bar for a long time too. Not nearly as long as Emile had opened the place, Remy was only human after all. But as long as he could really.

He’d flirted of course, but tended to flirt more with the vampires who could feed from him while at the bar.

“Y-you don’t have to do that, Remy. I know how much you enjoy it,” Emile said.

Remy hummed in consideration.

“True…alright, just let me know before the next time you do feed, alright? Please? I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to of course,” Remy said, shifting a bit like he was nervous. Also unusual for Remy.

“N-no,” Emile cleared his throat. “I’m fine with it. Yeah, I’ll uh I’ll let you know.”

Remy smiled and winked.

“Great! Can’t wait,” Remy said. He finished off the rest of his water before slinking off onto the dance floor.

Emile just watched him for a moment, still processing their conversation.

Then he shook his head, turning to face the new group that had entered. It was Virgil’s group, Emile should have known. They’d  been coming more frequently than Virgil used to with the two newer vampires to feed. He smiled at them as the three of them came in. No Dracula tonight though. He didn’t often come with them. Emile wasn't really sure why. He got the impression maybe the count just wasn't used to drinking from places like his bar. Emile could tell the ancient vampire was still around though.

 Emile gestured for them to go to their usual booth and then went on to set up their drinks.

After they were seated, Emile made his way over. He set down the glasses in front of each of them.

“Good to see you three this evening!” Emile cheered. He went on to pour juice for Virgil and Remus. Then whiskey for Logan.

Logan narrowed his eyes at Emile.

“Is everything alright?” He asked. At Logan’s words, Virgil brought his attention to Emile and looked him over.

Emile felt his face heat up a bit. He let out a bit of a nervous laugh.

“Yeah! Why?” He asked.

Logan hummed.

“I don’t know, something just seems off,” He said. Emile waved his hand.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine. I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t do my job well tonight after all,” He said.

Logan frowned.

“That’s not why I asked,” He said.

Virgil nodded.

“Emile, I’ve been coming here for a while. You can talk to me.”

Emile hesitantly nodded. He shifted a bit, then decided to set the bottles on the table for the moment. He would be the type to just suddenly become clumsy.

Remus looked at him and then chuckled.

“Did someone hot flirt with you at the bar or something?” Remus asked.

“Emile’s been running this bar for a long time, and has no doubt been flirted with many times. I haven’t seen him react this way to such a thing before, have you?” Logan asked. Virgil shook his head, now looking more curious then concerned.

Emile waved that off.

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. Just,” Emile sighed.

“Remy said he wanted me to feed from him. I told him I didn’t need to tonight. But then he asked me to let him know the next time I do need to, so I can feed from him. I just didn’t expect his insistence at being an option, I guess?”

Virgil raised his eyebrows then shared a look with Logan.

“I know I haven’t been around you when you’ve fed, but that seems like an unusual reaction to such an offer,” Virgil said. Logan nodded. Remus chuckled.

“Could there be another reason such an offer has flustered you so?” Remus asked.

As Emile thought about it, his breath catches a bit as he imagines how close he would get to Remy while feeding.

“You have known him for a while,” Virgil said.

“For human standards, yes,” Emile said.

“Not that length of time is necessary to fall for someone,” Remus said, smiling at Virgil and Logan. They both smiled back at him.

Emile reached up and fidgeted with his hair some, smiling shyly as he thought about what he liked about Remy. He was charming, funny, flirty. Good at showing confidence. He wasn’t afraid to go after what he wanted. Plus he also had his sweet side that not everyone got to see. Emile had always felt honored he was one of the few who got to.

 It’s not like Emile was new to liking someone, so why did he feel so out of his element here?

“This may be a strange question, but have you dated before?” Logan asked, almost as though he knew what Emile was thinking. Emile nodded.

“Of course I have…” Not in a while though. It just wasn’t something that was often on his mind. He was usually occupied by helping people at the bar.

Logan hummed and nodded.

“You seemed very unsure about why Remy would want this with you. Perhaps it would be a good idea to ask him? That may help keep you from overthinking the interaction,” Logan said.

Emile wanted to protest that he wasn’t doing that, but well…he was, wasn’t he? Emile nodded.

“That is probably a good idea. Thank you all, for the help,” He said. Virgil smiled and nodded.

“Of course.”

“You’ve helped us many times. It’s the least we could do,” Logan said, lifting his glass up to Emile before drinking from it.

“You deserve to be happy as well,” Remus said.

Emile giggled.

“Alright, let me know is there’s anything else I can for you,” He said.

They nodded.

“We’re good for now. Thank you though,” Virgil said. Emile waved to them before going back to his duties checking on other customers. He was admittedly a bit distracted now, thinking about this feeding with Remy. He almost wished he hadn’t just fed right before arriving tonight. Because now he’d just be thinking about it until next time.

*

The next time Emile was thirsty, he texted Remy. He also let his usual human friends know that someone else offered this time. He arrived at the bar early, before opening, so it would be easier to meet with Remy. He shifted a bit in place, nervous about what was to come. He’d been around Remy many times. But this would definitely be the most intimate thing they did. Something felt more special about it too with how much Remy wanted it.

“Hello~ Emile.”

Emile’s breath caught as the delicious scent of Remy’s blood wafted over him. He’d usually been pretty good at keeping himself healthy. And with willing human friends who were kind about it, he hadn’t gotten to a point much where he would be thirsty long. Really it hadn’t been that long for him. But he was desiring it more than usual. And Remy smelled good.

He looked over to Remy, struggling more to not meet his eyes. He gave him a shy smile.

“H-hey, Remy,” Emile croaked. His eyes were drawn to Remy’s neck, fixated on his pulse.

Remy chuckled.

“Oh, you’re definitely ready for me now,” He said.

Emile swallowed.

“Here, let’s take this somewhere more private,” Remy said.

Emile blinked and carefully looked up at Remy’s face again. He wanted to know why. No one else was here anyways, and Remy had never seemed to care who watched him as vampires drank from his neck. But in that moment, Emile was too thirsty to care.

“I live in the basement under the bar,” He said. The basement had been there before he opened the bar. Although it was more traditional for business owners to live over their places of business, living under had worked out to be safer from the sun anyways.

Remy smiled.

“Sounds good.” Remy gestured for Emile to lead the way. Emile mechanically walked him over to the stairs and then down. Barely thinking past the draw of Remy’s blood overcoming him. When they got to his door, the hand holding his keys was nearly trembling. Remy gently took the keys from him and opened the door.

“Bedroom?” Remy asked. Emile didn’t even question it, just walking straight over there. Not bothering to close any doors. Just wanting Remy to be close. Remy must have closed the doors behind them because it was a moment before he joined Emile in the bedroom. The bed was big enough for both of them.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Remy said. Emile didn’t respond. Remy cooed.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you Em.” Remy sat on the bed. He kicked his shoes off and scooted up. Then he  gestured for Emile to join him. Emile plopped onto the bed next to Remy. He started reaching for Remy’s wrist, but Remy pulled his arm back. He shook his head.

“Aw, come on, Em. We’re close enough you can go for my neck,” He said. He shifted so he was facing Emile. Then he bent his neck to make it enticing. Emile almost reached forward then had the mind to pause when he saw the scars on Remy’s neck from all the feedings. Remy sighed.

“Don’t worry about those, Em,” He said. He reached forward and brushed a hand over Emile’s arm.

“I don’t mind. And I want you,” Remy said. That’s what finally did it. Emile rumbled as he launched himself onto Remy. He knocked them both over so they were laying on the bed when Emile finally sank his teeth into Remy. Remy laughed and then let out a very pleased sound as Emile began to drink.

He tasted so good. Emile felt how warm Remy was against him. Remy continued to make pleased sounds, touching over Emile as he fed from him. Remy’s scent so enticing and around him. There was something so satisfying about getting to feed from him. As enjoyable as this was, Emile knew better than to overindulge. So when Remy tapped him, Emile was already pulling off. He had to catch his breath before he rolled off and laid next to Remy. Still facing him.

Remy hummed pleased and turned to face Emile as well.

“Well, that was certainly worth the wait,” Remy said, running his hand along Emile’s side. Emile smiled a bit dreamily at him. Remy chuckled.

“You really enjoyed yourself too, hm?” He asked. Emile hummed and nodded.

“I’ll always be available for you, okay?” Remy said. He used a finger to catch some blood from the punctures on his neck. Then he waved it over Emile’s mouth. Emile immediately put his mouth over the finger and sucked the blood off. Then he blushed at his own eagerness. Remy laughed.

“Aw, it’s okay doll.” He scooted closer to Emile and put a hand to the side of Emile’s head.

“I don’t mind,” He said quieter. Emile’s breath stuttered when he felt how close Remy’s lips were to his own.

“Can I kiss you?” Remy asked. Emile sucked in a breath at that.

“Yeah,” He said quietly, voice shaking a little. Emile could feel Remy’s smile before he leaned in. The first kiss was slow. Then he kissed Emile again, gradually deepening it. He rolled over on top of Emile as he continued, in a reverse of their positions when Emile fed from him. Apparently Remy didn’t mind any lingering taste of his own blood from Emile’s mouth. They made out for a bit more, Remy getting more handsy. Just as his touches started to move to the next level, Emile pulled away, laughing.

“Remy,” He said.

“Hmm?” Remy asked. His hands paused, but he continued to kiss along Emile’s jaw then down his neck. Emile hummed and his eyes fluttered. Then he shook his head.

“Remy, I do still have to eventually open the bar,” Emile said.

Remy sighed and pulled his mouth away. His hand going back to just feeling over Emile’s side.

“Fine. I guess I’ll just have to wait for you until after,” Remy said. Emile blinked at him.

“You’d be willing to wait?” Emile asked.

Remy smiled at him.

“Of course.” He moved his hand up to card some hair behind Emile’s ear.

“I like you, Em. I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” Remy said.

Emile giggled.

“I like you too Remy,” Emile said. Remy smirked and leaned forward to kiss Emile again. This time a slow sweet kiss that lingered. Remy made a rumbling sound as well as he pulled away.

“Damn, I could just keep kissing you, Em.”

Emile blushed and giggled.

“Later, or we’ll never get up,” He said. Remy sighed as he started to sit up.

“Alright.”

Emile sat up as well. Seeing Remy’s neck, he seemed to remember himself.

“Oh! Let me get that taken care of for you,” Emile said. Remy watched Emile with a fond look as he went about getting Remy some fruit juice and cookies. He didn’t even bother to complain. He just continued to look at Emile in adoration when he started to drink the juice he was given. Emile blushed and shifted again, smiling shyly. But then Remy leaned on his side, so Emile leaned against him as well.

“It’s a shame you’re always working at the bar. It would be really nice to get to dance with you there,” Remy said. Emile hadn’t even considered hiring another until Remy’s suggestions. But now it seemed like a good idea.

“Maybe we’ll get to at some point,” Emile said with a smile, glancing to the side at Remy.

“We have time.”

Remy smiled back.

“Yeah, I like the sound of that.”

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter / chapter five

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mentions of transphobia, food mentions, alcohol, kissing, mentions of child abuse, but nothing actually happens (virgil suspects something and dee mentions parenting attitudes that aren’t healthy) also a mention of harassing women, but it’s more of an abstract than any actual harassment. please let me know if i’ve missed anything else!

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,961

notes: fifth verse, same as the first: i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today—please go out and vote if you are in the united states!! i'm actually posting this as i'm in line for my ballot so i can vote before work! there are so many important issues on your local ballot (several states have potentially life-saving but certainly life-altering provisions on ballot this year for a lot of folks!) in addition to national-level stuff! and, in regards to why this took so long to get here,

⁂

janus looks at the jar skeptically, his arms folded across his chest.

“this. this is your favorite food?”

logan tries not to take the slight too personally, but he offers the spoonful of loganberry jam to him again.

“yes, it is,” logan says. “i said nothing when you said your favorite food.”

“because my favorite food is normal,” janus grumbles, but he takes the spoonful anyways. “but seriously. just straight up jam?”

“crofter’s loganberry jam,” logan corrects. “followed by the rest of the jams that crofter’s offers.”

janus sighs, but ingests the jam, presumably in the name of getting to know each other better.

with the introduction of a name, logan had thought to propose getting to know each other better; so now logan knows janus’ favorite color (yellow) his favorite book (the art of war) and his favorite food (he’d said mille feuille, then admitted it was really pretzel m&m’s, which perhaps was a more conventional choice than a specific type of jam.)

logan watches him, hawk-eyed.

“so?” he says when janus swallows.

“i mean,” janus says. “it’s a good jam, i guess?”

logan sighs, but accepts that janus’ education when it comes to jam is a work in progress. that’s fine. in the meantime, logan will prepare a jam sandwich as a midnight snack. he dearly anticipates the day when he is no longer a teenager and therefore no longer so hungry all the time.

⁂

janus waits a long time to change into his pajamas.

logan gets up, presumably to go to the bathroom, and comes downstairs with an overly large hoodie without preamble, or even mentioning it at all, really.

janus refuses to smile, but he does change into the pajama set his parents bought him, with a big hoodie advertising a sideshire save-the-bridge fundraiser.

⁂

“why are you making me watch this,” logan groans.

“because it’s a cultural touchstone, hush,” janus says dismissively, staring at the screen but really staring at logan out of the corner of his eyes, trying his very hardest not to start cackling.

“this sex scene has been going on for three minutes!”

“cultural. touchstone.”

“you’re doing this to make me suffer,” logan accuses.

“obviously,” janus says. “that’s the whole point of making someone watch the room for the first time.”

“i should have just lied when you asked if i understood that reference,” logan mumbles under his breath, pointedly avoiding looking at the screen.

janus, in deciding to go full obnoxious, croons, “yooou are my rose, you are my rose, you are my rooo-ooooo-ooooose—”

logan pulls a pillow over his face and declares, muffled, “i hate you.”

“save it,” janus says dismissively. “we haven’t even gotten to the flower shop scene yet.”

“the what?” logan says, peeking tentatively from behind the pillow.

or the other terrible subplots, janus thinks gleefully. he’s not a huge fan of the room, himself, it’s not like he’s proudly in the cult following for it, but being able to show it to logan for the first time is something he absolutely cannot miss out on.

⁂

“but it makes no sense,” logan practically howls at the screen as the credits roll, janus laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

⁂

“christ, isn’t your boyfriend a dancer?” janus complains, shuffling his feet out of the way.

“my boyfriend is the dancer,” logan says, scowling. “my boyfriend.”

“either way, he needs to bring you in for extra waltzing lessons,” janus says. “poppy is going to kill you if you step on her toes even once.”

logan goes a little pale at that.

⁂

“why this,” janus groans, tempted to do what logan did and put a pillow over his face.

“you picked a movie, now i get to pick a movie,” logan says smugly, and janus considers throwing the pillow at the screen. the only reason he doesn’t is because he somewhat respects ken burns, even if logan picked his most boring documentary ever.

⁂

“this is ridiculous,” logan says.

“it’s meant to be a traditional sleepover activity,” janus says dismissively, counting each curl of the spiral, tapping the paper with his pen. “the internet says so.”

“yes, famously lauded for accuracy, the internet,” logan says. janus ignores him and starts crossing off options, counting under his breath as he goes.

“okay,” janus says, straightening the paper with a great deal of fanfare. “you’ll graduate from princeton—”

“surprising.”

“—i know, quite, i’d had you pinned as an east coast man—after majoring in chemistry, that’s a bit of a departure, isn’t it? but after you graduate, you’ll marry bowman—”

“bowman?!” logan says, aghast. “bowman wasn’t one of the options!”

“i editorialized,” janus says dismissively, “and you’ll have a hundred and two beautiful children—”

“where did you get that number?!”

janus ignores him. “—but you’ll settle in los angeles and live in a cozy little shack—”

“well, i’ve done that before,” logan says fairly, and janus tries his hardest to hide his wince as he continues.

“—and, funnily enough, you’ll be an astronomer. the end.”

“this game is ridiculous,” logan says, snatching back the notepad, before he hesitates and looks at janus.

“all right, fine,” he sighs, and readies the pen. “mansion, house, apartment, shack, those are listed. marriage options?”

“jeff bezos, bill gates, and elon musk,” janus says briskly.

“those are all terrible options,” logan says, disgusted. 

“those are all terribly rich options,” janus corrects. “if this is going to be my imaginary m.a.s.h. life, i will live lavishly due to the money my husband will provide. i don’t have morals, i’d gladly be a sugar baby.”

“you don’t get to pick all your spouses,” logan says. “you married me off to bowman.”

“i’d argue elon musk is worse than bowman,” janus points out. 

“narrowly,” logan says under his breath.

⁂

tristan, janus reflects, has to go, of course. 

if not for his being racist toward janus—which is, admittedly, a more self-preservational factor that has put janus into plotting more actively than he has in the aftermath of almost everything else tristan has done. this includes that tristan cheats poorly, lies without even being clever about it, peacocks about with absolutely no sense of swagger or charm, is generally obnoxious, and somehow manages to both virgin-shame and slut-shame girls at their school without imploding from the hypocrisy of it all—

wait. he’s getting distracted.

if not simply for everything else tristan has ever done, then certainly for the note that’s been smuggled into his pocket.

the question, of course, was which plot to pick: to go out with a bang, or to pick a piece of blackmail so heinous that he’d shipped off to military school, with absolutely no time to lose…

⁂

“—and that’s how you say where can i find a newspaper in french, creole, and portuguese,” janus says. “i mean, your next problem would be if you could read it or not, but.”

“i wish i knew another language,” logan says thoughtfully. “the closest i have is latin, and that’s not exactly something i can use to converse with people.”

they’re both lying on their backs, staring up at the artificial ceiling of the pillow fort. 

“i mean,” logan amends. “i know some conversational spanish, but. certainly not fluent.”

“spanish?” janus asks sleepily.

“roman,” logan explains, and janus makes an ah noise. then, “portuguese?”

“childhood nanny,” janus says. “she’s from the dominican republic, not haiti, but. she did teach me some things about haitian culture.”

“i met her, didn’t i?” logan says. “at your grandmother’s.”

“yes, you did,” janus says.

“creole from haiti,” logan guesses, and janus mm-hms.

“and you mentioned your grandmother was french,” logan completes.

“yeah,” janus says, and even logan can pick up the edge in his voice. logan props himself up on an elbow, furrowing his eyebrows.

janus looks at him, arching his own eyebrows, and repeats, “haitian.”

logan flushes, a little bit, remembering the (very little) amount of haitian history they’d covered in their mutual world history class, and the (slightly more, but still not exactly a wealth of information) studying he’d done in his free time.

“right,” logan says quietly. 

“i’ve got ideas,�� janus says darkly, staring up at the blanket ceiling. “my adopted ancestors’ vast fortune? it’s going to go straight into a trans, black haitian’s pockets. they’re probably rolling in their graves.”

logan is quiet, for a couple moments, before he says, “good.”

janus’s grin unfurls as he stares up at the blanket, daydreaming about how best to squander that fortune.

⁂

they’re lying in the pillow fort, mostly quiet, logan on the edge of sleep. but then, tinny and muffled, as if from a phone speaker:

your touch, pullin' fire out of me your touch, like the wind crashing on the sea...

“i am going to kill you,” logan declares, even if he does start laughing when janus does.

⁂

patton staggers down the stairs, stifling a yawn with his hand, and he has to stifle a smile at the sight of a blanket fort in his living room, just big enough for two teenage boys.

he edges around it carefully, heading directly for his first stop every morning: the coffee maker.

by the time the coffee maker starts making those slightly alarming sputtering noises that always makes patton think he should probably get it looked at, the boys emerge from the fort, bleary-eyed and honed in on the scent of fresh coffee.

“mugs in there,” patton mumbles to dee, who grabs three at random and pushes them toward patton so patton can pour, the coffee steaming and diffusing its delectable scent all throughout patton’s tiny kitchen.

there’s a stretch of silence only broken by the sound of sugar shaken into coffee, the pouring of milk, the clattering of a spoon against ceramic, and sipping.

by the time patton’s three-quarters of the way through his mug, he feels much more like a human.

“hope you boys slept well,” patton says, his voice not quite at its usual level of perkiness—he’ll need another mug of coffee for that. “do you have any preferences for breakfast? dee, you’re the guest, you can pick—we could go to virgil’s, that’s got diner breakfast—”

a strange expression flashes over dee’s face. patton takes note of it but doesn’t mention it.

“—remy, he runs the café in town, he does some good breakfast sandwiches… or fran’s, she’s got danishes and little pies and things. she runs the bakery near town center, you might have seen it.”

“fran’s,” dee says decisively.

patton nods, drains his mug, and reaches for a travel thermos. “i’ll go ahead and get going for fran’s, then, it can get a bit busy on weekend mornings. logan, could you fish out a menu and show it to dee? either of you can text me with your orders.”

both boys make sounds of affirmation, mostly preoccupied with consuming as much coffee as possible.

patton can’t really talk; he’s busy trying starting to drink the coffee from his thermos while simultaneously hunting for his house keys.

⁂

is the taste of cinnamon rolls in these small-town bakeries the entire appeal of living in a small town with an entire store for christmas lights? janus can now slightly better understand the appeal of living in a small town, if so.

squidgy without being mushy, just enough cinnamon to keep it from being sickly sweet, just enough icing to keep the whole thing moist, paired with the unexpectedly spectacular coffee from remy’s café…

janus eats three in addition to the rest of the pastry selection patton had generously gotten for them, and is only slightly regretful when a food coma signals its impending arrival.

but, as all things do, his visit to bizzare-o-town comes to an end—he’s put on his clothes and returned the hoodie logan had lent him, he’s tucked patton’s phone number into a small, almost-hidden pocket in his duffel bag, and he stands on the sanders’ surprisingly roomy front porch with logan, patton waving them both out with his ever-cheerful air.

“where are you going again?”

“newsroom,” logan says, shouldering his own backpack. “at this point, i think rudy’s just coming up with new typos to make sure i come around at least once a week. it’s ridiculous. look at this.”

janus obligingly looks at a newspaper, grimacing at the blatant inconsistencies of the use or lack of an oxford comma scattered across the page.

“we use ap style,” logan says mournfully. “he knows about proper comma placement. i know he knows about proper comma placement.”

“well,” janus says, striving for something polite to say, only ending up with, “best of luck with that.”

logan sighs, tucking away the newspaper. “i will require it.”

he holds out his hand. janus shakes it. (he notices only during the drive home his absolute absence of any hesitation.)

“i’ll see you at school.”

“see you at school,” janus echoes.

it’s probably the absolute lack of tension that is serving to make janus feel strange. since the beginning of the school year, they’d been picking at each other over grades, and he’d been needling logan for so long, it feels odd to leave without some kind of academic repartee. 

and, well. who is he to break from tradition, after all.

the entire reason for this gathering being to forcibly break tradition aside.

so he adds, “i bet my score on our science exam is higher than yours.”

“it will not,” logan says, looking affronted. 

janus snorts, shaking his head and starting down the stairs, heading for his car. “whatever you say.”

“it won’t!”

“four point margin.”

“absolutely not! your score will be less than mine by two at most!”

“i’ll make it mine is six points above yours!” janus calls, sliding into the driver’s seat, and sees logan shaking his head and probably muttering to himself.

janus rolls his eyes, but his lip turns up at the corner a bit more than usual as he drives down a rinky-dink little residential street and is that an old couple walking a cat in a stroller?! who put drugs in this town’s water supply?!

⁂

“hey, over here!”

the jolly bell fixed to the top of the door of this (admittedly quite cool) coffeeshop has barely rung before poppy’s attention is called to a corner lit by a big, dramatic brass lamp, where two fat, squashy buttery leather armchairs are framed on either side by bookshelves containing a boggling number of books in seemingly every genre and cool little bits of artsy decor.

poppy waves to lauren, before she points to the bar in a wordless offer. lauren, in answer, holds up her own to-go cup, waving her on to order.

poppy loves coffee.

poppy isn’t allowed to drink coffee. 

well. decaf is fine. but the reason she isn’t allowed to drink caffeine “should be self-evident,” according to her mother. so this cuts down a bit on her café offerings.

the barista—who has the largest cup on offer in one hand, and his phone in the other—barely glances away from his phone to look at her over the frames of his sunglasses.

“what do you want?”

okay, blunt. poppy can appreciate blunt. 

“the honey lavender latte. decaf,” she tacks on.

“size?”

“large.”

“hot or iced?”

“iced.”

“anything else?”

poppy shakes her head, nods when he recites the order back to her, taps her card when asked, and shuffles off to the pickup area to get her coffee, taking a moment to look around.

all of the machinery is sleek, decorated in white and black, down to the framed wall art beneath the menu. the barista is talking on his phone, now, gesticulating grandly with his truly enormous cup of iced—tea, she’s pretty sure?—behind the espresso machine, even as he’s pulling a shot for her drink. it’s frankly an impressive display of multitasking. 

she looks around the room. there are other chilton people here, but not many, and most of them upperclassmen lingering in sideshire before they have to retreat back to the horrors of the workload of their junior and senior years. 

there are a few of sideshire townsfolk, too, most of them chattering in polite undertones, lounging on the couches are the same buttery brown leather of the armchairs. there are also a couple of modern black rocking chairs cushioned in white, also under a couple of those big, brass lamps, all so similar in style; it all looks right out of a period film’s library mashed together with a sleek, black-and-white modernist look. poppy’s burgeoning designer brain can appreciate the adherence to an aesthetic, and this place has it in spades.

the entire place is very… cool.

poppy isn’t very well-versed in how to handle cool. her peers have made this very clear to her.

she scoops up her order when called with a quick “thanks,” and scoots her way over to the other armchair.

“hey!” lauren says, immediately shifting her laptop so poppy can see. “i’m just getting the most likely stuff features onto a flashdrive—what d’you think on this one?”

poppy examines it. it’s a good shot, ana and janey talking, heads leaned in close, fan angled just so to shield what they’re saying from their seat neighbor, but not enough to obscure their faces. ana smirking in perfect profile, janey’s laugh covered in dramatic shadow. 

“that’s good,” poppy says, then, with much more honesty, “well, with a bit of color grading…”

lauren laughs ruefully. “yeah, i know. it’s juuuust cloudy enough to mess with my exposure settings with all the windows in there, let me tell you. i’ll chuck it into the folder of likely contenders and meet up with mel to whittle all the options down on monday. do you wanna help? if you don’t, i can just do it later. i’m procrastinating on an essay for mr. medina.”

mr. medina teaches sophomore and senior honors and ap english. poppy isn’t sure how she’ll handle it next year; he’s a fine enough teacher, sure, but he also doesn’t seem to be the sort to do things when poppy tells him to, like some other teachers at chilton. one compliment to mrs. caldicott, for example, and she’d probably eat out of the palm of poppy’s hand.

“sure, i can help sort photos,” poppy says, wondering if this is some kind of test. she doesn’t know lauren very well—should she just agree with everything she says? will lauren be the sort to get ruffled up if disagreed with, or would she think poppy a suck-up if she didn’t?

and photos, too! so prone to artistic disagreement. so prone to subjectivity! at least design tended to have some very classic rules. poppy knows less with photography; rule of thirds, and that was about it.

“cool, thanks—i don’t have many left, i don’t think, let me get it set up here…”

poppy takes a nervous sip of her beverage as lauren plugs her laptop in to charge, then angles the screen so they can both see it without too much glare. 

the drink is good. very good. just sweet enough with the honey, just floral enough with the lavender, but the drink isn’t too sweet nor too floral nor too bitter from the coffee; all the flavors work in perfect concert with each other. it’s the sort of good that makes poppy very happy she’s taken a risk and gotten a large, and she’s already mentally plotting an excuse to come see logan just so she can swing by this coffeeshop again. 

“okay!” lauren says brightly, enlarges the photo, and poppy can’t help but snort, then wince.

but—it’s, objectively, a bad photo. it’s an insanely blurry shot; it looks like lauren accidentally snapped a photo on its way into her camera bag, focused mostly on the ballet studio’s wooden floors.

“okay, yeah, immediate no,” lauren says, also laughing, which makes poppy’s shoulders relax, just a bit.

she also files the information away; lauren is, at least superficially, okay with laughing at herself. that’s useful intel.

there are very few other immediate nos in there; one where kai, lauren’s boyfriend (poppy thinks? she’s not up on the gossip. she has better ways to spend her time) has stolen lauren’s camera and attempted to take a selfie with it, missing most of his face and instead capturing a surprisingly steady photo of their own shoulder. there’s one where tristan dugray is obviously in the middle of sneezing. (her mother says that poppy ought to have a crush on a boy like tristan, who is objectively handsome, poppy can yield that, but he’s just… such a jackass.) 

a few others pass in that nature; people who turned at the last second, awkward blinking, action stills that aren’t very photogenic, but the one five photos after that are, that kind of thing.

but the rest of them are remarkably well-composed, featuring a mixture of chilton students, not just those who are popular. there’s a mix of dynamics, of expressions, of poses; even as poppy tries to peruse them with a critical eye, as she gathers that lauren does actually want to know her opinion, it’s obvious that lauren has a talent. 

she says as much as they wind down on the end of the photos, lauren detaching the memory card reader from her laptop and packing it away into a teeny tiny little case.

“aw, shucks,” lauren says, grinning, starting to dissemble her camera with swift, practiced motions, detaching the lens and reaching for a microfiber cloth. “i mean, i’ve been taking photos since i was a little kid, i’d hope some sort of talent would have rub off on me by now.”

“so you’ve always wanted to be a photographer?” poppy asks, immediately intrigued. 

lauren hesitates, pausing from polishing the lens.

“...um,” lauren says, and laughs a little bit, awkward, and poppy immediately know she’s overstepped. she doesn’t know how—this is a frequent occurrence—she just knows that she has.

“sorry,” poppy says hastily, knowing that this is typically the smoothest path to resolution.

“no, no, it’s fine,” lauren says, waving her hand. poppy watches the cloth flutter like a flag in the wind. “um—i dunno, it always just gets a bit… you know how chilton is.”

“they do tend to prioritize STEM careers,” poppy agrees hastily. this is a boon for her, considering she intends on going into medicinal research, but she can see how this might be a bit of a struggle for someone more artistically inclined.

“yeah,” lauren says. “um. it’s more… i don’t know what i want to do. actually.”

poppy freezes.

the idea is such anathema to her that it’s boggling her mind. poppy knows her life and who she’s going to grow up to be ever since she had a concept of herself. high school at chilton, college at harvard, then staying at harvard for med school, then making a career in cancer research. that’s it. path plotted.

“like,” lauren says, “at all. i mean, i like photography a lot! i really enjoy mel’s class. but do i like it enough to stake my entire college experience on it? to make a career in that? i really like to bake, too, but i don’t want to be a baker. same with chemistry. same with—everything. i don’t even know which colleges i’ll apply for yet.”

that’s insane. objectively, poppy thinks.

(it’s not.)

even if lauren wasn’t also a chilton student—who famously set their students rigorous exercises and standards for the collegiate application experience—she doesn’t even know where she wants to go?!

“like,” poppy echoes, lost for words. “...at all?”

“like at all,” lauren agrees miserably. “i’m seventeen, anyways! who the hell has their life figured out at seventeen?!”

she does not give poppy an opportunity to answer—probably good, because poppy would have said something like well, i’ve had it figured out since i was four—before she says “no one! no one does! why is society set up like this?!”

“...historical precedent,” poppy decides to say, because that feels safer than offering any emotional input.

“historical precedent is stupid,” lauren grumbles. “all i know i want to do is keep spending time with my boyfriend, take pictures, bake things to bring into class, and probably be editor in chief next year, because i really like the idea of spending more time with mel and molding the paper into the best it can be, not because i know for a fact that i want to be editor in chief someday and i want to put it on my resume.”

wow. poppy and lauren really are different.

“is that too much to ask?!”

“no,” poppy says because, objective wildness of not planning your future since you’ve had a concept of time aside, it isn’t  a lot to ask.

“thank you,” lauren sighs, flopping back into her armchair, then meets poppy’s eyes for the first time since she’s started this little tirade.

“oh, god, i’m sorry,” lauren says. “sorry. it’s just—my parents were getting on me about it right before we got here, they want me to buckle down, like, four years ago, and it’s… sorry. i shouldn’t have put all that on you.”

“no, it’s okay,” poppy says, once again relying on that old faithful of Societal Norms. 

“here i am, freaking out, and here you are, with—” lauren gestures vaguely. “a painstakingly organized agenda and a straightforward trajectory and a—a purpose. a future, a plan. i mean, cancer research, wow!”

it is pretty wow, but poppy thinks it’d be pretty insensitive to bring that up at the moment, as lauren is currently burying her face in her hands.

“i’m all—mess, and you’ve got everything figured out,” lauren finishes. 

“not everything,” flies out of poppy’s mouth before she can even consider a response.

lauren peeks through her fingers, arching an eyebrow.

“i know it sounds—silly,” poppy says, haltingly. “but—you’ve got things figured out that i definitely don’t. i mean—my mom would kill for me to have a boyfriend and do social things like you do.”

“your mom has her priorities a bit skewed.”

“i know that,” poppy tries not to snap, “but that’s—what it is. people like you, you get involved in things, and i can’t even figure out which stupid secret society to join because, even though i have all the family connections, neither of them really like me enough to invite me before now.”

welp. there it is.

poppy knows she’s an acquired taste; the trouble is, she’s never met anyone particularly patient enough to actually acquire it. dee has come close, she guesses, but he’s so hard to read that it’s genuinely difficult to tell, and even then, it’s because they’re “of a like mind,” according to him.

which—considering dee’s reputation within the chilton social stratosphere—is not particularly comforting.

“oh, poppy, that’s not—”

“i’m going to have to suck up to francie jarvis all year if i want to get into the puffs, she all but told me that outright,” poppy snaps. “help her with her homework, secure her a prime spot in the parking lot, organize her locker, scrunch up the plastic strands on her pom-poms to make them fluffy. i’d have to do everything except give her a manicure, if I had any talent with an orange stick.”

“but there’s the—”

“—clairs, i know, but no one’s even approached me about the clairs, even though i have cousins who graduated from both sororities! my family's name and reputation, not to mention my entire future, all depend on me getting into that group—”

“okay, first of all,” lauren says, “the entirety of your family’s name, reputation, and your incredibly bright future do not all depend on which clique you’re in in high school.”

“—my mother was a proud puff,” poppy continues as if she hasn’t spoken, because really, what a ridiculous notion that the world was not pinned on the minutiae of decisions you make in high school, “and my cousin maddie. the connections maddie made with the puffs got her an internship with the supreme court. but my father’s sister was a clair, and so was my cousin ruth. the connections ruth made with the clairs got her an incredible job managing celebrity pr, which sounds like hell to me but she’s thrilled as anything—”

“poppy—poppy!” lauren’s holding up her hands in supplication, and poppy promptly shuts her mouth.

did that guy behind the barista bar screw up and give her full caffeine?! she surreptitiously looks at the sharpie markings on her cup—no, marked off as decaf. hmph.

“okay,” lauren says, speaking in a soft, quiet tone, the way one might talk to an easily startled bunny or something of that nature. which is ridiculous, even if poppy’s shoulder’s relax a little at the sound of it. “first of all: i don’t know about the puffs, but clairs don’t recruit until the last month of your freshman year.”

poppy blinks.

“which wouldn’t be for a minute, for you,” she adds helpfully. “second, you could probably report francie for hazing—”

“it was mostly implied,” poppy mumbles.

“—still,” lauren says. “francie’s…”

poppy waits for lauren to finish that sentence, taking a sip of her drink.

“...francie,” lauren finishes delicately, as if unable to come up with any singular term that would do the work to encapsulate francie. “look. you’re smart, and driven, and you’d succeed in either sorority you wanted, or no sorority, even—”

poppy’s already shaking her head at that notion. 

“—but, hey, part of why i asked you to coffee is to tell you about the clairs,” lauren says, settling back in her armchair. 

“that would be great, thank you,” poppy says politely, trying to pack away their mutual spinouts into the distant past of thirty seconds ago, never to be thought of again. “maddie tells me all about the puffs, but ruth’s pretty quiet about the clairs. what are meetings like?”

“i mean, it’s kind of secret,” lauren says, warmly enough that it’s not entirely discounting the question, “but, i mean—you know how chilton tends to try to keep everything about the secret societies hush-hush and fails at it completely?”

poppy nods. there are ten secret societies worth cracking at chilton, and the puffs have been commonly regarded as number one for the last fifty years. a supreme court justice was once a puff. the ship to keeping secret societies hush-hush had sailed long ago for that reason alone.

“i can tell you the stuff i knew was in the public eye before i got initiated,” lauren says, “which—you probably know, but it’ll probably be good to clear up rumor-rumors from rumors based a little more in fact.”

also accurate. the jefferson has famously implied that the clairosophic society are the closest a modern girl could get to going into the woods and slaughtering chickens and drinking each other’s blood to enact witchcraft, like fabled salem witches of old.

the jefferson has also implied certain things about the puffs and their… well, poppy thinks its not too far of a stretch to mention the comparison to a cultish honeybee hive, complete absolute obeisance to their designated queen—highly likely to be francie for the next few years.

“this is different for every society—and for fraternities and sororities in college—but i can generally tell you that it’s not too different from a lot of club meetings. we have an agenda, we have questions and discussion, we do an occasional activity, we make a plan for what we’ll do between this meeting and the next one.”

vague, but poppy can appreciate mentions of agendas and plans. valuable intel. poppy is notoriously good with agendas and plans—she might be able to finagle this into a boon, regardless of which sorority she joins—

“usually, we talk about things going on at chilton, philanthropy events, any tweaks to the bylaws, social events that we’re all planning, voting for some of the more niche aspects of running a sorority… formal meetings are a lot of bureaucracy.”

poppy can do bureaucracy! poppy is great at bureaucracy!

wait.

“and… informal meetings?” poppy says.

“also a bit secret,” lauren says sheepishly. “more like… friend hangouts. don’t stress about it.”

hilarious. as if poppy has experience with informal hangouts. poppy will absolutely be stressing about it.

“you mentioned philanthropy?” poppy prompts, and lauren brightens.

“yes! we vote on a cause each year, and this year—for the past couple years, actually—we’re focusing our efforts on a children’s research hospital.”

poppy must visibly perk up at this, because lauren grins.

“i thought that might be up your alley.”

“what kind of things do you do?” poppy says, practically vibrating. depending on the puffs’ philanthropic efforts, this could absolutely tilt the scales—establishing connections at a hospital this early! poppy had previously planned on beginning to do volunteer work as soon as she was legally old enough to do some work of import at the hospital, but this was huge, this could advance her plans by years—

“a lot of fundraising—i need to pin down what i’m going to bake for a bake sale in two weeks, actually—helping out with their phone bank, some occasional office administration stuff, supporting their fundraising events. some girls—ana does it, i can give her your number if you have questions—help out in the playroom. ana’s there basically every weekend, she’s there probably the most of anyone. some of the girls on the cross-country and track teams are finagling the rest of them to join in the national 5k.”

poppy nods, absorbing this.

“we partner with a lot of their official events, mostly volunteering to do some of the grunt work. actually, wait, let me find a pamphlet for you from the hospital, i know i’ve got it here somewhere…”

lauren begins rummaging around in her backpack, and poppy takes a moment to drink her coffee and absorb this; a man in a cardigan opens a door that poppy had thought for staff only. the barista looks up, smiling for the first time that she’s seen, and passes the man a prepped to-go cup. the man in the cardigan beams, takes it, and uses his other hand to pull the barista in for a quick kiss.

poppy finds herself staring as the barista leans against the counter; they speak in quiet undertones, cautious not to let any of their words float to the rest of the café—poppy thinks she might be the only one watching, though. the locals don’t seem to care, as if this is a common enough occurrence, and the lingering chilton students are either deep in conversation with each other or scrolling on their phones or laptops with their airpods in.

what a town, where these people can kiss and no one even thinks to comment upon it.

poppy wonders if that’s what life is like outside of the mcmaster household. to be free of a world where every little thing is commented upon.

“here you go,” lauren says cheerfully, passing it over. “even if you don’t join the clairs, i hope you look into this. it’s a really great cause.”

“sure,” poppy says automatically, taking it and tucking it carefully into her bag, then, “do you really not care if i join the clairs or not?”

lauren blinks. “how do you mean?”

“like,” poppy says, gesturing vaguely. “this. this wasn’t some recruitment tactic?”

“oh!” lauren says. “i mean—not formally. i just invited you because…”

“because?” poppy prompts, eyes narrowing.

“because i really do think that we need to stick together,” lauren says. “both in terms of being journalism girls, sure, but also because i think women in general should stick together. i do want you in the clairs, but not because of the fact that you’re a mcmaster or i think you’re going to be really successful some day—which you will—but because i like you.”

poppy blinks. “you like me?”

“sure, i like you!” lauren says. “i think you’re really good at journalism and design. i like that you decided you wanted a feature and went after it. i like that you’re teaming up with logan and dee, even though dee’s kind of out there, because you recognize everyone’s talent, instead of only yours, which i think is way too common in a place like chilton. and i think you’re funny.”

poppy absorbs this for a moment. funny is not a word typically used to describe her. like is not a word typically used to describe her. she sets this aside—the words sure i like you! echoing in her mind nonetheless—and progresses.

“do you think i’d be a good clair?”

“i think you’d be a great member of any sorority,” lauren says. “but, yes—i think you’d be a great clair. you’re driven, you’re smart, you’re so focused on your own goals that i don’t think you’d care that any other clairs’ life path is a little unorthodox.”

“is that common?” poppy says, setting aside the errant thought that unorthodox might have been an invitation to pun. poppy does not pun, but enough people at her synagogue do that it feels near-instinctual to recognize the opportunity and let it float away. “unorthodox life paths, i mean.”

“very,” lauren says honestly. “i mean—my indecision aside. i know that a lot of us don’t fit the chilton mold. girls who are religious outside of christianity, girls who aren’t religious at all, girls who don’t want what society sets out for the path of a “good”—” here she uses air quotes, “chilton girl. like—liv is already setting up to be a professional bridesmaid starting in college, and that’s all she’s ever professed a desire to do, professionally speaking. bella’s thinking about going off the grid entirely and living off the land. soph leads ghost tours on the weekends with the intent of landing a rich eccentric to spouse up with. scarlet doesn’t want to go to college at all, she thinks chilton is scamming her parents.“

yes. those are certainly all off the path of approved post-chilton career paths, which mostly seem to split between “corporate,” “lawyer,” “doctor,” “professor,” or “otherwise professionally or academically outstanding so that we may brag upon our alumni.”

“yeah, you’d be a good clair.”

“oh,” poppy says. “that’s… good. but. i mean. do you think i’d… fit in, as a clair?”

“i think that’s the beauty of the clairs,” lauren says thoughtfully. “none of us fit in. but we manage to fit in with each other. if that makes any sense?”

it does, poppy thinks, stirring her drink with her straw, thinking of hattie, thinking of the barista, thinking of a future where she won’t have to bow to someone’s every whim, but one where she is instead offered mentorship and volunteer opportunities to further her future, without ulterior motive. 

“it really does.”

⁂

seline: ALERT.

francie: You know how much I hate it when you start a text message with a vague message instead of getting right to the point.

seline: right, sorry. 

francie: And learn punctuation.

seline: anyway i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café 

francie: Poppy McMaster? 

seline: she’s that really intense freshman right

francie: WAY too intense.

seline: and loud. and also i think she might be a robot, she never just. STOPS. ykwim

francie: She comes from a long line of us, though. 

seline: ugh. i hate nepotism.

francie: Rich of you to say. It makes the world go ‘round.

francie: Anway, I should care about this, beyond McMaster being insanely intense and coming from a long line of Puffs because…?

seline: right! so i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café 

francie: Get to a point, please.

seline: and she sat with lauren whatever her name is. seline: …and asking her a lot about the clairosophic society.

francie: What?! francie: But her family’s fully puffed!!!

seline: except her cousin.

francie: Who cares about her freaky cousin? A voluntary defector!!! There hasn’t been one in at least ten years, and even then, that was forgiven when she got suspended for troublemaking!!!

seline: maybe i heard her wrong, bc i was listening to that stupid video mr. gardiner keeps saying i should listen to to “improve my understanding of calculus,” but that’s what i think i heard her say.

francie: We absolutely cannot have this. 

⁂

“if katy fincher’s mom tries to butt in on coaching the cheer squad one more time, i’m going to scream,” sasha says, her face buried in her arms where they rest on the desk of their mutual english class. 

they currently have quiet time to work on their papers, which means everyone is talking in quiet voices and absolutely not working on their papers. most are instead online shopping on their laptops or texting other people on the sly.

“mood, retweet, same,” roman says, sticking a post-it in the latest poetry compendium he’s reading. he thinks logan will like this one, even if it is a bit more avant-garde that logan’s usual tastes.

“like, we get it, you were a cheerleader here fifty years ago or whatever, that doesn’t mean you get to just steamroller over our actual coach,” sasha continues, scowling. “it’s enough that she has somehow managed to nepotize katy into a flyer position, now she wants to choreograph routines to bring them back to how they were? no, thank you.”

“she wants to do what,” roman says, looking up from his poetry book. “since when?”

“i don’t even know, but joanna posner texted me that mrs. fincher has some suggestions for practice tomorrow, apparently.”

“the routines are great the way they are! we’re nearly done with the basketball season already, what’s the point of doing it now? is coach actually going to hear her out?”

sasha looks up just enough to shrug and give roman a look at her excellent cut-crease eyeshadow look today—all silvery sparkles and stark, dramatic gunmetal gray—before dropping her forehead back onto her arms. 

“this means she’s probably going to put herkies in it,” sasha whines. “i hate herkies.”

“i also hate herkies,” roman says. it’s true, it’s probably his least-favorite cheer-specific jump, which is something, because he usually loves leaps and jumps. it’s like someone ferociously messed up an attitude leap and decided to just rename it instead of facing up to the fact that they did it wrong.

“if any parent should come in to choreograph a new routine, it’s your mom,” sasha says, rolling so her cheek is resting on her arms now, not her forehead. “your mom rules at teaching routines.”

roman smiles. it’s true. his mom does rule at teaching and also at everything else.

“it was really cool to see her teach and stuff last weekend,” sasha continues. “it makes me wish i actually went to a studio to do ballet instead of trying to teach myself from barbie movies.”

“barbie’s nutcracker and twelve dancing princesses are an integral part of my ballet dancer lore,” roman says, “but yeah, she’s the best. and you did, in fact, miss out on the best dance teacher of all time.”

“not that you’re biased.”

“of course not,” roman agrees, amused. “i’m the least biased in the world.”

the bell rings; there’s a great scraping of chairs and desks as everyone gets up to go to lunch, their teacher calling out reminders on the deadline for the paper maybe two of them were actually working on.

roman tucks his book into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and asks, “sit with me?”

“sure,” sasha says, and so they set off for the cafeteria, briefly interrupted by a conversation with brick davis about if either of them know anything about arranging carpool arrangements—they don’t, but roman gives brick logan’s phone number because he probably will know—before they find a decent table away from the herd of people who probably sprinted here to get to the microwaves first.

elliott finds them all not long after that, sitting down beside sasha.

“hi,” they say, before peeking curiously at the contents of sasha’s lunchbox. “that looks really good.”

“thanks!” sasha says brightly, already drizzling tzatziki over the innards of her wrap. “i’d heat it up if the lines weren’t so bad today, but souvlaki’s okay cold. even if might be blasphemous to my ancestors, whatever, they never had to deal with microwave lines.”

elliott sighs a little, glumly removing a ziplock bag with what looks like a very sad sandwich inside. they examine it for a minute.

“erm,” roman says, briefly glancing up from his chicken caesar salad. “what is that?”

“i… am not really sure,” elliott says. they open it, sniff a little, and hastily reseal it, but not before the scent of heavy mayonnaise reaches roman. “and i am not entirely sure i trust that this is vegetarian, so. what’s on the hot lunch menu today?”

“umm, i think it’s spaghetti? but don’t quote me on that.” sasha adds hastily.

“sold,” elliott says immediately, scooping up their sad, mayo-infused sandwich to dump in the nearest trash can. “be right back.”

sasha, likely reveling in the fact that one of her dad’s favorite hobbies is remaking and gently tweaking family recipes until they match his elusive childhood memories of summers spent in katerini, looks on sympathetically as elliott shuffles their way in line.

“i’d bring them a spare lunch if they ever asked,” she says with a shake of her head. “i think this is the third time in two weeks that elliott’s had to buy a hot lunch because they weren’t sure if their mom remembered to pack something vegetarian.”

“ditto,” roman says, unsuccessfully attempting to spear a crouton. “my mom’s pretty good about meal prep, and even then, i live, like, right next door to virgil. he’d pack them a lunch without a doubt.”

“it’s like they don’t know they’ve got prime food access just by virtue of us,” sasha says.

“we should hint that to them. delicately.”

“for sure,” sasha agrees. “if it’s not mayo, it’s ham. if it’s not ham, it’s, like, really sad pb&js that are half-smushed inside a ziploc bag.”

“you’d think it would get better once chad graduated,” he says, then, “right, right, you’re new. chad is elliott’s older brother.”

“mm,” sasha says, nose wrinkling. “is he, like, a nice chad, or—”

“no. quintessential chad. whatever you’re picturing, you’ve probably got it.”

sasha’s nose wrinkles further, and she and roman distract themselves with eating as much of their lunches as they can until elliott comes back. 

lunch breaks aren’t exactly leisurely at sideshire high. ergo, the sprint to form lines at the microwave; the faster it’s warm, the faster you can eat, the faster you can get to talking to your friends, or visiting your favorite teacher, or stopping by your locker, or what have you.

roman’s pretty sure they aren’t leisurely at chilton, either, but roman bets the students there are a bit less social and a bit more studious with their spare time during lunch breaks.

after a few minutes, elliott drops down at their table and they, too, promptly begin inhaling their spaghetti with marinara sauce and garlic bread on the side.

“we ran into brick earlier, do you know anything about carpooling to the debutante ball?” sasha asks elliott.

they shake their head and make noise of denial. 

“that’s a good idea, though,” they mumble.

“yeah, someone should get on that,” sasha says, then, “wait, duh, i know a quick way to get an answer on this.”

she pulls out her phone and sends a text; roman sees his phone screen light up from where he has it stashed in a backpack pocket, in the sideshire debutantes group chat.

“oh, obviously,” roman says. “why didn’t i think of that?”

“just say your brain’s fried from whatever amount of planning happened this weekend, we’d forgive you,” sasha advises. “it was a really big production, does your mom do that kind of thing a lot?”

“well, she hosts a lot of town meetings,” roman muses. “and, i mean, we teach a lot of classes, but—nothing like that.”

“no, this is a pretty unique situation,” elliott says between bites. “your mom’s still really scary, by the way, it did not get better just because i took a class with her like you said it would.”

“i know, isn’t she the best?” roman beams.

elliott makes a nervous mmmmm sound as sasha says “yes absolutely she is.”

“like, hey, look,” roman says, displaying his salad. “i said i was craving caesar, and look! caesar. with plenty to spare, if anyone ever asked me to bring any spare food to anywhere for any reason, plus, like, really close access to the best restaurant in town.”

“subtle,” sasha mouths at him, and roman just shrugs. 

hey, he can be a lot of things—dramatic, ostentatious, confident—and none of those are exactly synonyms for subtle.

“yeah, speaking of virgil,” elliott says, digging out their phone. “look at my suit! dress? suit-dress?”

“swess,” sasha says, leaning over to peer at elliott’s phone screen.

“druit,” roman says, doing the same.

it looks, frankly, really cool; half perfect tux, half old-fashioned, regency-esque white dress. 

“elliott, that’s gonna look so good,” sasha gushes happily. 

roman says, delighted, “wow, elliott, it turned out great, i can’t wait to see it in person!”

“thanks,” elliott says, ducking their head. “i’m, um, i’m really happy with it, actually. i was really nervous.”

“what are you gonna do with shoes and stuff?” sasha says curiously. “oh, i could totally help you do a half-and-half look, just say the word!”

“would you really?” elliott says, looking surprised. “thanks, sasha, that would be really—really great, actually. i mostly just,” and gestures to their dark eyeshadow. “y’know. not exactly intricate stuff.”

sasha squeals happily, clapping her hands.

“i love having models to do makeup on!” she says. “my sisters are getting so tired of me bursting into their rooms when they’re trying to do homework, let me tell you. ooh, ellie, this is gonna be great! we should probably carpool then, right, if i’m your makeup artist?”

“sure!” elliott says. “we can text other people to see if there’s room in the car, or if you’ve got yours, or—” 

“totally,” sasha says. “sorry, can i just take a picture of your face, real quick? i want to make sure i have a reference for foundation matching.”

“um, sure?” elliott says, and they try their best to offer a neutral expression to the camera.

quickly afterward, not even leaning over to peek at the picture sasha got, elliott turns to roman. “how about you? i don’t think i’ve seen your dress.”

roman grins. “it’s a surprise, darlings.”

“aw, not even one hint?” sasha teases.

roman, faux-thoughtfully, taps his finger against his chin.

“well,” he says with a smile at elliott, “you won’t be the only one doing an avant-garde makeup look, how about that?”

“oh, nice,” elliott says. “i mean—not that you won’t do a great job, sasha, it’s just also nice to know i won’t be the only one.”

“i don’t think you were ever going to be the only one,” sasha says cheerfully. “it’s a ton of people smashing gender norms, interesting fashion and makeup kind of goes hand-in-hand with all of that.”

“interesting fashion seems like a theme with those chilton kids for sure,” elliott says. “i mean, wasn’t that friend of logan’s wearing a cape?”

roman scowls, more out of instinct than anything.

“uh-oh,” sasha says. “we don’t like logan’s friend? what’s their name?”

“dee,” roman grumbles, “and no, we do not like him. he’s competing with logan too hard for valedictorian, which should be logan’s in any sane world, he lied to me for the sake of his own amusement, he pokes his nose in everyone’s business, he—”

“okay, we don’t like him,” sasha says, cutting him off. “got it.”

elliott makes another mm noise.

“what?” roman says, lowering his fork.

elliott jerks their shoulders up and down in a shrug.

“no, really, what?” 

“wellll,” elliott says, drawing out the word, dragging their fork through the pasta. “does he… really suck?”

“yes, he sucks,” roman says fervently. “he, for sure, really, absolutely sucks.”

“do i detect jealousy?” sasha says, a hint of intrigue on her voice.

“you absolutely do not,” roman says fervently. “no. no way. i am not jealous of that—that jason vorhees wannabe!”

elliott’s head tilts, and their mouth pulls to one side.

“what was that face?” roman says. “i’m not!”

“weeeeellllll,” elliott says in a high-pitched voice.

“oh, go on, elliott, you know i’m new,” sasha urges. “you know all this history, i’m at a disadvantage.”

elliott shrugs, lifting a noodle on their fork, letting it drop back down into the tray. “i mean, you and logan have practically been together since kindergarten.”

“not true,” roman mutters petulantly. “if we had been together that long, i could have saved myself a lot of longing staring and yearning angst throughout the years.” 

“not necessarily romantically,” elliott adds to sasha, as if roman isn’t even there. “just, like. it was always roman-and-logan, logan-and-roman, you know?”

they say it very quickly, like they’re used to saying their names as all one word; romanandlogan, loganandroman. roman fights the urge to be sappy about that.

“if one was there, the other wasn’t far behind. they’ve always been,” elliott says, and twines their fingers together, using the gesture to finish their sentence. 

“ohhh,” sasha says, in a great gusting sigh of realization. “i see. logan moved, met this guy, and now this is a whole another person might be becoming important to the person who’s important to me thing.”

“it is not that thing, okay, first of all,” roman says, “he’s evil.”

“evil?!” sasha says, on the edge of a laugh. “he’s a prep wearing a cape, roman, i don’t know if it’s that serious.”

“it is that serious,” roman says vehemently, “he manipulated someone into punching logan, so—!”

“wait, what?” elliott says, and so roman has to catch them all up on the dastardy of dee slange.

this takes the rest of lunch break; they split off for their respective lockers and afternoon classes, roman slightly vindicated by the looks on their faces as they realize that dee slange is heinous.

“but if he did all that—” sasha begins, then breaks it off, her brow furrowing.

“what?” roman says, distracted by the sound of their class bell, putting his phone back into the perfectly sized pocket of his backpack.

elliott and sasha exchange another look.

“well,” sasha says. “i guess i don’t know him as well as either of you do, but… logan seems like a really smart guy. if dee really did all of that—then why is logan bothering to hang out with him?”

roman sets his jaw, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“that’s what i can’t figure out, either,” roman says, and he goes on his way to his next class before either of them can start brainstorming and come up answers that make dee even more abominable than he already is..

or, even worse—

answers that will make roman start to consider dee as logan’s misunderstood confidante.

⁂

“uh-huh. well, that’s good, at least.”

patton makes eye contact with virgil and nods as virgil speaks into the landline; virgil nods back with a little distracted smile on his face as he continues listening intently on the phone. patton contents himself with attempting to guess who’s on the phone based on the half of the conversation he’s walked into the middle of. 

“yeah, it’s all going pretty well, we had a big get-together with a lot of the kids so they all know how it’s gonna go down… probably, yeah, i’m up to my armpits in tulle, but i think i’ve gotten all the last of the last-minute folks in, so i can at least narrow it down…”

okay, someone who is interested in how the debutante ball is going, which means not someone with a strict business relationship based mostly on virgil ordering ingredients and supplies.

“...bit longer, but shouldn’t be much. you know how things get with the seasons, i’ve got a bit more downtime here and there…”

hm. virgil’s tone makes it almost like he’s talking to his mom, which would fit, except virgil’s probably talked to meredith recently enough that she’d know about the timeline, and someone else who knows about how restaurant levels vary. which leaves…

“okay. yeah, see you soon… i will, i will, he’d probably like that… thanks. bye.”

virgil hangs up the landline; if there’s one thing about landlines patton misses, it’s probably that sense of concrete finality that comes from hanging up a phone. smartphones just mean pressing a screen. no theatricality of clicking buttons, no twirling the line around a finger.

lot more convenient to carry, though. and little smartphone games! patton loves little smartphone games.

“bud or maisie?” patton asks, as virgil, smiling, leans forward, elbows on the counter. “i’m guessing maisie.”

“maisie.”

“ha! i got it!” patton crows, before leaning forward; virgil, who he is maybe in the midst of accidentally pavlov’ing, leans the rest of the way to give patton a little greeting kiss.

“maisie wants me to bring my handsome young man back over pretty soon,” virgil says. 

patton grins. he likes bud and maisie quite a bit; he’s pretty pleased that they like him back.

“she and bud say hello.”

“well, i say hello back,” patton declares, despite the fact that virgil would probably have to call them back to pass on this news. it’s in the spirit of the thing. 

“how was work?”

“oh, same old, same old,” patton says vaguely, “except i think one of the kid guests is trying to smuggle one of our squirrels into the hotel so they can smuggle it back home in their luggage.”

virgil considers this. “i don’t know what to do with that.”

“yeah, me either,” patton agrees. “logan never really got into the let’s adopt this animal phase beyond, like, frogs.” 

“ah, i remember reptile phase,” virgil says. “made it a lot easier that you lived by their natural habitat, though. i don’t think this girl can do that unless she convinces her parents to move here.”

“i don’t blame her, though. we’ve got a pretty good squirrel population. very fuzzy, very fat, very prone to posing for pictures.” 

“true,” virgil says. “we have very handsome squirrels here. good representatives to stick on a wildlife brochure. i don’t know how taylor is behind this, but i think taylor is behind this.”

“you and logan think taylor’s behind everything.”

“he is, but continue.”

“well—i don’t think tipping off the parents that their child is planning to abduct the local wildlife is really in my job description, considering she’s been pretty vocal about our squirrels, but i told the landscapers to keep an eye out for it.”

“probably for the best,” virgil agrees. 

“speaking of photogenic,” patton says, and he waggles his eyebrows. “do you have your fancy black tail outfit all sorted out?”

virgil groans—half joke, half real disdain for the stuffy uncomfortableness of it all—and rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “do i have to?”

“probably not,” patton says, practical, “considering all the kids are flouting dress codes anyway.”

virgil freezes.

patton grins. “did i just now bring that to your attention?” this strikes patton as particularly ironic, considering virgil’s outfit today; a dark, silky purple button-down tucked into a breezy black maxi skirt, his eyes rimmed with black and his lips painted with burgundy to match.

virgil drops his forehead onto his arms, whining “i could have just not bought a fancy suit?!” into the counter.

“aw, poor virgil,” patton says, running his fingers through his impressively silky hair, then, “...how fancy?”

“very!” virgil grumbles, not moving. “i bought a tailored coat with and without tails because i couldn’t remember which i needed, patton! i have two fancy suit coats i don’t need now!”

“how many fancy suit coats did you have before?” patton says, curious; he thinks he’s only ever seen virgil in suits at weddings, exclusively. photographs of virgil’s siblings’ weddings—patton only ever attended one of the three, though wyatt’s triad is rapidly approaching common law marriage length of relationship had their home state allowed such—and weddings of the general townsfolk, who frequently invite him to fancy events like that since virgil’s the face and name of a town staple and all.

“one!” virgil wails. “i’ve tripled my fancy suit coat collection! how often am i going to be wearing fancy suits?!”

“well—”

“the dry cleaning is a nightmare, patton. i never remember to drop things off at dry cleaning, and then i never remember to pick them up.”

“that i know,” patton says, amused, carding his fingers this way and that through virgil’s hair. “i’m surprised you only had one suit.”

“you have to do business-y things more than me,” virgil says.

“that’s true,” patton says. in addition to weddings—the inn being a popular venue, and patton also being part of a town staple—patton also has much more frequent meetings, bank conferences, the occasional conference for inn owners that maria usually enthuses about, and general tasks that he has to do for his business degree (so close to finishing! patton really does not enjoy studying macro or microeconomics!)

virgil, on the other hand, usually only has bank meetings on the roster. suits in a diner kitchen kind of seemed like a nightmare waiting to happen.

“besides, you’ve got some fancy events coming up other than this, it’ll be nice to have spares,” patton points out—the boys’ graduation within the next couple of years, a fancy dinner or party that patton’s certain his parents will take them both to at one point or another, not to mention the Big Deal Life Events of virgil’s many nieces and nephews. 

just off the top of his head, patton’s pretty sure both wes and mikey are approaching graduation from middle school, and little baby red has had murmurs of a formal christening (primarily moira’s side of the family; silas has never struck patton as particularly religious).

patton mentions this, and virgil only sighs.

“are we done sulking?” patton says, a little amused. “can i see that handsome face, partner of mine?”

“dunno,” virgil mumbles into his arms. “the scratching feels really nice. i could stay here all day.”

patton laughs, scratches a little firmer for emphasis, and says, “we could at least take this to a couch so that you can nod off while i’m doing this, i know you’ve been staying up late with dress alterations lately.”

virgil lets out a sigh of longing, which makes patton giggle, but virgil stands upright.

“there he is,” patton coos, and virgil ducks his head—not quite blushing, but certainly smiling in that shy, bashful way patton loves.

“do you have a suit?”

“oh, my mom referred me to a tailor way back when we first got the dress,” patton says with a little laugh. “i just have to pick it up.”

“probably should have guessed that,” virgil says. “of course your mom would have a tailor on speed dial.”

a tailor. with the way that his mother has her exacting specifications for anything and everything, but especially shopping and appearances in general, coupled with her tendency to immediately fire anyone who displeases her? virgil’s adorable.

“at least i only had to get the cummerbund and coat,” patton reasons, and virgil lets out a great big gust of air.

“can we revisit that whole i lay down on the couch while you scratch through my hair idea?” virgil says. “i’ll bring dinner and the hair. you’ve got couch and the hands.”

“well, how could anyone refuse that offer? it’s a date.” patton beams, and virgil leans over, pressing an imprint of burgundy lipstick into patton’s lips.

patton refuses to wipe it off.

⁂

From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: poppymcmaster@chilton.edu

Subject: Design edits for debutante spread

I appreciate your very prompt response in getting your designs on the flashdrive and down to the journalism lab! I’ve have a few minor edits notated on the PDF attached—mostly to switch from HEX to RGB color codes and adjustments to the margin width to best fit printing standards. 

Very well done on the infographic design work—especially for a freshman! I think you may be able to progress to a more advanced course under my tutelage in your sophomore year, considering I anticipate you won’t need much help figuring out Adobe programs. I might need to ask you for pointers!

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: dslange@chilton.edu

Subject: Story edits for debutante spread

I’ve attached the story edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. Very compelling throughline—I would like the transcripts of your interviews as soon as you can get them to me, so that we can work on ensuring it’s fact- and quality-checked before it goes to print. I appreciate your work—I’m unsure if your future goals involve journalism, but I think you have a very bright future in storycraft regardless, no matter which form it takes.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

To: logansanders@chilton.edu

Subject: Column edits for debutante spread

From: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu

I’ve attached the column edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. They’re mostly line edits, though I wonder if you can fit in a graph about your or Dee’s personal connections to this project, to give the story a personalized “human” element. I appreciate the citation section of the report—very thorough!—and, barring the transcript, can tell you that your work’s fact- and quality-checking is about finished. Is this how things are done at the Courant? I must commend whichever editor has instilled this habit within you, as it’s saved a great deal of time. 

Lauren’s told me some about the things she’s seen as she’s been photographer of the project, and her review of the way yourself and Dee work together has been glowing. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the prospect of the pair of you teaming up, given the debacle last semester, but I’m pleased to see such talented minds find common ground. 

I hope to see more works that you accomplish together, in whatever capacity (though I certainly would appreciate if they were for the Franklin!)

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

  From: laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

To: melissakramschissel@chilton.edu; logansanders@chilton.edu; dslange@chilton.edu; poppymcmaster@chilton.edu

Subject: Re: Debutante Spread

Hi all! 

Attached is a rough draft of Poppy’s design layout with the pictures Kram and I picked included. Comments and notes appreciated. I wanted to thank you three again for having me tag along—really fun photography opportunity AND a really interesting story for the paper! Definitely sign me up if you’ve got any more ideas.

—Lauren

  To: logansanders@chilton.edu; dslange@chilton.edu; poppymcmaster@chilton.edu; laurenpatrikis@chilton.edu

Subject: Potential meeting for spread tweaks

I think all the individual aspects of what the spread is so far are very promising. Would the four of you be free to meet before or after school in the coming week so that we can coordinate on reviewing final edits and the plan to cover the event itself?

Please let me know what works best on timing. Color me impressed by what you all have put together so far! The Franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with all of you taking turns manning the helm.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

⁂

the day starts off simply enough: wake up, brush his teeth and comb his hair, get dressed, go to the diner with dad and virgil, get ahead on some of his daily readings on the bus, walk to his locker to swap out some of his heavy textbooks to the other, then swing by mel’s desk to see if there’s anything else needed for their spread.

at least, he intends to swing by mel’s desk.

instead, logan enters the lab hallway to chaos.

it does not seem to be an exaggeration to state such a thing. francie, of puff fame, nearly knocks him off the stairs at the speed at which she’s storming past him; as he’s rounding the corner on the landing, someone is hastily shoving a copy of the jefferson into his chest then continuing their run to the nearest person with an empty hand; as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, hattie has an arm around summer, also of puff fame, murmuring to her in soft, comforting tones as she cries loudly into hattie’s shoulder.

in the midst of the lab hallway that logan was originally intending to traverse to swing by mel’s desk. there is a crowd the likes of which logan only sees at pep rallies or mandatory assemblies, many of them clutching matching copies of the jefferson, many of them elbowing each other and craning their necks to try and get a look at what lies within the great crush of people.

logan, despite his better judgment, cannot resist his own curiosity; he does not keep walking and ignoring it all. instead, he lingers, because he’s fairly certain nothing will get done in the journalism lab; the crowd’s chatter is slightly subdued, but that is because, logan thinks, in the middle of it all, there is a great deal of yelling.

“—oh, now he’s a CAVEMAN! What were you planning to do, knock me on the back of a head with a club then drag me back to your porsche—?!”

“—BROKEN UP, do you hear me—?!”

“NEVER—in all my years as headmaster—!”

logan blinks, startled, then shuffles vaguely, integrating himself into the great cloud of his navy-plaid-and-gray clad peers, so he can get some impression of what’s going on, then—

“shame,” janus says in a casual, flat tone, appearing suddenly at logan’s side as though summoned by logan’s sheer confusion. logan refuses to jump or startle.

“what is—?”

but then, as the trio shuffles forward, a parting in the crowd, and—

there’s a car.

there’s a car. blue. a honda accord, if he isn’t mistaken. sensible. reliable.

one he’s usually accustomed to seeing in the parking lot, not in the middle of the lab hallway.

in the basement of the school. granted, logan doesn’t know much about cars, but he is 100% certain that the doorways are not wide enough to allow this, let alone the presence of stairs. 

logan turns to janus. “how—?”

“why do you assume i know?” janus scoffs, adjusting his cape. logan still isn’t certain how he isn’t getting daily uniform infringements; logan finds himself touching the knot of his own tie, just to ensure he’s in dress code.

“you’ve been here longer than i have, i just got here,” logan points out. “wait—doesn’t the jefferson usually publish on mondays…?”

“both true,” janus says, then, “shh, charleston might go full thermobaric. he’s been due to blow his top for ages.”

logan barely even has time to mentally recall the meaning of thermobaric—containing a charge of fuel designed to ignite and combine with oxygen present in the atmosphere to produce a prolonged explosion—before charleston resumes his rant.

“—that is IT, that’s IT! I’VE HAD IT! RIGHT TO MY OFFICE, YOU THREE, AND YOU’D BETTER PRAY THAT YOUR PARENTS ARRIVE WITH SUFFICIENT EXPLANATIONS TO KEEP YOU FROM BEING EXPELLED!”

a gasp doesn’t quite suffuse its way through the crowd, but certainly a few of the more excitable members of the student population do, and—

“OUT OF MY WAY!”

a column of students shuffles awkwardly to part the navy sea, lest they get bowled over by the headmaster (and likely given a detention for it, given the foul mood he’s in), and logan beholds

ah. unsurprising.

of course it’s tristan, duncan, and bowman at the scene of the crime.

“and that’s military school for dugray,” janus murmurs into his ear. not quietly enough; tristan’s eyes dart right to janus, glaring, clearly about to say something before charleston’s “MOVE!” gets him into motion.

“military school?” logan repeats. 

“oh, sure,” janus says. “ever since the three of them got caught breaking into a locked safe of bowman senior’s, mr. dugray’s been dying for any excuse. i guess he wanted to go out with a bang.”

janus’ comment is caught by the crowd, but not by many. logan isn’t unique, it seems, for turning to the nearest familiar face to discuss the whole affair. logan hears words like cheater and plagiarism and the jefferson said flying around like a murmuration of starlings, the allegations shifting and shape-changing as easily as any flock.

logan is almost certain that, with the proliferation of gossip, the involvement of the jefferson, and the sheer number of witnesses that the number of new rumors that will crop up over the course of the school week will be dizzying in both number and any lack of logic.

mel clears her throat, loudly, from where she’s located at the end of the hallway.

“all right, everyone, show’s over!” she declares. “get to your first period, the bell’s going to ring in five minutes.”

the crowd, very slowly, begins to disperse, breaking off into duos and trios, all of them with their heads bent together, all of them talking very intently. 

well-timed, logan supposes, for this meltdown to happen on the same day that the national honors society meets before school; well-timed for charleston to catch word right as the flood of early birds (most of the chilton population) were sure to hear the fallout and come along to see the fuss themselves; well-timed that this all imploded the day that tristan and his posse decided to do something stupid.

yes, logan thinks, his eyes drifting to where janus is standing, staring, at the crying girl and the one comforting her. hattie glances up from where she’s smoothing back summer’s hair, as if feeling janus’ stare.

it’s all very well-timed indeed.

hattie and janus lock eyes. 

for a moment, just a moment, but logan can’t help but think—

perhaps, there’s something more than a last-minute debutante escort assignment there.

and then hattie is earnestly making a case to mel, asking for a late pass so she can escort summer to the nurse—”she can’t pay attention to class in this condition, doctor kramschissel, look at her—” and the moment almost fades.

almost.

even as he awkwardly tells mel that he’ll come back at study hall, rushes to his locker, stuffing his copy of the jefferson inside for later perusal, and makes it to his desk just in the nick of time, logan can’t quite shake the feeling that there was a bit more happening than an extremely ostentatious prank carried out with no thought to consequences.

(deep into the witching hour, janus drums his fingers idly against his desk, eyes roving over the password-protected folder hidden in the depths of his laptop, scrolling through a list of transgressions with a deeply bored expression on his face, drag-and-dropping attachments. he examines the note again, written in hattie’s elegant, sloping script.)

(“way past time i did this,” janus mutters, and resumes narrowing down his list of infractions to the most infuriating offenders, dropping each into folders labeled for summer, beth, jessica, kate, claire, kathy, mary, mr. dugray, mr. charleston, mrs. fischer, olivia who is “rumored” to be the current editor of the jefferson, and, just for the hell of it, tristan’s grandfather’s business email, scheduling them all to send should his plan a fail.)

(it does not fail. it’s embarrassingly easy to plant plots into bowman and duncan’s thick skulls.)

(janus sends a number of them from various burner accounts anyway, aided by a world-class vpn and a lack of presence in the hallways at school as he slips forgeries into their lockers, knowing that either bowman or duncan would be eager to claim credit for chaos.)

⁂

hattie: Splashy.

Dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you mean.

hattie: I guess I don’t either. hattie: It’s good that Summer found out in cold, hard proof. hattie: Even if she maybe hasn’t been iron-clad in monogamy either.

dee: scandal!

hattie: Maybe. hattie: Old news now, anyway. hattie: You might tell your new freshie friend that she’s about to have a redhead hot on her tail.

dee: oh?

hattie: Tradition. You know how it gets.

dee: that i do.

hattie: Do you have a ride to the ball? Mother’s insisting I get there early to stake out the best spot in the dressing room.

dee: yes, that’s handled. do they know?

hattie: My parents? They know some. I already had a formal debut last year, I think they’re just pleased I’m not pulling a Libby Dotie.

dee: debut number five this year, isn’t it?

hattie: Poor thing went right after Pukey last time. Shame that Eileen couldn’t hold her booze.

dee: a real shame indeed. midori sour is a real choice for her first blackout.

hattie: Her chances of living that down are absolutely nonexistent.

dee: you can say that again

hattie: Any chance you’ll send me some of that interesting info that didn’t make the cut for some fun reading right before the escorting…? Since we’re talking about nonexistent.

dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you’re implying about nonexistence dee: how IS dear “beau” anyway?

hattie: See you thereeee

⁂

“oh, wow!”

“i guess they paid a mechanic to do it,” logan says, “which makes a great deal of sense—none of them strike me as the sort to gain any sort of practical knowledge.”

“yeah, i’d bet,” patton says, then, shaking his head, “wow. never in all my days at chilton did someone pull a prank that elaborate. so—did it ever come out what the punishment is?!”

“tristan’s dad pulled him out of school and put him into military school, effective immediately.”

“wow.”

“—i think duncan and bowman got away with suspension, which makes sense. they’re not exactly mastermind sorts. if you passed by charleston’s office at any point that morning, though, you could definitely hear a lot of parental yelling, so i’m sure that it’ll be an extended punishment. maybe another entry for military school—apparently the three of them already broke into a safe of mr. bowman’s, so he was very loudly angry.”

“gosh, i couldn’t imagine,” patton tsks, shaking his head. he glances to make sure no one is waiting on them at this stop sign—they aren’t—and reaches over to squeeze logan’s arm. “have i told you how lucky i am to have you as a kid lately?”

“yes,” logan mutters. 

“well, i am,” patton says, pressing on the gas pedal and trundling along. “never has the thought of military school ever had to cross my mind. at least i know that whenever you get up to trouble, it’s good trouble that i can be proud of, like this deal with helping out dee—”

“dad,” logan complains, looking quietly, shyly pleased nonetheless.

“oh, wait!” patton realizes, half-turning to look at him. “all three of them were in the debutante deal, are they—?”

“all kicked out,” logan says firmly. “if not by the society, then probably by their parents, and definitely by dee and i. we’re hunting for last-minute debutantes for some of the escorts—we’re going to have to see how that goes, or maybe just scrap their involvement.”

“it’s a shame that three of the girls won’t be able to join in because their classmates were knuckleheads,” patton says, then, quickly, “don’t tell anyone i called them that.”

“knuckleheads?” logan says, arching an eyebrow. “i think we’re safe from any scandal there. there are several demonstrably worse things you could have said—they’d know, they probably got a lot of them screamed at them from a combination of parents, teachers, and girls tristan has apparently wronged.”

“still,” patton says, as he pulls into the driveway of the elder sanders’ manor. “gosh. poor mr. mccaffey.”

“he’s taken next week for vacation, dee says.”

“he deserves to—his car just got stolen, practically!—grandma might ask you about it, she’s bridge buddies with bitty charleston.”

“i’m sure it was the cause of a great deal of conversation,” logan agrees, unbuckling his seatbelt. “it certainly has been for the student body.”

“a car,” patton repeats. “how long did it take them to, y’know—?”

patton mimes unscrewing a bolt in the air.

“parts of it are still there.”

patton stifles his laughter as they approach the front door and knock. 

the first words out of his mother’s mouth are “you simply must tell me this business about the car, logan!”

“told you,” patton says in an undertone, then, “hi, mom, it’s great to see you too!”

“oh, hush,” emily says dismissively, stepping aside and waving them in. “you’ve had three days to hear all the sordid details secondhand.”

“firsthand,” logan says quietly.

“what was that?” emily says, already leading them to the drink cart.

“firsthand,” logan says, slightly louder. “i missed the beginning of it, but i was there.”

“oh, excellent,” emily says gleefully, then, “richard, put down the paper, logan’s here and he saw the car!”

“what car?” richard says mildly, folding down a corner of the paper, then, “ah, logan, patton! wonderful to see you, won’t you sit?”

“hi, dad,” patton says, settling onto his usual spot on the couch. “how was frankfurt? any sightseeing?”

“i stayed in a conference room a mile from the airport the whole time,” richard says ruefully. “i could have been in new york or shanghai, and i wouldn't have known the difference.”

“wine, soda,” emily says, pushing a glass into patton’s hands (“oh!”) and then logan’s with a sort of fervor typically reserved for new collections from her favorite fashion designers, rushing to sit at her typical place and eagerly smoothing her skirt over her knees. 

she leans forward, eyes bright with gossip she could use to lord over fellow chilton grandmothers. “now, logan, tell me everything, bitty was being quite coy with the details.”

“what details?” richard says, and emily scoffs.

“oh, richard, i told you this earlier! the situation with bertram’s boy—?”

“oh—a transfer to military school in north carolina, wasn’t it?” richard says with a general air of puzzlement.

“men,” emily tuts. “none of you remember the most pressing details. that trait’s certainly skipped a couple generations for our resident journalist—from the beginning now, logan, if you please.”

logan’s straightened up slightly at the mention of our resident journalist, and he clears his throat.

“i missed the beginning, of course,” he says, “though i’d imagine everyone except for bowman, duncan, tristan, and the mechanic they’d hired did too, considering they did most of it under the cover of night…”

even if patton didn’t have the general sense of this logan’s entire life since he’d learn to read and write, he reflects, it’s always wonderful to receive a reminder that logan was, first and foremost, a gifted storyteller, and two, that he was wholeheartedly chasing after a career that he loved—and three, that those things overlapped.

patton had gotten the general rundown over the past couple days, it was true, but it was one thing to hear the ebb and flow of various reports (procured primarily from dee, who had quite an ear for that kind of thing, it seemed) and another to hear it as one smooth, cohesive narrative with a rapt audience. 

though patton and his parents have, obviously, had some difficulties, he can never find fault with how much they adore and treasure logan. this is all the more apparent in how they handle listening to logan’s tale: they gasp in all the right places; they come in with “no!”s and “well, i never!” at all the points that call for it; richard even digs for a pen and paper so he can jot down questions he has as logan talks, ticking them off as logan continues the story.

it carries them all the way through the salad course, logan seeming to enjoy his enthralled audience, painstakingly accurate, citing sources where he can, and even dipping into what is, perhaps, a real-life journalistic no-no but something patton has seen in countless tv shows and movies: “now, this is off the record, of course, and unconfirmed at that, but dee heard…”

this also means that some of the details that logan had either glazed over or patton must have missed take place in a new sort of limelight; the car, the breakups, the expulsion, all of it painted in lurid, scandalous detail (much to the delight of his mother who will, patton knows, be gossiping about this with her bridge group next week.)

and—though patton’s pretty sure most chilton parents aren’t supposed to know about its existence unless they, like him, are alums—logan doesn’t mention the coincidental social explosion ignited by the special edition of the jefferson’s publication to his grandparents, but he had mentioned it to patton.

coincidentally, all of this on the same day.

“wow,” patton says, casual, as he stabs at the endives with a fork. “seems like a pretty big blowout to happen all on coincidence, huh?”

logan glances up at him. patton twists his mouth to one side: you don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you? he tries to impart. 

“no one knows for sure,” logan says, noncommittal in tone, but meeting patton’s eyes. 

“seems like those boys weren’t very careful with not getting caught,” patton says, a lift of the shoulder, an even more significant look: unless someone tipped the scales against them?

“it seems like it, but. no one knows for sure,” logan repeats, with a slight twitch of his eyebrow that reads, to patton, as but i sure have my suspicions.

“huh,” patton says lightly, arching his eyebrows at logan in a way that he hopes imparts i certainly have some guesses too.

“regardless,” logan says swiftly, “rest assured, grandma, that if the dar doesn’t have them taken out of the debutante ball for their behavior, the rest of us will.”

“as you should,” his grandmother says with a firm nod in logan’s direction. “no room for hooliganism in the dar.”

patton hides a laugh as a cough into his napkin. 

“the dar?” richard says mildly. “logan, what’s all this about the debutante ball? are you escorting a young lady?”

patton swivels to look at emily. 

“oh, goodness, i did forget to tell you in all the excitement,” emily says. “richard, logan and dee slange have taken it upon themselves to do a demonstration at the debutante ball this year.”

“a young lady is escorting me,” logan clarifies, then, glancing between his grandparents, “i don’t suppose you know the mcmasters? their daughter poppy is my escort.”

“poppy, poppy…” richard says, frowning.

“coppelia,” logan elaborates. 

“is it really?” emily says, blinking. “that’s… unique.”

“you see why she goes by poppy,” logan says. “she’s a freshman this year.”

“oh, yes,” emily says. “we certainly know the mcmasters. richard, you remember…”

“oh?” he says, then eyes widening, “oh. yes, i remember the mcmasters. their daughter is… ah…”

he looks to emily for help.

“poppy is very driven,” logan says diplomatically. “she’s already gunning for an editorial position at the paper. we’re all doing a feature spread in the franklin together for the event, as a matter of fact—myself, dee, and poppy, i mean, along with the help of a junior.”

“are you really!” emily says. 

“dr. kramschissel said the franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with the three of them manning the helm,” patton says proudly, then, leaning forward, “you know, she’s implied that logan’s first in line for editor in chief senior year.”

“dad,” logan complains, a little smile on the face nonetheless.

“well, of course he is!” emily declares. “a very fine show of initiative. she’d be a fool not to pick you, given your long history. you probably have the most experience in a newsroom of anyone your age who’s gone through the chilton journalism system.”

“you’ll make sure we get a copy or two of that edition,” richard says firmly.

“of course,” logan says, smiling. “we put in final edits just today—i’ll bring it next week.”

“a demonstration, you said?” richard says.

“oh, sure,” logan says, in a very casual tone. “grandma’s very generously given me what was to be dad’s debutante dress. a great deal of us boys are going to be debuted into society.”

richard puts his fork down. patton waits with bated breath.

“debuted?”

“yes,” logan says.

“how many of you?” richard says.

“current count—well, it was 46 before the car debacle, but it might be 43 now. or 40, depending.”

“40 young men in fluffy white dresses are to descend on the dar?”

“well,” logan says, frankly, “about twenty young men. there are some nonbinary people too. and roughly the other half of them are girls in suits.”

richard stares. and stares.

logan tilts up his chin.

and then richard breaks into chuckles.

“a hostile takeover of the debutante!” he hoots. “oh, i wondered if a crop of mischief would pop up in you, young man! some of my fondest memories of my time at yale are banding together with my friends to cause some trouble. well, that and performing with the whiffenpoofs, of course. these things make your high school and collegiate experience, you know.”

“they do?” logan says blankly.

“you’re young and full of energy!” richard exclaims. “this is your time—it certainly was for me. every day was at yale an adventure, no challenge was too great. we wanted to change the world. i have some experience with clothes-based protest too, you know.”

patton’s never heard about this. “you have?”

“certainly,” richard says. “i, and a group of like-minded young men decided to protest the new dress code—oh, it was my sophomore year at yale. we wore silk ties and nothing else.”

patton squeaks, trying not to cover his ears with his hands like a child.

“we were written up by the dean of admissions and threatened with expulsion. we were also suddenly very popular with the ladies.”

patton has the sudden and horrifying realization that one of those ladies might have been either his almost-mother, pennilyn lott, or had an equal chance of being his actual mother.

“ah, yes.” emily huffs. “this is exactly the kind of conversation I had hoped we would have with our son and grandson. what a pleasant family dinner conversation!”

“i was naked for an entire month,” richard says to logan. “a night full of men in dresses does not come near as close, of course, but i’d argue the amount of red tape you had to cut and the number of participants might push you over the top of that particular stunt!”

“wow,” logan says, blinking.

patton understands how he feels. his business-loving father, whose grand excitements seemed to be traveling for work, reading the newspaper, and undertaking new deals, a prankster. would wonders never cease.

(there is a small part of him that wonders if maybe—just maybe—if he had been born a boy, if richard would have been much more forgiving for patton’s own wild teenaged transgressions.)

“this roommate of mine in sophomore year at yale—we absolutely hated him,” richard says, leaning back in his chair, clearly lost in memory. “he was a complete nincompoop. so one night, we tied him between two mattresses and threw him out the window.”

“dad!” patton says, horrified.

“oh, he was fine,” richard says dismissively. “he went to sleep, woke up in the morning, and picked up right where he left off.”

patton puts his face in his hands.

“we wound up throwing him out the window every night for a month, and then he transferred.”

“well, do you think you guys tossing him out the window on a regular basis had something to do with that decision?” patton says, incredulous.

“well, it crossed our minds, yes.”

“so you guys have tickets for entry to the event, yes?” logan intercedes, looking to emily.

“it’s one way to see my descendants debut,” emily says.

patton shrugs, not rising to any bait. “it’ll be nice to escort him.”

“not christopher?” emily asks, but she’s cut off as richard says “ah! you’re in on it?” at the same time.

“a lot of the parents are,” patton says, “then, well, a lot of the sideshire parents are. i’m not quite as close with the chilton parents, of course.”

“we wouldn’t miss it for the world,” richard declares, then, with a big, goofy smile, “my grandson, the mastermind!”

“co-mastermind, really,” logan says. “dee slange was involved too.”

richard blinks, this time setting down his fork. “julian is in on this?”

“well,” logan hedges, higher-pitched. “define ‘in on this.’”

“he fully knows what’s going on, and he agreed?” richard says.

“oh,” logan says. “erm—no.”

“definitely not as much as me, at the very least,” patton says.

“gutsy,” richard comments.

“maybe you could help talk him over,” patton says delicately. “from what i remember of julian, he wasn’t exactly… jokey.”

“no.”

“certainly not,” emily says, almost overlapping her husband.

“maybe you could intercede?” patton says. “point out all the good a bit of trouble does for a boy their age. uh—after the event, of course. don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“yes,” richard says thoughtfully. “yes, perhaps i will. it’s about time julian cut loose.”

that’s one way to put it, patton thinks.

“i can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces,” richard says, perhaps the most excited that patton’s ever seen him for an event put on by the daughters of the american revolution.

well, patton thinks. this is probably the best way that richard could have taken it.

even if it does mean that logan, patton, and emily spend the rest of dinner hearing richard monologue about The Good Old Days back at yale, and patton learns a bit more about his father’s particular brand of young-adult mischief that he, perhaps, shouldn’t have ever heard in the first place.

⁂

roman’s elbow-deep into rearranging his travel makeup bag. it is, generally speaking, where he keeps a lot of his makeup storage, so it’s kind of a mess after spending a lot of time simply dumping the products back in there because he’s running late, only sparing time to remove and wash his brushes and sponges.

it is very much a mess.

he hears a gentle tap against the door.

he glances up; though it’s barely past eight, his mother is already dressed for bed. her hair is damp, still drying from the post-lessons shower she’d taken, free from its typical bun. she’s in an old, too-big t-shirt advertising the ballets russes (from dimitri, probably) and a pair of sweatpants cut into shorts. she completes the ensemble with a pair of fuzzy socks and her feet in a pair of orthopedic-friendly slippers (his mother is, understandably, very conscious of foot health). 

his mother is deeply devoted to her rituals and routines; he knows what she’ll ask even before she says it.

“tea?”

“yes, please,” roman decides, setting aside two different bottles of foundation to be decided later, picking up a few press-on nails, his own pair of fuzzy socks, and a tub of aquaphor, and plods after his mother, heading for the kitchen.

his mother goes about filling up the kettle (an old-style bright red one, the kind you set on a stove, not like the sleek black electric one that virgil has) and turning the stove on as roman pulls out two mugs. he decides on a large, maroon stoneware mug for her, speckled with white, and an equally gigantic ceramic red mug for himself.

“which would you like?” his mother asks, accepting the mug that he hands to her. she’s already pulled out her favored loose leaf herbal chamomile, beginning to scoop it into a infuser; roman notes that it’s the one he got her for mother’s day a couple years ago. he scoots around her to peruse his options. 

his mother’s tea supply surpasses remy’s café in terms of selection and variety; roman thinks tea might be the only thing he’s ever seen his mother spontaneously shop for in the same way roman shops for clothes, or makeup, or jewelry, or little treats, or—

“this one,” he decides, pulling out a blend that promotes good sleep—spearmint, lemongrass, chamomile.

roman hops onto one of the barstools, opening up his tub of aquaphor and doing as his mother almost certainly has: absolutely slathering his feet in healing ointment. he’s aggressively earned these dancer’s calluses, but dang it, he can lessen some of the effects; therefore, absorbing aquaphor overnight, with the aid of fuzzy socks. 

“how are your hamstrings?” she asks. “less tight?”

“definitely,” roman says, shifting his barstool so he’s able to more easily multitask between keeping eye contact with his mother and caring for his feet. “typical cure—”

“stretch and hydrate,” they say simultaneously.

“very good,” his mother continues. “hot and cold therapy?” 

“i used the heated blanket a little bit,” roman says. roman and his mother love those things; roman simply plugs it in and becomes the warmest burrito of his dreams. bigger than a traditional heating pad and more flexible, which means he can just wrap it around whatever body part that needs heat. roman’s pretty sure they have six between them. he could probably just mummify himself on a day where he was really achy.

“be sure to rest this weekend after the ball,” his mother says. “i don’t want you straining anything.”

“i will,” roman promises, pulling on one sock and setting about massaging ointment into the other foot. he should probably start making a dent in that english essay anyway; even though he’d definitely prefer to spend the rest of his weekend reading something that he’s interested in, not something assigned to him.

his mother nods.

“a lot of your classmates are going too,” she notes.

roman smiles a bit, despite himself. on the whole, his gaggle of classmates at the prince family studio were what he imagined it to be like to have a flock of sisters: chatty, hogging the bathroom, annoying and endearing in equal measure, occasionally awkward, but fierce and funny and beautiful, all of them clever in their own ways, all of them deeply capable dancers.

not that he’d know what it was like to have a sister, of course. roman had contented himself with being an only child long ago.

“it’ll be fun,” roman says. “at the very least, we know who’ll be hogging the dance floor all night.”

they share a smile. his mother had chaperoned the sideshire homecoming in the fall, and she’d spent a 33% of the night fielding hi, ms. prince!s from her students, 33% watching in vague bemusement as they danced to trends she’d lost track of long ago, 33% feeling proud as all of them had monopolized the innermost circle of the dance floor with the confidence she strove to teach them, and 1% fighting the urge to go over and correct their form. 

roman gestures with his chin toward the three packs of press-on nails: a classic french manicure, white nails with a red floral design, and a bright blue chrome.

“help me pick? i’ve been driving myself nuts over it. all of them would work, but i just need to decide and go for it.”

his mother hums, examining them. “remind me of the makeup you settled on?”

“classic eighties, to match the dress,” he says. “bright blue eyeshadow, red lip, generally very sparkly and,” he makes a pow! i’m here! hand gesture.

“well, french manicures are very classic,” his mother says thoughtfully, “but—” the kettle begins to whistle. roman, hastily, pulls on his other sock and goes to wash the excess aquaphor off of his hands before he does anything else.

they are waylaid by the pouring of boiling, steaming water, the distribution of milk and/or honey, the procurement of snacks (his mother favors savory foods more often than not, so she puts together a plate of crackers, cheese, and deli meats; roman slices a couple apples with a ramekin of peanut butter for himself, with the intent to steal a bite or two from her plate) and relocating to the living room.

roman sits himself on the ground, setting his snacks on the coffee table; his mother does the same, folding her legs to butterfly position, pressing her hands down onto her knees to stretch.

he considers his options before he just decides to mimic his mother, feeling the familiar stretch through his hips. he settles his elbows on his knees, bending slightly forward and blowing on his tea.

his mother examines the nails again. “can you match these?” she asks, touching the blue chrome.

roman tilts his head, mentally calling up the exact shades of blue in his several eyeshadow palettes. “if not exactly, then close enough to look intentional.”

“i know red is your signature,” she says. roman looks at his fuzzy socks—cherry red—and hers—wine red. in the prince family, red is a neutral that goes with everything.

“but,” she continues, “they fit a certain level of garishness that matches your dress.”

roman nods, setting them aside; he’ll glue them on in the morning. honestly, he’s a bit pleased he can keep the floral red for another occasion. a fancy date with logan, maybe? 

“is that the last detail handled?” his mother says.

“it should be,” he says. “well—i was sorting through my makeup bag, but it’s more of an organization thing than anything else.”

“dress packed?” his mother checks. “shoes, accessories, wig and hair supplies?”

“yes, yes, yes,” roman says dutifully.

“then—that’s your last of prep for tomorrow?” 

“just about,” roman says. 

“good,” she says. “i suppose many of the last-minute details shall be left to logan and dee.”

roman’s lip curls reflexively. the thought of logan and dee, working together, agreeing on things, brainstorming together and coordinating any last minute hiccups. as if they were a team.

“what was that face,” his mother says. her voice is flat, with no edge of scolding or reproach. just genuine curiosity.

roman’s lips twist as he removes the infuser out of his tea, deeming it well-enough steeped. he stirs his cup absently.

“i just…” roman gesticulates vaguely. “what did you think of dee?”

if his mother thinks that’s an odd response, she doesn’t let on. she stacks her makeshift charcuterie—club cracker, slice of cheddar, sliced chicken from the deli—and sets it aside before she goes about formulating other sandwiches. club cracker, mozzarella, turkey breast.

“i didn’t have much opportunity to speak to him,” she says. cracker, cheddar, turkey.

“yeah, but you guys had a look,” roman says. “i saw it.”

“i suppose he seemed… a touch stand-offish,” his mother says. cracker, mozzarella, chicken.

“yes,” roman says, his and??? going unspoken.

“and, perhaps,” his mother says, then, frowning, “well, i didn’t know. that’s the troubling part.”

“dee’s very good at that,” roman mutters resentfully. “presenting himself one way, when he’s really actually the other. the thing is, logan has seen that he’s really actually the other, and yet—here they are!”

“that’s very unlike him,” his mother says, frowning. “logan has a very sound sense of judgment.”

“he does.”

“but if logan’s deemed him appropriate to plan alongside—”

roman drops his forehead to the floor, groaning.

“oh,” his mother says, awkward. roman hears crunching.

“i don’t know why!” bursts out of him. 

“why… what?”

“why logan’s teaming up with him!” roman says. he looks up in time to see his mother washing down her snack with a swallow of tea.

“...roman,” she begins. “it’s entirely understandable to… feel a certain way if your boyfriend is spending time with another—”

“oh my god, i’m not jealous!” roman snaps. “why does everyone think that?!”

his mother doesn’t lecture him about volume, which is nice. 

“well,” his mother says, “what is it, then?”

this is also nice—his mother, ever straightforward, ever blunt. 

roman rubs his hand wearily across his forehead. “did i tell you, last fall, about logan getting punched in the face?”

“yes,” his mother says, her expression darkening; some of that remnant of anger of someone laying hands on his boyfriend roars to life in his chest again.

“i know,” roman says.

“was it that boy?”

his mother isn’t a particularly expressive person, but even any given passerby would categorize that look on her face as thunderous. his mother is very fond of logan—she’d actually told logan so—and roman knows that, over the years, logan’s courtesy and good grades and general support of roman had endeared him to her time and time and time again.

which—obviously. roman’s of the opinion that his boyfriend is one of the best people in the world. of course everyone should recognize that—feel that same protective fire pop up in their chests at any sign of anything going wrong for him, because logan deserves the world.

roman scowls, looking away. “not—technically. but!” he says hastily, “but, he’s the one who started it all. he got a detention for it and everything! louise probably never would have hit logan if he hadn’t been there urging her on!”

“why on earth…?” his mother says, sounding baffled.

“i don’t know!” roman wails. “that’s what’s getting me—i don’t get it! one second, logan’s telling me all about this terrible boy at school, and then his grandmother invites him and his grandma to lunch and apparently that’s super awkward, and then there’s the punching, and then he’s at the stuffed up birthday party logan’s grandparents threw for him, and then logan’s confronting dee and making sure he doesn’t rain on our parade at the winter dance, the next, they’re teaming up together to say ‘screw you’ to the patriarchy! i don’t know why on earth!”

his mother considers this, then pushes the plate of apples toward him, then piles the empty space on the plate with three of the charcuterie sandwiches she’s concocted. roman, grumpily, dips an apple slice in peanut butter and crunches a bit more loudly than he would in any other circumstance.

mother—much like virgil—believed very heartily in proper nutrients fueling every activity. outbursts took energy, which meant that roman should eat carbs, fats, and proteins to replenish that energy, with bonus points for foods that were particularly vitamin- or fiber-rich. roman has been told this for most of his life, only with things like dance lessons or exams or being a pain, this does not mean you’re getting a second soda, pick something substantial swapped in for outbursts as applicable.

“that makes very little sense.”

“exactly!” roman says, gesticulating at her. “thank you!”

“chew your food with your mouth closed,” she says, some automatic motherly impulse, then, “well, what’s changed?”

before roman can answer, she says, “i know you don’t know. but something must have. logan’s a very intelligent young man, and he isn’t fickle—not him, not any of his parental figures that could have persuaded him.” 

patton, virgil, and probably her, roman figures. he doesn’t know much about christopher, but his reasoning definitely wouldn’t override those three.

“do you think it could be on a needs-must basis?”

roman’s mouth twists as he swallows. “maybe,” he hedges.

“but you don’t think so.”

“no,” roman says. “if it was just unavoidable, some sort of grudging alliance, he would have complained about it.” to me, he thinks.

and logan hasn’t.

“could there have been some kind of change?”

roman narrows his eyes, setting aside his honey-sweet tea. “i’m not following.”

“logan’s always struck me as very pragmatic,” she says. “ergo, there could have been some kind of event that would put more weight in dee’s favor.”

“it would have to be a pretty big change,” roman says, mind churning. as it is, that’s the likeliest of answers outside of forced partnership.

“you could ask him.”

roman sighs. “i think the fact that he hasn’t mentioned it to me already…”

“could mean nothing,” his mother says, with a shrug of a shoulder.

“big change,” he reminds her. “big.”

they both consider this, sipping their tea and eating, silent in rumination.

“have you ever dealt with something like this?” roman says, despairing. “like—some dancing partner of yours teaming up with a rival? or—?”

dad, he almost says, but he discards it as soon as the idea comes to mind. no. all he’s heard of his father is that he could be prone to his own flights of whimsy, true, but he’d always been achingly steadfast in partnership with his mother and, to a slightly lesser extent, with virgil.

she seems to see the thought flash across his face, though. her eyes flit—almost unconsciously—to an old photo of the pair of them on the wall behind him. 

roman knows the one without having to look: his mother, stunning and sharp in tutu and pointe-shoed glory, clearly in the middle of telling him off about something; his father, muddy for some reason and in ripped clothes, arm thrown around her shoulder, grinning and giving a thumbs up to the camera, a slight wince on his face the only sign of whatever lecture she’d given.

but, roman thinks. but. people hadn’t necessarily liked his father. even virgil had cautioned him at how strange his father had been, that he’d done things full of mischief and occasional rebellious wrong-doing, that he’d been acquired taste. a bit like…

no. roman shakes the thought without finishing it. no way.

his mother detects it anyway.

“how have you been sleeping?” she asks delicately.

“fine,” roman mutters. he knows what she’s about to ask without her asking it, too.

whatever mental illness his father had had, the only sign of odd or strange thoughts that has ever remotely recurred in roman have been odd, vivid dreams, veering into the occasional night terror.

he has been sleeping fine, though. fitful, sure, and maybe a bit less than his mother would like, but he’s been sleeping fine. no dreams at all to speak of. 

“all right,” she says placatingly. 

roman stirs his tea a bit more vigorously than necessary, the spoon clanking against his mug. his mother smiles a bit.

“you didn’t answer,” roman says. “have you had a situation like this?”

“you know i haven’t,” his mother says. 

“well—i know, not exactly like this,” roman says. he’s known his mother’s aromantic and asexual since he was old enough to learn the words and absorb that that’s what those little flag barrettes she wore during pride meant. no significant romantic partner of his mother’s has ever caused her strife, because she’s never had a significant romantic partner. “but—dimitri teaming up with someone and he didn’t tell you why. or something.”

his mother pauses to think. then:

“no.”

roman sighs, perhaps a bit more loudly than necessary, and dips another apple slice.

“virgil might’ve,” she says thoughtfully.

roman pauses from where he’s trying to scoop extra peanut butter onto his apple.

“yeah?”

“yes,” his mother says. “you remember silas.”

ugh.

“don’t make that face,” she scolds gently. “but—as it happens, i wouldn’t be surprised if either of them didn’t have a moment exactly like this. virgil with some friends of his, silas with your father.”

“how did that go?” roman asks.

his mother smiles. “i believe they talked about it.”

“traitor,” roman grumbles, half-joking. “i can’t believe either of you invented mind-reading technology for me to use in this specific moment.”

“you could just ask.”

“you’ve said that already.” roman says. “does no one in this apartment appreciate the fine-tuning of the delicate art that is teenaged angst and overthinking?”

“you live here,” his mother points out. “you have sufficient appreciation for the both of us.”

roman huffs. his mother tilts his head.

roman scratches his thumb against the mug.

“dee’s very charming,” he mumbles. “i mean—he managed to charm me at logan’s fancy birthday party before i knew who he was. if he’d just started off with that, instead of leading straight into villainy then pulling a 180, then i guess i’d get it a bit more. but as it is—why him? why that guy? logan likes rule-following. he likes that kind of thing. is it a ‘keep your enemies close’ thing? no,” he answers himself, “logan wouldn’t do that, he has no patience for duplicity. which makes it even more confusing, because dee seems to love duplicity, exhibit a, him being charming at emily and richard’s party—erm, mr. and mrs. sanders’ party, i mean.”

his mother hums.

“and—i don’t know. he’s off at chilton, doing great, and i’m happy he’s making friends, i seriously am, i’m not jealous, but it just. suddenly, both of us in different schools means we spend less time together, and that’s making me think about college, and, unless miracle of miracles happens and i find the perfect ivy league that has a combo of the perfect dance program and the perfect journalism program that will accept both of us that’s close to new york, we’re going to spend even less time together, and that sucks.”

his mother nods sagely, placing her right foot against her left knee, stretching to grasp her own socked foot.

“and it’s, like. why that guy? if you’re going to hang out with someone outside of school out of preference and not obligation, why the one i’ve heard the most negative things about? why the one who’s in direct competition with you? why the one that would probably have sabotaged him, given the chance? why?”

his mother remains quiet.

“say something,” roman requests desperately. “i’m asking questions here, they’re not hypotheticals.”

his mother blinks. “you were doing a good job of talking it out to yourself.”

“well, sure, but,” he gestures between them, “input. it’s mother-son time.”

there’s a pause.

“this isn’t like you,” she decides.

“what?”

“this,” she gestures at him. “indecision about what to do. it’s unlike you.”

“it’s unlike logan to consort with ne’er-do-wells,” roman sniffs.

his mother simply arches an eyebrow. roman sighs, picking up his mug, savoring the warmth it seeps against his palms.

“i don’t know,” roman says quietly. “it just—it is different for logan, to… consort with someone like this. there’s some big reason why, and i don’t know what it is, and it’s just… it’s driving me a little crazy.”

his mother politely does not say anything along the lines of i can see that or obviously.

instead, she says, “does the concept of talking to logan about this make you nervous or anxious?”

“what? no.” roman scoffs.

“it’s all right if it does,” his mother says. “i won’t think less of you or logan. it’s very normal to be a bit worried about having a big conversation in any relationship, much less one that’s been weighing heavily on your mind.”

“i’m not—”

his mother arches her eyebrows at him, and yeah, okay, roman can see how saying i’m not worried when he’s dominated the conversation obsessing over why that guy would probably come off… not great.

roman sighs, slumping his shoulders.

“fine,” he mutters. “yeah, i’m worried.”

“perfectly natural,” she says. she switches positions, placing her left foot against right knee, stretching.

“i know,” he grumbles. “i just—i don’t want to come off as that kind of boyfriend, you know what i mean?”

“no.”

fair.

“like,” roman says, drawing himself up. “why are you hanging out with that guy? hang out with this person instead, not that guy. you’re not allowed to see him. you know? like—jealous. possessive. whatever. i mean—logan was so understanding with jess. so understanding! they didn’t have a ton in common, but logan was still polite and everything.

“and i don’t want to turn right around and be like, hey, i don’t like that guy, what’s up with that? or insult his intelligence—’cause he’s way book-smarter than me—by being like, i think that guy might be manipulating his way into your life. thoughts?”

“do you think—?”

“what other explanation is there?!” roman whines, drawing there into, like, five syllables.

“and we’re back to square one,” his mother says. “all right. i see.”

roman goes about polishing off the last of the snacks.

“i still think you should talk to him,” she says. “i know you’re worried—that’s understandable. but logan isn’t going to go into this thinking the worst of you. he ought to know that you only have his best interests at heart.”

roman sighs after swallowing a mouthful of charcuterie. “i guess.”

his mother smiles slightly.

“you’re so very much our son,” she says, and roman ducks his head, trying not to flush.

“remus got any sense of propriety or caution surgically removed, to hear some tell it. and i probably wouldn’t have figured out such a careful way to put it: i probably wouldn’t have said anything at all until it got pressing. it’s difficult, i know, but i’m proud of the middle ground that you walk.”

“yeah, yeah,” roman mumbles, still pleased. our son. he felt so divided, sometimes: the face of his father, the skill of his mother, the rest of anything else him, from nowhere at all. 

“you don’t have to go into it unplanned, of course,” his mother says. “text him your thoughts if that’s easier. put a pen to paper to figure out what to say and how to say it.”

“true,” roman admits.

his mother drains the last of her tea and stands.

“well,” she says. “it’s probably best for you to talk to him tonight. or early tomorrow morning, if you care to sleep on it. may as well clear the air before the ball. i’ll leave you to your thoughts?”

“sure,” he says, slowly drinks the rest of his tea, thinking. then, quietly, “thanks, mom.”

he hears his mother placing the dishes in the dishwasher, shutting off the lights in the kitchen, ensuring everything is in its proper place, before she journeys back to the main room and shuts off all the lights except for the one closest to his room—he’ll turn that off when he goes to bed.

he watches her achieve the rest of the good night routine: she plugs her phone in to charge, she nudges her shoes so they’re in line with his at the door, and then…

she detours. she walks back to him, where he still sits on their rug.

she leans over to smooth her hand over his hair.

“goodnight, mijo. dulces sueños.”

“dulces sueños, mami,” he says.

and then she just… goes to her room.

she’s left the front door unlocked. she’d simply nodded to him, went to her room, and closed the door, almost like…

wait.

does she…?

no. there’s no way.

his curfew-issuing, sleep-adoring, routine-oriented-to-a-fault mother? roman would have gotten grounded, like, ten years ago for ten years if she actually knew how often he snuck out to the gazebo to talk to logan.

yeah. no way she knows that he sneaks out.

⁂

“hey.”

“hey! sorry if i responded late—we were squaring away escorts for the ladies. turns out some sideshire kids decided to join last-minute, so we should be all even. no idea what they’re doing for dresses, but it’s in their hands now, i suppose.”

“no, that’s all good—c’mere, it’s still a bit chilly out.”

“of course.”

…

“so, what did you want to talk about?”

“oh, right. um—may as well just come out and say it, i guess.”

“...sure?”

“what’s up with teaming up with dee?”

“...ah.”

“i mean—i guess i just don’t really get it? i’ve been trying to figure it out, and i can’t. like—one second, he’s getting someone to punch you in the face, the next, you guys are architecting this plot to go after the daughters of the american revolution.”

“no, i—i understand. it must seem jarring from the outside.”

“...so?”

“...”

“um. admittedly, i find your renewed and increased friendship with dee very confusing. the things i’ve heard about him have, generally, been pretty bad—for example, the punching incident, your birthday party at your grandparents’, and the winter formal. ”

“...are those notes…?”

“shh. you’ve never particularly struck me as the kind of person to simply be friends with someone for the sake of making life easier: my mom says you’ve always struck her as very pragmatic, and i agree. it makes me think that something in your relationship with dee has changed, because otherwise, i find myself… well, deeply confused and honestly a little worried that dee might be up to something again.”

“you talked about this with your mom?”

“well—i didn’t, like, set out to do that, but yeah. she suggested that i just talk to you about it, since you’d know that i have your best interests at heart, and that you have your reasons ‘cause you’re so smart, and also maybe write down what i wanted to say so i didn’t come off like a huge controlling jackass.”

“she said that?”

“not that last bit—i’m editorializing.”

“that’s—huh. okay… um. how do i phrase this.”

“…”

“i’m sorry, i’m walking an awkward line of secrecy here.”

“how secret? secret, like, jo posner’s first kiss, or secret, like, secret-secret.”

“secret-secret.”

“...oh.”

“but i still want to—communicate.”

“right. um… is there a little loophole you can thread here?”

“like what?”

“like… i dunno. i know they aren’t your strong suit, but a metaphor? or a comparison to something else that’s happened in our general lives?”

“like what?”

“well, i don’t know, logan. that’s kind of why we’re here.”

“right. yes. um… let me think.”

“sure. take your time. if it’s secret-secret, i promise i’ll keep it, but even then, i get not wanting to say anything. like—”

“oh! oh, i remember!”

“...remember…?”

“back in eighth grade, when you had elliott over to that sleepover, and elliott told you about how they were feeling regarding their identity, but to keep it secret double-pinky-promise even from me?”

“yeah, of course.”

“and they didn’t come out until the middle of last year?”

“right.”

“...i find a lot of parallels to then.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“oh—okay. i see.”

“it’s not one-to-one. as a matter of fact, there’s more to it. this is the part i feel most comfortable disclosing, since that part is generally a jo posner’s first kiss level of open secret at chilton.”

“sure.”

“but—”

“i get it. there’s more. okay. that… huh. okay.”

“right.”

“i guess i can see it. the cape should have tipped me off. have you told… anyone else? about the things outside the parallels?”

“no—no one. not even dad.”

“really?”

“really. well—he might know part of it, so maybe that doesn’t count, or dee might have told him more, but. really. not even dad.”

“...you said…. even more?”

“i’m very glad no one in our lives has parallelism to this that i can apply here.”

“...me too, i guess?”

“trust me—you are.”

“okay. i will. i do trust you. you know that, right?”

“of course i do. i trust you too.”

“okay. good. good. i didn’t want it to come off like i didn’t trust your judgment or something. you were so understanding with jess, i wanted to extend the same thing—”

“—we’re not—”

“—i know it’s not a one-to-one. trust me, we’d have a lot more to talk about if it was any kind of romantic scenario. there’d be yelling. i know it’s not. i’m just saying: you and jess didn’t have a lot in common, but you were still decent to him because you knew i wanted to… associate with him. i want to do the same for you.”

“right. of course. i—well, frankly, i hadn’t really considered your point of view. i can see how it would be strange from the outside perspective. i’m sorry i didn’t think of it.”

“you’ve had a lot going on.”

“sure, but still. i should have looped you in as much as i could.”

“well, i appreciate that. thank you.”

“and thank you for bringing it up.”

“this is very mature of us.”

“i know.”

“for teenagers, and all.”

“and for my first romantic relationship.”

“i’m more used to bickering. this is weird.”

“definitely.”

“...wanna make out?”

“say no more.”

find the next half of this chapter here!

[tss-whumper]

I keep thinking about touch-starved whumpee Roman and caretaker Logan. Roman knows Logan doesn't like touch much, but then Logan hugs him after realizing Roman's touch-starved, and...Roman kinda breaks. Logan is steady and precise, and Roman is so so cold and confused and never wants to leave.

Anyway, no pressure to write this! (/gen)

I love how you write Patton & Roman bc it feels accurate to me, lol. Haven't been here in a while, but wanted to see how you were doing. Glad I returned to read some of your awesome fics!

Take care :D (/pos)

aww, thank you so much for all the kind words, anon!! i really appreciate the support. this idea looks amazing, and i'd love to write something with it. i hope this is what you were looking for!

---

Roman was cold.

He wasn't quite sure why. This had been happening for a few weeks now, Roman woke up and was cold. He ate breakfast and was cold. He even was cold while taking his hour-long hot showers. No matter what he did, he always felt like he was freezing from the inside out. It had only just recently gotten to the point where he was shivering every moment of the day, his teeth chattering whenever he was not talking.

And that was why Roman was where he was now: wrapped in a blanket, on the couch, in front of the fireplace. While all of the other sides were wearing tank tops and shorts, Roman was secretly wearing pajama pants underneath a second pair of pajama pants.

Roman was focusing on keeping warm, but the sound of arguing started to emerge from the hallway into the living room, causing the creative side to carefully listen in, as he tended to do.

"Patton, I don't want a hug. Get off me."

Logan was clearly losing his patience with the overly-affectionate side, and Roman watched from the couch as Logan's muscles tensed and his breathing grew more labored. It was not a secret that the logical side generally disliked physical touch, especially when he was not the one initiating it. The only thing he hated more than physical touch was not being listened to.

"Oh, Logan, stop being such a sourpuss!" Patton chided, "I'm just showin' my favorite logical guy some love! Hug me back, and then I'll let you go!"

Logan rolled his eyes, and they flashed with irritation as he reluctantly hugged Patton back. The paternal side squealed and let go of Logan, skipping out of the room to likely do the same surprise bear hug to Virgil that he had subjected Logan to.

Roman huffed softly from his spot on the couch. Once again, Patton hadn't even noticed that he was in the room. Recently, it had been like that more and more. Patton gave all his attention to all the other sides, but when Roman was around, he awkwardly shuffled away. Roman had tried to make amends from what happened in the past few episodes, going so far as to try and protect Patton from Janus, but it never seemed to be enough for him.

But that wasn't the important thing right now. Roman shivered, a bit cold in the room as he stood up and approached Logan.

"Hey, pocket watch, wanna watch musicals with special effects and try to figure out how they do them?" he offered.

Logan offered a small, tired smile.

"Sure, Roman," he said, "That would be lovely."

Together, the two sides went to Roman's room. Though most of the fans saw the clear animosity between Roman and Logan, the two were rather good friends off-camera. When there was nothing at stake for Thomas, they found good company in each other. Logan helped Roman listen to reason when he was being overly idealistic, and Roman helped Logan find hope and inspiration where there seemed to be none at all.

And best of all, they both loved to watch musicals with special effects and try to figure out how they were done. They giggled and kicked their feet and shouted like children when they guessed correctly.

Something about being with Logan made Roman feel as if he could be himself for a change. He didn't have to put on a performance that he was some grand, indestructible prince, simply because there was no point. Logan could always see right through Roman's acts. Logan knew that Roman was not really a prince, that he really was very sensitive. And though that was scary sometimes, it was usually refreshing, not needing to pretend. Especially because it was obvious that Logan knew how it felt to be put on that sort of stifling pedestal.

Roman was the only person who Logan felt safe to be himself around too, though not for the same reason. Logan struggled to be taken seriously by the other sides, often seen as a joke. Though Roman teased Logan, it was clear that Roman did not view Logan as lesser-than or pathetic. Roman listened to and respected Logan's wishes, especially off camera. He made Logan feel...listened to. And almost appreciated at times? It was something Logan was generally unfamiliar with. But with Roman, it tended to be abundant.

"Roman? What's going on?"

Roman blinked, and looked over at Logan. He clutched his blankets closer to himself as he felt a terrible chill come over him.

"N- no- nothing," Roman stammered between his chattering teeth, "I'm just cold is all."

"Cold?" Logan asked sharply, extremely concerned, "It's eighty degrees in here, and you have two blankets on. I'm surprised you aren't overheating."

Roman was not expecting that level of worry from Logan, who was usually so level-headed.

"Um...I dunno," Roman shrugged, "I'm just cold. I don't know what to tell you. It's been like this for a few weeks now. I figured my room just had a draft or something."

Logan felt Roman's forehead. Roman shivered, subconsciously leaning into Logan's gentle and warming touch. Logan's fingers delicately brushed the hair away from Roman's forehead.

"You don't feel feverish or unwell," the logical side mused, "You don't seem to be sick at all. But I can't think of any other reason why you might feel like...this."

Logan paused when he saw how Roman reacted to his touch.

"You're so warm," Roman murmured, an almost delirious smile on his face, "I've never felt anything warmer, not in all my life."

Logan did not think he was particularly toasty. He frowned a bit, and put his other hand on Roman's shoulder. When the creative side practically keened into the touch, Logan realized what the problem was, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head in one immediate snap.

"It's touch," he realized, "Roman, when was the last time somebody touched you?"

"Three weeks ago," Roman said, as if he had the time and place memorized, "When Patton petted my head after I did the dishes."

"So you've gone three weeks without being touched..." Logan mused, "And you're cold. And the moment I touch you, you're warm."

Logan decided to try something else. But when he leaned in to hug Roman, the creative side quickly pulled away.

"Logan- please, you don't have to do that," Roman said quickly, "Patton said I need to work on my selfishness and pushiness. I- I don't want you to hug me if you don't want to. I know you don't like touch. I'll be fine. It's just a little cold."

"Roman."

Logan's voice was so sharp that Roman looked up from his rambling in surprise. Sure, he was used to Logan sounding stern, but this was more than that. His violet-blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Roman rarely saw from his friend. Logan was considerably vexed.

"I mean-"

"Roman."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Roman."

"But I just wanted to-"

"Roman!"

Roman ceased.

"I understand what you intended," Logan said, with an awkward chuckle, and warmth seeped into his tone, making him sound almost friendly. "And I know I've expressed that I'm not particularly fond of physical affection. But this is different. You need me, and...honestly, it's not the touch that I dislike. It's the suddenness of being touched without permission. When Patton surprise hugs me, it...makes me nervous. When Remus elbows me out of nowhere, or when Virgil ruffles my hair, it just unnerves me. I like hugging my friends, Roman. I like it when I get to decide when it starts and ends. Does that make any sense?"

Roman couldn't hide the bright grin that formed on his face.

"It makes sense," he reassured, but a shiver ran through his body, causing him to let out a whimper as he hugged himself in an attempt to preserve body heat.

He rushed to put the blankets around himself again, but Logan stopped him gently. And then, he pulled Roman into the softest, gentlest, warmest hug that Roman had ever experienced. The prince's doe-like brown eyes went round as saucers. And then, he hugged Logan back, with the same gentle strength that Logan exhibited.

And they hugged for a good, long time. Until Roman stopped shivering. Then, Logan got to initiate exactly when it was time to pull back. The two sides looked into each others eyes for a long time. And Logan did not for a moment expect to see tears shining in Roman's.

"Roman...what's the matter?" Logan asked, quickly bringing a hand to Roman's cheek to swipe away the glistening tears.

"I don't know- I- I-" Roman whimpered, "I've never felt so warm. This feeling, it's- it's not bad, but I'm just- I'm so overwhelmed..."

He sobbed and sobbed, and Logan pulled him close, allowing Roman to sob into his shoulder. Logan did not show it on his ever-neutral face, but his heart clenched whenever he heard his dear friend's cries. Roman was a crier, whether he was happy, sad, or angry. But despite how common it was to hear and see, Logan still never quite got used to it. Logan just hated to see Roman look so confused and lost. The creative side had never looked more like a child than he did in that moment.

"It's alright, Roman," Logan hushed gently, "It's alright. I've got you. And I want this. I know you're a lot colder than I am. But being here with you, I've never felt so warm either. It appears we have that in common. So relax. Please. I want you here. I...I love you, Roman."

"I..." Roman's breath caught in his throat.

God, how long had it been since somebody said those words to him with such sincerity and sureness?

How long had it been since somebody said them to Logan?

"I love you too," the creative side replied, the words coming out his mouth as easily as water poured through a stream.

There was much more hugging, and staring, and hugging, and staring. The touched-starved prince and the typically emotionally unavailable teacher both felt more alive when they were together. It was such a beautiful feeling they shared, something that could not quite be described or otherwise replicated. All they knew was that together, in that room, surrounded by blankets and all by themselves, Roman and Logan felt trust.

"To think," Roman laughed, in higher spirits already, "The solution was right here this entire time!"

"How absurd of me to be so dense!" Logan cried out, "To have only noticed this now, I'm very ashamed of myself."

"Don't be," Roman reassured, "I couldn't be more grateful for you, Logan."

"And same to you, Roman," Logan said, "If you ever need some warmth from me again, you can always ask. Alright?"

Roman beamed and nodded enthusiastically.

"You got it, teach! he said, "And the second you want it all to stop, I'll pull away. Okay?"

Logan sighed softly, and the smile that grew on his face was so wide and free that it surprised him. To think. Having the choice. It was nice to have a physical relationship that did not feel conditional.

"Okay," he affirmed, adjusting his glasses. "It's a deal."