#also sorry for the roman angst on his bday lol

[today-only-happens-once]

Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

Title: Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

Word Count: 1454

Summary: They’re both just trying their best, but sometimes they fall short. “How many times does it need to happen before you learn?” Brotherly Logince angst for @justisaisfine’s Sanders Bro AU. A short fic based on this art from it (the first pic, anyway).

Warnings: physical abuse (or at least the ramifications of it), cigarette burns, yelling, arguing, misunderstanding, angst, hurt/comfort but mostly hurt I think. Let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: So this was originally a much longer idea, but… I just couldn’t get anything else to come to fruition, and I think I’m okay with how this scene turned out? Sorry this is like, way shorter than the original idea I’d pitched to you, Isa. :/ But I hope this short little thing is okay! And many, many thanks as always to you for giving me permission to play in your ‘verse. 

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess, @dolphidragon, @flix-net, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @friedlieb-ferdinand-runge

…

Logan hisses quietly, cradling his arm as he weighs whether its better to clean it off in the kitchen sink or the bathroom. He can hear footsteps scuffing against the carpet of the hallway around the corner. He doesn’t know if it might be his mother coming back, even though she’d just gone to her room 98 seconds ago.

He glances at the clock; it’s almost dinnertime. She could very well be returning. Perhaps the bathroom was the wiser choice.

“Logan?”

He freezes for a moment before he realizes its his older brother appearing in the doorway to the kitchen from behind him. Logan turns around to face him, watching the way Roman’s eyes widen. Logan instinctively drops his arm, grimacing tightly as the fresh burns brush against the starchy shirt he’s wearing.

He opens his mouth to explain himself, but no words come as Roman rushes towards him and reaches for his arm. He’d already ignored his internal timer once today, after all.

He’d been stupid. He’d known his mother was beginning to lose patience with him—he’d seen it in the clench of her jaw, in her silence when he’d ask a question, in her quick and increasingly terse side-glances. But he really thought he’d chosen an interesting topic this time: NASA was exploring new technology for deep space imaging.

That was your first mistake, he tells himself plainly. You find it interesting. Mom doesn’t.

He looks again at Roman, who now is inspecting his injured arm. He reminds Logan a little of their mom in this moment; his jaw is clenched, he glances quickly at Logan. His silence. Although, Logan reminds himself that technically it was Roman who asked a question and Logan who didn’t answer this time.

“C’mon,” Roman says quietly as he stands up. The similarities to their mother in his expression is replaced in something flat that Logan can’t read. He follows.

Roman leads him to the bathroom closest to his bedroom and quietly shuts the door behind them. Roman is silent as he opens the cabinet mirror and pulls out antiseptic, Neosporin, and cotton balls. He sets them on the white porcelain counter. Logan stares at the light tiled floor, replaying the conversation with his mom.

He’d started speaking at 4:00. His mom grabbed his arm at 4:37. His first warning had come ten minutes before that. He files that information away in the back of his mind.

“What happened?” Roman asks as he wets a washcloth in the sink, finally breaking the silence. He looks at his brother through the reflection in the mirror above the sink.

Logan is trying to hold his arm as still as possible as he stares vacantly at the peeling cream colored paint where the wall meets the ceiling. “I was telling mom about the new NASA technology.” His gaze flickers to his brother just in time to see the way his shoulders move with a sigh and the slight shake in his head.

“You know you can tell me that kind of stuff when mom doesn’t want to listen, right?”

Logan tenses. It’s not the same. She’s mom. “I thought it was interesting. Mom told me to stop but I hadn’t gotten to the most interesting part yet.” He doesn’t know why he says that. He recognizes that it isn’t an answer to Roman’s rhetorical question.

“Logan…” Roman wrings the washcloth out and turns back to face him. His brows are pulled together. “What made you think this was going to be different than any other times you’ve tried to talk to mom?”

“I thought if I could speak quickly enough this time, maybe I could get to the interesting part and mom wouldn’t mind if I talked as much.” As Logan explains, Roman kneels in front of him and takes his arm. He jaw is tense, his expression unreadable to Logan as he studies the fresh burns on his arm more closely. Logan presses on. “But talking more quickly I think may have aggravated her further—”

“Logan, please!” Roman snaps suddenly, his gaze flying up to lock onto his younger brother. He looks angry to Logan. His grip around Logan’s arm tightens slightly. “How many times does it need to happen before you learn?”

Logan yanks his arm from his brother’s grip. He stumbles back a step.

He feels shaky and he can’t explain why. He clenches his teeth as he stares at where Roman’s knees meet the tile bathroom floor and waits for the heat in his eyes to go away. “Learn what, Roman?” he asks in as measured of a voice as he can manage.

In Logan’s peripheral, he sees Roman’s grip around the washcloth clench. “Isn’t it Einstein who said that it was insanity to do the same thing over and over and expect different results? You keep doing this, and… you keep getting hurt, Logan. And I…” Roman trails off.

“What do you want from me?” Logan snaps. Angry at his brother. Angry at the way the world is blurring on the edges of his vision. Angry with himself, because maybe Roman has a point and Logan can’t make sense of why that infuriates him. “To just shup up? Stop talking? I thought you said I could talk to you. Now you want me to shut up too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

“I just…”

“You what, Roman? You’re tired of having to apply Neosporin to my arm?

“No. I just wish that--"

“Tired of having to pick up the pieces because I’m too stupid to keep my mouth shut? Well, message received. I’ll keep my sleeves rolled down next time—”

“I can’t always protect you, Logan!” Roman blurts out and it surprises the younger brother so much that he looks up and finally meets Roman’s gaze. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He’s pale. Logan is struck suddenly with how similar Roman looks to his youngest brother, Virgil all of a sudden.

He’s scared.

Logan’s jaw snaps shut as Roman presses on.

“I… wish I could. But I can’t, no matter how hard I try…” Roman swallows hard and averts his gaze, as if ashamed. He continues haltingly, like he’s fighting with himself through each word. “And when I can’t … when I’m not there or fast enough or… just… Logan, please.” He sounds less angry when he says those words this time. He sounds like he’s pleading. He sounds tired. “I need to know that you’ll try to keep yourself safe when I’m not around.”

For a moment, Logan doesn’t know what to say. He’d always seen the way Roman would intervene with their mom and dad when it came to the three of them; Logan wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t that much younger than Roman. But he’d never really thought that Roman would think of that as a responsibility he carried. It never occurred to Logan that Roman would see their injuries as a sign of some kind of personal failing on his part.

It leaves an uneasy feeling in Logan’s stomach that he can’t explain. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what his expression is.

Roman looks at him for a long, careful moment, then sighs again. He holds out a hand. A peace offering.

“Let me help you, Lo. I don’t want you to get infected, yeah?”

Logan swallows hard and nods. “Yeah.” He reaches his arm out, letting Roman take it.

His brother’s grip is impossibly gentle now. He dabs gently at the fresh, angry burns with the damp cloth. A part of Logan is afraid to look up at Roman’s face again. He tells himself its juvenile, but he doesn’t want to see that fear in Roman’s eyes again. So instead, Logan watches Roman tend to his arm. As he sets the washcloth aside and reaches for the antiseptic and cotton balls, Logan hears him humming very softly. It takes him a moment before he places the song. “Hey Jude” by the Beatles.

Neither of them say anything while Roman cleans his arm, nor when he applies Neosporin and helps Logan roll his sleeve down. Logan just watches his big brother and listens to his humming.

When he finally gets the courage to look up at Roman, he still sees the edge of lingering fear that’s chipped away some of the brightness Roman usually had. For the first time but certainly not the last, Logan wonders how much of it is an act. How much Roman hides from them in the name of protection.

He’s not alone, Logan tells himself, even as Roman gives him a small smile and closes the supplies behind the cabinet. He’s got us, too.