#also was intentionally vague in the authors note because I find those old school author notes with crazy dramatic events-

[sexynetra]

“I'm so sorry this is so late, I uhhh got robbed and then had to go to a police stakeout to try and rescue some of my things lmao” GIRL WHAT

I would love to have made this up for the bit but alas my life is a seemingly endless stream of progressively more and more unbelievable stories 😔

(I’m all safe! My laptop and I were separated for a bit but by some miracle we were reunited, can’t say the same for the rest of my school stuff RIP choir music and assignment guidelines)

[dastardlydandelion]

casus belli

ao3 link

obligatory irl inspo link

content warnings: referenced violence, implied abuse

Max strokes her mother’s hair as softly as she can, gingerly guiding her fingertips around the goose egg where Neil whacked her with the wrench, gash no less grisly to Max’s eyes even now sutured up. It’s been hours but Max still feels rattled even though she won’t cry, can’t cry because she needs to be strong and calm for Mom. Being this close to Mom helps marginally at least. Close enough to touch and feel and watch her breathe, know she is alive even though she’d been so terribly still on the floor, hadn’t let out any sound nor even twitched after the gun went off and Neil collapsed atop her.

Max’s eyes dart toward sudden movement in her peripheral. She expects a nurse or maybe another cop but it’s Billy in the doorway, denim jacket buttoned, hands stuffed in the pockets of his blue jeans. He gives a nod, gaze flickering to her mother in the hospital bed. Max exhales softly as she draws her hand from Mom’s head and trots across the eggshell tile. She tried to call earlier but he didn’t answer. She deduces the authorities must’ve contacted him about Neil.

Max isn’t normally the hugging type but today has been an exceptionally scary day and in all truth, part of her wasn’t sure she’d ever see Billy again at all. Leaving Neil meant leaving so many things behind, her school, her friends, Hawkins. Billy too. She throws her arms around his middle and squeezes tight, tight, tight as a tourniquet.

Billy grunts, caught off guard, but then he breathes out and winds an arm around her.

“Hey, shitbird…”

Max thinks his voice sounds weird. She swallows and lets go, tugging at the drawstrings of her hoodie as she takes a step back.

“Hey,” she returns and it is the least of things there are to say. “The cops tell you everything?”

“I don’t know about everything.” Billy looks pale as his eyes dart between Max and her mother. “How’s Susan?”

“In and out. She might be in and out for awhile. Neil busted her head open and she’s still all doped up…I don’t think she remembers coming in or getting x-rays, or anything.”

Max uncertainly wiggles her hand as she glances back over her shoulder. Mom is dozing again, looks so fragile in the bed, legs swaddled so thick in their splints, toes just barely peeking out, chest tube as big around as a highlighter emerging from the slit in her gown and going into the drainage unit on the floor.

“My dad really did a number on her…”

“No shit, Billy, he was trying to kill her. He was yelling about how he wouldn’t let her run away again. ‘No more running!’ That’s what he was yelling that when I pulled the trigger.” Max rubs her forearms, swears in her soul she can still feel the recoil riddle thorough her bones.

She only fired once and Neil folded like a fancy dinner napkin right on top of Mom. Then Max couldn’t tell whose blood was whose.

“I’m sorry,” Billy grates out, grave and low.

“She’ll be fine. I’ll take good care of her,” Max declares, soft but determined. “I have practice and Mom’s bound to be a way easier patient than you were, anyway.”

She’d had to help Mom out with Billy after the Mind Flayer. Neil was weirdly gentle with Billy for a little bit in the beginning, when it looked like he might die. But when he started getting stronger and turned around for the better, Neil could barely be bothered to lift a finger. Didn’t contribute much to her brother’s recovery beyond complaining about medical bills and making a bunch of negotiations over the phone with the insurance company.  

“No, Max, I’m apologizing because this is my fault,” Billy bows his head, eyes glued to the floor as his shoulders tense. “It’s my fault he found you, I’m sorry.”

A cold feeling creeps beneath her skin.

“What?”

“It was stupid, I was stupid,” he says, voice seeping shame. “I got you a new skateboard since I broke your other one. Decided I’d mail it to you, so I got it packaged up and all that, hid it under my bed. My dad trashed my room looking for some shit he thought I stole and he found that instead. With the address.”

Max clenches her teeth. In the recesses of her mind, she realizes it was an accident. Of course it was an accident. But. The way Mom screamed. Gunpowder scorching Max’s nostrils. Whose blood is whose. Mom not moving. Safety wasn’t safety even in Springwood, Ohio with different names and plate numbers, wasn’t safe in a million years because of the way Mom screamed and Max, who hadn’t been going by Max in public in Ohio, knew precisely who and what was ripping their new life to pieces in the way Mom screamed.

It was an accident but Max can still feel the recoil, Max is the recoil and Mom was one missed shot away from a coffin. Neil swung the wrench and Mom’s lung popped like a happy birthday balloon before Max’s hands could go steady enough to pop a cap. Mom’s courage has been rewarded with broken bones and blood and confusion, but well. It was an accident.

“I tried to stop him, Max.”

“Go away.”

“I tried to stop him, I swear—“

“Go away!” Max snaps, louder. “Get away from me! Get away from my mom!”

“Who’s fighting?” her mother groggily asks as she stirs behind her.

Billy relents under Max’s dark glare, shuffling a few steps back and turning away.

“Max?”

“I’m here, Mom.” Max retreats back to her mother’s bedside and smiles gently in assurance, placing a chary hand on her forearm.

“Was that Billy?” Mom blinks up at her, nose twitching as she gives a little sniff. “You smell like Billy.”

“Uh, yeah. Billy’s here. Neil’s here too but he can’t hurt us. Do you remember that?”

“Mhm.” Mom gives the slightest of nods and covers Max’s hand with her own. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you bring Billy back? I wanna fight with him too.”

“What?” Max gasps, bemused.

“I have a bone to pick with that boy,” Mom says, muzzy eyes half-lidded as she vaguely jabs a finger in the air. “He gave my sixteen year old a loaded gun and didn’t even tell me.”

“Uh, okay, I fully understand why that would bother you. And I also didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to freak you out—“

“You should’ve told me too,” her mother declares, almost petulant as her lips purse sternly.

“—but you realize I saved us both because I shot Neil, right?”

“It’s the principle of the matter, Maxine,” Mom insists. “Neither of you asked me for permission, neither of you said a word. Billy got a loaded gun from the safe and gave it to you, so I’m upset…and I need to yell at him. Bring him back.”

Max splutters, dumbfounded. Her mother is definitely as high as a kite. Her voice is so weak Max doesn’t know how she expects to yell at all. But she can’t refuse her request when she’s somehow striking that tone of maternal authority Max suddenly feels compelled to obey, even as hurt and dopey as she is.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll go find him.”

“Thank you.”

Max tenderly brushes a kiss over her mother’s temple. When she gets to the doorway she hesitates for a few heartbeats, gaze lingering on Mom. She isn’t particularly keen on letting Mom out of her sight right now. Her stomach flip-flops the way it did a few hours ago, when they took her down for x-rays without Max in attendance.

She reminds herself it’s fine. The only person who wanted to hurt Mom is Neil. Neil is paralyzed from the waist down and handcuffed to his own hospital bed. He’s not lurking around the corner or hiding in the shadows. He's not belly-crawling the corridors like some vengeful serpent.

Neil’s room is eventually where Max locates Billy. The door is shut. The blinds are drawn. Max cannot see inside but it is Neil’s room nonetheless, an officer standing guard and munching on a sprinkled, pink frosted doughnut with such gusto it’s like he’s intentionally trying to be a cliché. Billy is a few lengths away, gnawing at his fingernails, one shoulder leaned against the wall.

“Found you,” Max greets.

Billy bites the corner of his thumbnail and stiffly lowers his hand to his side. “Found me? You’re the one who told me to fuck off.”

“Yeah, well…” Max crosses her arms as she leans against next to him, idly kicking her heel against the wall. “If you knew he was coming, why didn’t you call the cops?”

“I tried to stop him, Max. We got into it. He choked me out and locked me in the hall closet.”

“Holy shit. You got out?”

“With some splinters in my knuckles,” Billy huffs bitterly. “Yeah, wish I would’ve thought to feel up on the top shelf sooner. My old Little League bat was up there. That helped.”

“Damn…look, I’m sorry i jumped down your throat earlier, okay?” Max uncrosses her arms and glances down to Billy’s hand at his side, exhales through her nose as she notes the bloodied knuckles. “It’s been a fucking awful day and I’m trying to be brave and calm for Mom, but…”

“Don’t. I deserve it. It’s my fault.”

“You’re not the one who broke into our house with a goddamn wrench like some horror movie villain.”

Billy just shakes his head.

“Anyway, we’d better get a move on. Because my mom wants to see you but I don’t know how long she’s going to be awake.”

Billy blinks rapidly, squinting his eyes. “She wants to see me?”

“Yeah, come on.” Max grabs him by the arm and starts to pull, only to let go when his face crumples into discomfort. “Oh. Hey, how bad, um…are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just kinda stiff, long drive didn’t help.”

Max nods and leads him back to Mom’s room without any more grabbing. Billy plods beside her and now that she’s paying attention, she realizes how purposeful his steps are. He doesn’t do any of those restless little movements typical of him, no finger drumming or collar adjusting. He’s moving no more or less than he has to. Definitely sore.

Max pulls up the chair for him when they get to Mom’s room, right beside her bed so neither have to strain to reach for the other.

“There you are,” her mother announces, twirling her index finger at Billy.

“Here I am,” Billy agrees, flashes a sad smile as he slowly lowers into the seat. “Hey, Susan. How you feeling?”

“Upset,” she says decisively, narrowing her eyes as Max pointedly mouths ‘painkillers’ to Billy. “You and I need to have a talk, mister. What you did was very irresponsible and I am sorry to say I’m disappointed in you. I--"

"I'm sorry," Billy blurts, interrupting as he abruptly bows so low, like he would to dodge whenever Neil would throw shit at him. "I'm sorry, Susan. I'm so, so sorry."

Mom blinks rapidly, confused as Billy starts blubbering. His denim clad shoulders tremble as sobs quibble out of him one after the next. He keeps apologizing between them, grief stricken and fraught with guilt. She hasn't seen him cry like this since the sauna test.

"Oh my...I'm upset, yes, b-but not that upset, Billy..." Anxiety tweaks her mother's features, her fingers warily fluttering over the guardrail that separates them.

Max lays a hand on his back and leans in.

"Listen," she murmurs, gentle but firm. "If you need a minute, you need a minute but don't scare my mom."

"I'm sorry," Billy repeats, this time to Max as he visibly struggles to pull it together. "But it's my fault."

"Oh, it's not all your fault," Mom insists. "Maxine had ample opportunity to come to me about Neil's...Astral Tyrannosaur?"

"Astra Terminator," Max corrects.

"Mm, that then." Mom's lashes flutter sleepily.

"The gun," Billy echoes. "We're talking about the gun?"

"It really wasn't right to keep it from me," her mother says, adamant and perhaps a little sulky. "But I suppose I came on a little too strong. Max, could you pass me those tissues?"

"Sure." Max grabs the paperboard box on the beside table and passes it to her.

Mom pulls a few from the box and reaches up, dabbing at Billy's blotchy face. He doesn't say anything. He goes quiet, snuffling softly only a bit.

"There, there," Mom soothes. "We're all here. That's what matters most."

Max shifts her weight from foot to foot and takes the tissue box back.

"I'm okay," Mom says, sudden and hasty like she's not entirely confident. "You shouldn't worry so much...either of you."

"No one is worried, Mom," Max promises. She winds around to the opposite side of the bed and pulls up her own chair, warmly pressing her lips to her mother's cheek. "We know you're okay. Just a little banged up."

And that's an understatement, but at the very least, Mom will get better. And Neil won't. They're free.

Her mother leans in and briefly nuzzles Max's cheek in return until her face is nestled into the pillows again. Having said her piece and with Billy calmed down, she seems relaxed again. She curls toward Max as much as her upper body will allow and with a little more hair stroking, nods off again.

Billy gets up to leave. Max catches his eye and shakes her head. His mouth quirks at the corner and he resumes his seat.

[redrosella]

Passion

Chapter 1 of 2

Summary: An old photo in Patton's room brings up new questions for Virgil. Who was Passion? Why had he never heard of him? Where is he now?

...Can Sides die?

Author’s Note: Wow, I haven’t posted any writing on here forever. I really should get back into doing that. Anyway, I know the summary is vague, but I promise it’s for a good reason ;) Don’t want to spoil anyone.

Cleaning Patton’s room seemed like an impossible task.

Every side seemed to be covered in different toys, pages, and countless knick knacks that seemed utterly unorganizable. There was almost no common theme to be found that would lend itself to creating a semi coherent living space.

Now, it may have been possible if you were to throw out some of the more obscure items, or maybe even move them to a different place where they wouldn’t get in the way so much, but no. Patton wouldn’t dare parting with even one of his treasures, so organization it was.

And who worse to recruit than Virgil?

“Thanks for helping me out, kiddo! Just let me know if you ever get overwhelmed and we can take a break.” Patton flashed Virgil a smile.

“No problem, Dad.” There was no possible way Virgil would ever deny a request from Patton, even if his room did make him slightly uncomfortable from time to time. So here he was spending his valuable time helping him with this impossible mess.

They figured the best course of option seemed to just be picking a corner and begin cleaning it out in the hopes of actually making a dent, so Virgil went to the far left corner as Patton began working on the right.

There were a lot of very peculiar items stashed there, from memories of high school crushes to childhood toys that broke the instant they were played with. Some of it even managed to bring a half smile to Virgil’s face rather than a grimace.

It took a good half an hour of work on his corner before things finally seemed to get slightly more presentable, and a half an hour before he came across a picture frame.

That in and of itself wasn’t weird. Patton had tons of pictures scattered across his room, hidden in every nook and cranny. What was odd was the person in the photo.

He looked like a young Thomas, just barely on the cusp of middle school. He wore a thick scarf and glasses, a book and pen in hand. His eyes almost gleamed with interest despite looking caught off guard in the photograph.

“Uh… Patton? What is this?” Virgil asked.

Patton hummed in question, popping his head out from his corner of the room- which looked a lot less clean than Virgil’s. He’d probably just spent the whole time reminiscing rather than cleaning.

Virgil held up the frame, waving it in lieu of answering. Patton managed to catch a glimpse and gasped, running over.

“Oh my gosh, I thought we didn’t have photos of him anymore!” Patton took the picture frame reverently, holding it close and absorbing every detail of it. He held it so close to his face that Virgil wondered how he was even seeing the whole picture.

“Who is it?” He asked after a few awkward seconds of letting Patton quietly gush over the photo.

Patton blinked. “Oh, I forgot you weren’t around when he was! He’s Passion. His name was Pasha.” He held out the photo between them, letting Virgil see it again.

“Passion?”

“He was Thomas’ interests as a kid. His hobbies, his dreams. He was my best friend back when Thomas was ten years old,” Patton clarified, a wistful tone to his voice.

Virgil bit his lip. “What… what happened to him?” Clearly he wasn’t around anymore. Virgil would have seen him, someone would have mentioned him, something would have come up. Instead this was the first time he was even hearing anything about a Passion. It sounded more like Roman than anything, but that wasn’t right, was it?

Patton became oddly silent at Virgil’s question, staring at the photo with a touch more sadness.

“It isn’t my place to say,” Patton finally settled on saying.

“Whose would it be?” Virgil asked.

“Logan or Roman. They know more than I do.”

A thousand thoughts raced through Virgil’s mind. Logan and Roman weren’t around when Thomas was ten. How would either of them know what had happened?

“Well kiddo, I think we should call it a day. I’m… I just want to be here for a bit.”

“Patton…” Virgil trailed off. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine. Just thinking. It’s always good to get the emotions out, right?” Tears glistened in his eyes. “Thanks for helping me clean, really. And thanks for finding this picture.” He flashed the anxious side a real smile despite the tears trailing down his face.

“No problem padre…”

----

In the beginning it was just Morality. Just Thomas’ emotions getting him through life day by day. There wasn’t a need for anything else. When you’re a baby, things are relatively simple.

It’s when you get older that things become a lot more complicated.

Passion came into existence when Thomas began to explore. He was a little four year old still trying to find his way, but he did have interests, favorite things, goals that weren’t all emotional. Passion was there to fill that gap for Morality.

It was a shock when he first popped up. Morality had no idea that there could even be other sides, so seeing Passion suddenly appear with his scarf and glasses in the mind palace one day nearly sent Morality into a tissy. They quickly figured it out, though. They were sides, and they were parts of Thomas. There was no reason to be afraid of each other.

They ended up making a pact to stick together throughout those formative years. They worked to fend off the emerging dark sides, doing their best to make sure that Thomas wouldn’t fall prey to that kind of thinking. It didn’t always work, but it was enough.

They saw Thomas grow up. No other light sides appeared, but that was fine. They were content just being with each other.

----

“Logan… Can sides die?” Virgil asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Logan almost dropped the book he was reading, completely caught off guard. Virgil didn’t blame him. There they were, sitting in the living room having a nice quiet time together, and the anxious side just decided to drop one hell of a bombshell.

“I… why would you like to know?” Logan asked, befuddlement clear in his voice.

“Just wondering.” Virgil shrugged. He decided that he wasn’t going to bring up Passion. Clearly with the reaction Patton gave it was a sore subject, and he didn’t want to cause more harm just because he was curious. He figured he’d just skirt around the issue with Logan and try to suss out an answer without actually mentioning it. Maybe that’d stop all Virgil’s dwelling and let him focus on more important things.

...It was wishful thinking, but Virgil would bank on it anyway.

“Well… I suppose it is possible…” Logan said very carefully. He sounded like he was treading on very thin ice, not about to lie, but also not wanting to say anything that could cause a negative reaction.

“How would that… hypothetically happen?”

“Virgil, are you okay?” Logan asked, cutting the conversation off.

“I am- really!” Virgil quickly defended. “I’m just curious. I’ve never heard of sides disappearing, but it’s gotta be possible right? If Thomas doesn’t need one anymore?”

“I highly doubt Thomas wouldn’t need one of his core personality traits. Even the dark sides are needed, despite everything negative they contribute. They still have some good, and Thomas still can use their words to his benefit.” He sighed, looking put out. “Are you worried that Thomas doesn’t need his anxiety anymore? Because I’m pretty sure we already went over this when you ducked out.”

“No, I know Thomas needs me, don’t worry. I learned my lesson there. I was really just curious, I swear.” Virgil really hoped he wasn’t digging himself into a hole. “But you never answered my question. Is it possible?”

Logan bit his lip, looking down at his book and back up to the other side. “Yes. I suppose it is. If, hypothetically, a side’s job could be taken by another side, then that side would no longer be needed- but that is a highly improbable scenario. There is no reason that would happen, especially because Thomas is a grown adult. His personality has been solidified by now.”

But it hadn’t been in the past. That meant it was still possible then. Logan clearly didn’t know of anything like that happening, but he also wasn’t there until Thomas was twelve years old. Maybe something happened to Passion before he was around, so he wasn’t aware?

But who would take up Passion’s spot? Unless…

Roman.

Roman was passionate. He was creative. He was the source of Thomas’ hopes and dreams.

It made perfect sense.

Oh god, Roman killed another side. Maybe not intentionally, but he took their job. That’s why Patton was so upset, but didn’t want to show it. He was afraid of hurting Roman's feelings.

Virgil stood up quickly, his chair pushed back slightly.

“Virgil?” Logan questioned.

“Sorry, I need to… go. Thanks for talking, that was really interesting,” Virgil said quickly, speeding out of the room and leaving a confounded Logan behind.

Virgil needed to talk to Roman.

Later.

After he finished processing this.

----

Morality and Passion were ten years old when they decided on names for each other. Calling each other by their titles was just too formal for them, and they came to the conclusion that they weren’t just Thomas’ morality and passion, but so much more, so they deserved a name just like him.

“I want to be Patton!” The tiny side cried out as he pointed at a name book, the name sticking out.

“Why’s that?” Passion asked inquisitively, looking at the book carefully, where the meaning of Patton was printed.

“I dunno. It just sounds nice!”

“But names have to have meaning!”

“Well Thomas’ name was picked just because his parents like it! We can do the same.” Patton pouted. “You can pick out a nice meaning for your name, but this is what I’m sticking with,” he said stubbornly.

Passion was about to protest further, but his eyes trailed a few lines up, spotting something that caught his eye. “Pasha,” he said reverently.

“Huh?”

“Pasha! That should be my name! Then we could both have names that start with P!”

“You just chose a name that sounds like Passion!” Morality accused.

“So? You said it yourself, it doesn’t have to have a big meaning. It can just be a name.” Passion crossed his arms. “This is the name I want.”

“Oh, fine. It’s nice to meet you Pasha!” Patton stuck his hand out.

“It’s nice to meet you, Patton.” Pasha shook the other’s hand, which Patton quickly turned into a hug that they stayed in for a good minute.

These were their names, and their names alone.

----

It had been a few days since Virgil talked with Logan, and still the only conclusion that he could come up with was that it was indeed Roman who had taken Passion’s place. Thomas was young and his interests were still growing and changing when Passion was still around. There was a chance that when Roman did come around, he unintentionally overstepped his role as creativity and bit off more than he needed to, rendering Passion useless.

That did seem like a very Roman thing to do. Not intentionally, but he always dreamed of bigger and better things, so of course he might take the reins on things like that without even thinking about it, because it was so ingrained into his personality.

It wasn’t a one hundred percent certain theory, however. Virgil knew better than to bank on those. There could always be some different explanation that he hadn’t though of- and this was a pretty drastic theory just to be throwing around with very little evidence.

That’s why he needed to talk to Roman. Get some information out of him and figure it out for himself. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with the information, but he just needed to know it to ease his mind. He’d figure it out later.

“Roman.” Virgil flopped over the creative sides’ bed, his hair falling over his face.

“Yes, My Chemically Imbalanced Romance?” Roman jibed. He was sitting at his own desk, brainstorming ideas idly. Virgil liked to sit in on these sessions, reminded of the days back when he and Roman worked together to create edgy poems and the like for Thomas. Even if he didn’t really contribute anything anymore, it was still nice to listen to the embodiment of creativity spitting out ideas and eventually hitting that one perfect one he was positive would work.

“I was wondering… You’re not just creativity, right?”

Roman shot him a confused glance. “Well, a-doy. Just like you’re not just anxiety, you’re also self preservation . Hell, I even introduced myself as the fanciful side the first few Sanders Sides episodes! What kind of a question was that?”

Alright, it was a stupid question. Virgil just didn’t know how to casually bring it up otherwise! That was the only way he could think of that could maybe naturally work.

“I was just wondering,” Virgil mumbled. “So what other traits would you describe yourself as?”

Roman frowned. “Are you having an existential crisis, Virgil? Because I can tell you that you are so much more than you give yourself credit for. You’re self preservation, caution, fear, that voice of reason in Thomas’ head. You give us all a reality check when we need it.”

Geez, did everyone think that Virgil always needed a pep talk? He should really tell them to cool it. He wasn’t always on the brink of sinking out again, he was just in a bad place that one time- but things were different now. He was a different side now.

He guessed it just took time for the others to realize this. So now he just had to deal with the constant reassurance and slight babying, even when he was trying to do this for everyone else.

Okay, maybe not everyone else, but still just in an effort to sate his own curiosity.

“No, Roman, I’m fine. Just curious. What would you describe yourself as?”

Roman looked like he wanted to protest more, but decided against it, instead tapping his chin with a finger. “Hmm, well, that’s a tough one. I suppose I’d be creativity, dreams, ambition, talent, those kinds of things.” Roman perked up for a second “Oh! And I can’t forgot passion! I’m-”

The rest of Roman’s words were drowned out by Virgil’s mind.

There is was, straight from the horse’s mouth. He was passion.

Roman had to have taken over Passion’s role, killing him. He was the reason why Patton was crying in his room.

And Virgil couldn’t even blame Roman. Roman was just naturally passionate. He was always driven, always pursuing new things, and there was no doubt that he was just like that when he first came into being. He would never have done that to another side intentionally, but it’s not like it was something he could control. Roman was just the natural evolution from Thomas’ passions as a young kid to his hobbies as a teenager.

The rest of the conversation with Roman was a blur in Virgil’s mind, but he eventually got out of his room and into his own, left with a cacophony of thoughts and no way to organize them.

----

Pasha and Patton were only ten years old, but they were aware of things like relationships. Sure, they may not be old enough to get all the logistics of it, but they knew the basics: people that were together held hands and did things together and were happy.

Patton already had two of those things with Pasha, so he figured why not try holding hands with him? Then they could be together like their parents!

It was a perfectly logical conclusion in the moral side’s mind. He loved Pasha, and Pasha loved him, so obviously they should be in a relationship.

“Pasha! Hold my hand!” Patton cried as he raced into the side’s bedroom.

“What?” The passionate side poked his head up from a children’s book, confusion written over his face.

“You should hold my hand, and then you can be my boyfriend!”

“You… want to be my boyfriend?” Pasha blushed, putting his book down on his lap.

“Yes! That’s what everyone does when they’re close friends! They hold hands, and then they are a couple! We already hang out and are best friends, so why shouldn’t we be boyfriends!”

“That.. does make sense,” Pasha said, a tone of contemplation in his voice. “But would you really want to be my boyfriend? I… I’m sure there’s someone better.”

“We’re the only two good sides! Besides, even if there were others, I’d still like to be with you! You’re funny and kind and passionate about so many things! Do… do you want to be my boyfriend?” Patton’s voice got a tad smaller at that last question, a bit of fear worming its way into his gut.

“I… Of course, Patton. I’d love to hold your hand.”

A large grin spread across the moral side’s face, and he quickly rushed over to Pasha’s bedside, grabbing his hand. It was a bit clumsy at first as he tried to figure out the best way to fit their hands together, but they worked it out quickly.

A blush spread on both of their cheeks, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

----

The next day when Virgil walked into the living room, he was met with three identical faces all looking at him with a variety of different expressions, concern being the most obvious.

“Virgil, we’re… worried about you,” Roman started.

“What?” Virgil blinked.

“You’ve been asking some odd questions lately, and we were just afraid that you might still feel out of place here- or perhaps that some worries are plaguing you still and you need to have someone help you work through them,” Roman clarified. “There’s no shame in asking for help. We’re all here for you.”

“What are you talking about? I’m fine.” The anxious side crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at everyone.

“Virgil, you asked Logan about death, and then asked me about what you thought your purpose was here. It sounds like you are still struggling to find your place in our group, and wondering if you are still useful- which of course you are-” Roman quickly affirmed. “You know you’re part of the family.”

“Of course I know that.” Virgil scuffed his shoe on the ground. “I told you, I wasn’t asking about that stuff because of me. I was just curious. Not everything I ask has to revolve around me. There’s just a lot of stuff that I still don’t know here.”

Logan frowned. “Well, usually curiosity occurs from something happening to spark the idea. It is not a far leap to assume you are currently thinking about these types of things and are wondering about what we know. It’s okay-”

“I’m just trying to find out about Passion!” Virgil cut him off, too annoyed at the barrage of misunderstandings to think through his words.

Everyone in the room froze up.

“How… How did you learn that name?” Logan asked slowly.

“That’s my fault, kiddo,” Patton spoke up softly, speaking up for the first time since the invention began. “We were cleaning out my room a week ago, and he found a photo. I… I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Virgil rubbed his arm self consciously. “It’s fine, Pat. I was just wondering what happened. You told me to ask Logan and Roman, but… I didn’t want to hurt them like you clearly were when it was brought up. I was trying to be discreet.”

“Pat, you were hurt?” Roman’s head whipped over to the fatherly side, concern obvious on every inch of his face. “Whatever for?”

“I… I just missed Pasha, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. I know that I shouldn’t be afraid of letting my emotions out anymore, so I just let myself miss him. It’s okay.”

Roman put a hand on Patton’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Patton. I’m sorry. It’s okay to miss him.”

“I suppose we owe you an apology, Virgil,” Logan said after a minute. “I did not think that you knew about Passion, so I did not make the connection, and instead jumped to a false conclusion. I apologize.”

“It’s no big deal. I was just wondering.” Virgil shrugged. If he knew that asking about Passion would have caused this mess, he would have just kept his curiosity to himself. Everyone staring at him now was just making him even more anxious.

“Well, I suppose we owe you an explanation now,” Roman spoke, still patting Patton on the back and shooting Logan a look. The logical side nodded back.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to explain it to me. I figured it out myself,” Virgil said with a sigh.

“You did?” Logan asked incredulously.

“Yeah. You said that sides can only die if their role was taken over by another side. Roman appeared when Thomas was eleven, and when I showed up around twelve, Passion wasn’t there. I figured that Roman took over Passion’s role, and that’s why he’s gone now. I don’t blame you, and I’m sorry for pushing.”

Logan and Roman both shot each other a look. “Virgil… That’s not exactly true.”

“What?” Virgil blinked. “But you told me that that was the only way sides could die.”

“Passion didn’t die, Virgil,” Patton spoke up, his voice soft. “He’s still here.”

“I… I don’t understand. You were mourning him. How is he still here? What do you mean?”

“Let me tell you a story, Virgil…”

----

“Hey Pash, what’s wrong?” Patton poked his head into the dining room. The eleven year old was sitting at the table, a contemplative frown on his face.

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know what’s wrong?” Patton walked over the the side, sitting on the chair next to him and leaning close.

“I don’t know!” Pasha cried out, throwing the pencil in his hand down with a dull clunk. “It just doesn’t make sense! Thomas’ teacher wants him to do a writing assignment, and I want to do it, but I also don’t want to!”

“Why don’t you want to?” Patton grabbed one of his boyfriend’s hands, trying to physically reassure him. Seeing his boyfriend in any kind of hurt was always heartwrenching.

“His teacher wants us to do this writing about these silly things, and it just seems stupid to me! Like, I want to, but it’s a waste of our time!”

“Oh Pasha… Nothing is a waste of time if you have fun doing it.”

“But we could be doing better things!”

“Pash, you never know if something will be worth doing if you never try it.”

“I just think we should be doing more… concrete things. Like working on math, or history! Not spending time writing stories. They do nothing to help us.”

“But they’re fun! Our time together doesn’t really do much, but we still hang out and enjoy it!”

“I guess…” Pasha trailed off.

“Come on, let’s just do something fun now and take your mind off this. We can always come back later.”

“Alright. Thanks, Pat.”

“No problem.” Patton flashed his boyfriend a large smile. “That’s what I’m here for!”

“But what am I here for?” Passion mumbled under his breath, too low for the other side to hear.

----

Something wasn’t right.

Patton could feel it. Thomas’ mindscape felt weird, like there was something invariably wrong. His first thought was Passion. He had been acting weird lately, but surely he couldn’t be causing this… wrongness? Pasha would never do something like that. Dark sides did that, not Passion.

Patton slipped out of his room, taking small steps over to their living room where he could hear sound. It felt wrong.

“-isn’t right! Doing theatre would take up too much time! We would barely be able to get out homework done!” Pasha was pacing around the room, looking at the floor and ranting to himself. A roiling feeling boiled up in Patton’s gut. “But this would make Thomas happy! I should be letting him pursue his dreams! But not at the expense of school! School is more important than some hobby that he probably won’t care about in a year. School will lead us to more substantial hobbies!”

“Pasha…?” Patton questioned.

He didn’t hear him.

“But what if he likes theatre? What if he wants to continue it? What if he gets a major role? He wouldn’t be able to do anything else! I can’t leave all our other passions behind just for this one! What about astrology? Math? Those are so much more viable career options! I know we should be enjoying our youth, but we have to think about things like this! We can’t waste our time doing theatre!”

“But what about what Thomas wants?”

“We are Thomas! We know what’s best for him!”

“No, we’re his sides! He’s still his own person who can make his own decisions!”

“But I’m still his passion! I know about things like this!”

“And I know that this will make him happy!”

He was arguing with himself. He wasn’t even being discreet about it, he was just literally talking back and forth with himself like he was two different people.

This had been happening a lot lately- on a lot lower level than this, but still similar. He’d argue with himself, flipping between different options and never settling on something. It was like a never ending war with himself. But never as obviously and physically split as this. Patton wanted to step in, say something to comfort his boyfriend and tell him that everything was okay, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what to do or how to fix this. He was frozen with indecision.

“You’re not listening to me! Well you’re not listening to me! You can’t keep doing this, we’ll never get anything done! You’re the one getting into a huge argument with yourself, just choose something! But there is no right answer, it’s all subjective!”

Tears began to well up in Pasha’s eyes. He clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound that wasn’t around him. The sound that was all inside his head.

“JUST GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

And then…

Pasha didn’t exist anymore.

Just like that, he was gone. Patton’s boyfriend wasn’t there anymore, and instead… There were two people on the floor, dazed and confused but entirely separate.

One had Pasha’s glasses. The other had his red scarf wrapped around his shoulders.

“We…” Scarf looked up at Glasses. “What?”

“This… is an unprecedented turn of events…” Glasses sputtered out.

“Pasha?” Patton whispered. It was like his entire world was breaking down. This wasn’t right. Where was Pasha? Where was the boy he grew up with? What happened?

“Patton?” Scarf spoke up, his eyes meeting Patton’s. “I… I don’t know what happened.”

“We split,” Glasses explained, sounding like he just came upon the realization himself. “We couldn’t decide which path to pursue, and we weren’t getting anywhere like that, so Thomas’ mind split us in two. So we wouldn’t be constantly fighting and could actually get something done.”

“So… who I am?” Scarf asked, fiddling with his scarf idly in his hands.

“Who do you feel like? I feel like… Logic.”

“I feel like… Creativity.”

Patton’s world shattered.

[flowerpotphil]

You Better Run

Chapter 1          Read on AO3 Summary: Daniel Howell is a trained assassin, he'll take on any job as long as it: A) Isn't a child B) Isn't his family/friends But his job description didn't cover what to do with those his victims left behind. Falling in love was never part of the plan.After all, it is a bit unprofessional to fall for a victim's boyfriend, even if he is rather cute. Warnings: It’s an assassin AU, so naturally there’s going to be some blood and violence, please don’t read if its going to be an issue for you. (More tags on AO3)

Daniel Howell, a supposedly normal 27 year old British guy, wasn't a very open person. His society was one dependent on hierarchy, it was easier for him to keep his mouth shut and go with whatever came his way. People didn't bother him unless they really needed to, he wasn't all that close to his family, and his work was entirely solo. To anyone who asked what he did to earn such a luxurious living - chandeliers, crystal glasses, his white grand piano that took up most of the lounge, and his charmeuse bath robe, were all examples of things he owned - would get a shrug, at a push he'd tell them he was an accountant for some of the richest people in the country. In the 8 years he'd been in the job he did, no one had ever proved him wrong, and he hoped that wouldn't change. 

No, he wasn't an accountant, he had no idea what accountants even did, but he couldn't let anyone hear about his actual job. For one: he didn't even go by Daniel Howell. It was his birthname, the name his parents gave him before they had another kid and pushed him to the sidelines. His 'work' identity - The Crimson Whisper - made people shake, vomit and pass out in terror, often creating an atmosphere you could cut with a knife. It was more than uncontrolled fright people felt at the name, it was an emotion beyond human comprehension. 

Daniel Howell, The Crimson Whisper, was a ruthless killer. The rich employed him to assassinate anyone they wanted, paying horrifically high prices for the deed to be done quickly, and to assure that their names weren't affiliated with the killing. There were a few assassins hanging around the streets, but their work was sloppy and they preferred to let their name be known. Daniel had never given the authorities anything to identify him with, hushed street talk had conjured up The Crimson Whisper because no one ever heard the victims of him cry out. No one heard him either, he was completely and utterly silent apart from when he was discussing work. He had to bite back remarks and laughter when people's eyes rounded at the sound of his assassin name, but over the years it had gotten much easier. The strange thing about him was that no one even suspected that the quietest man among them was up to anything sinister.

It was December when Daniel let his eye off the ball. 

All of the people that required his assistance had to wait under a very precise tree in the small forest land by Daniel's apartment, it was the tallest oak tree and it hid his figure in the shadows. It was back alley talk that gave people the place to find him, no one would dare hand him to the police in fear he'd tell all their secrets. The payment for each person Dan had to take care of was determined by the length of time he had, how long he had to go, and how risky it was, but everyone had to tell him a secret. People would do anything to protect their most dreaded secret. 

Dan was at the top of his game before a man turned up under the tree on December 1st. He was wrapped in a moth-bitten, stained cloth and his body hunched over. It was raining, the wind was making it exceptionally eerie to be so deep in the forest at midnight; everything was perfect in Dan's eyes. The man's face was shadowed over, but the darkness made Dan unable to decipher anything else about him, all he knew was that he wasn't his usual customer. "Excuse me, you're the assassin, correct?" Shockingly, his voice wasn't of an old man, possibly middle aged. Looks really were deceiving. "That would be me." His voice was intentionally guttural, unidentifiable if someone spoke to him during the day. "I've saved up for a year, there's this woman who's... She's just bad." "I'll need a proper reason." "She's a fraud, she dresses up and takes money from people. Her boyfriend has no idea what she does behind his back, but she burgles, cheats, and takes people for granted. She robbed my wife, she's in her 60's and the poor woman was scared to death!" The man's voice was rising as he spoke, the resentment for the girl becoming so out of hand. "What's her name?" "Harriet Turner."

Dan knew her. When he was starting out as an assassin, she was being trained by the same person he was. They'd been sent after the same person and she'd nearly pushed him off the ledge he was standing on, but that was when he bothered hiding his face. She didn't know anything about him, but he'd read about her. She must've hung up the bloodied robes for a civilian life, or maybe not according to the man standing in front of Dan. 

"When do you need me to do it?" "Before Christmas, preferably before 2 weeks have passed. Just get it done." "You know I'll need all the money you saved, it's Christmas after all, and a secret." "My name is Micheal Darker and I used to excessively gamble." And then he threw a pouch of rolled up notes on the floor in front of Dan, then walked away. The quick appointments were always the best, the risks were low and Dan could get back to just being Dan - he didn't have to struggle with the weight of his heavy duty clothing.

While the pay was outstanding, the conditions weren't great. He was to burrow into black clothes with a protective layer over his torso in case anyone tried to fight back. No one ever did. Descriptions of him had travelled like wildfire, vague ones that couldn't identify him in the slightest, so a dark figure standing in someone's room at night was a give away. They just gave up. It was almost amusing how many people Dan had immolated that just gave themselves to him; pathetic really. When he was busy it was torture, 3 people to dispatch of overnight meant a mad chase around the city to all the places they'd be, he also had to keep up his standard of work. Any mess that didn't need to be made was an imaginary strike against him. However much the busy nights dragged on, the slow times were even worse - he'd constantly be checking the thousands of pounds he'd saved up in case his services weren't needed anymore. Foolish to think that, he always had a steady flow of customers from all around, sometimes people were too wrapped up in themselves to need him.

Research. That was the first step Dan took. He'd try and get as much information he could about the people he was going after, and social media sites were one of the best advantages. He joined it and added everyone that appeared so it wouldn't look suspicious if he needed it later on, but most people had public profiles. He spent hours researching and taking notes of things that were useful to know. For instance, if someone went out every Friday night he would hang around until they were alone to strike. Most of it was common sense, the skill came with leaving no evidence of him being there. 

Harriet, as he thought, had given up her assassin lifestyle. She had a boyfriend called Philip Lester and was ostracised from the majority of her family. She didn't seem to like Phil that much, her posts were a lot about her being with friends and never with him. They went out to a bar each and every night; her income came from her boyfriend and serving in a restaurant; and she loved to get drunk. Phil was away on a business trip, but that was only for the weekend, and it was Friday - the day he left. Meaning that, if Dan was quick, he'd catch Harriet on the Saturday night, leaving her to whoever found her. That would probably be Phil. He wished there was a picture of the man, it would make his job a lot easier, but he posted sparingly so it wasn't a good chance. 

There were no clients on the Friday night, so Dan was able to collapse into his silk sheets with a glass of wine in his hand. If he had a night to himself he'd take a little self care, and he'd sort things out for himself, the nights would end with a large class of wine and a bar of chocolate, all while he watched one of the latest movies on his flat screen TV. It was all very laid back, but it took his mind off of the goal he had for the next night, and the fact that he probably wouldn't be sleeping.

Nonetheless, it was his job. Like it or not, he made his living doing this and he was the best at it. Other assassins had groups of friends that would sell them in when asked by police, but he never dared trust anyone, assassin or not, he worked alone. It was lonely sometimes, and he had a few acquaintances that he'd go out with, but none that he was close too. It had always been the same so it wasn't as if he missed anything from his past. He didn't have a relationship either, he slept around with girls in school, but other than that he never was bothered with it. He pushed any romantic feelings down, not that they were ever strong, it wouldn't tamper with his work that way. 

It was 1 AM when Dan turned off his TV and settled himself to sleep, drifting off into a land where nothing bad could happen. That night, however, his dreams were full of screaming.

Run. He just had to keep running. He was going after Harriet and they caught him, her dad caught him and everyone was after him. People yelled and threw things as he ran ahead of them, everyone was desperate to get their revenge. His parents were there too. 'This is why we preferred your brother.' His dad muttered, but it made no sense for him to have heard that above the noise of the mob that was after him. He ran to a dead end. No. Stop.

Then he woke up with hands gripping sweat soaked sheets, a pounding heart, and a lack of breath. It wasn't real. The nightmares only got to him if it was the night before a risky task, but he wasn't frightened of getting caught. He could handle it, but the disappointment would be too much. His clients would be found out, they'd be slandered to no end, and his family would hate him even more than they already did. There were 2 consequences of being caught: prison time, or death. Dan would choose death, he wouldn't want to be sent down and have everyone know what he did, who he killed. Other assassins would pick at him because he always stole the limelight. In death there was nothing. It would be the only fair punishment for someone as bad as he was. 

He knew that he should've been productive that day, that maybe he could pry more into Harriet's life to try and track her, it was just hard to do it. Usually he loved the snooping, it was pretty interesting, but other times it was too exhausting. Taking his chances was a huge risk, but he'd never been close to being caught before, so why would it matter now? 

The TV made noise for itself as Dan slouched almost lifelessly in the chair. Sleep occasionally took over, but most of the hours passed with him staring into space. With it being winter he could set off to get his work done earlier, and he was best waiting around because he had no clue what time Harriet would inevitably crawl in drunk. It was funny, he never expected her to turn into a party girl, she was always so snobbish and uptight to what he thought. 'While other girls get dressed up, I get suited up.' Is something she'd always say before she killed people, he'd seen it in the papers. She wasn't that great at keeping her identity a secret. 

At 6 PM it had gone dark, it was quite cold out so Dan's heavy torso protection gave some extra warmth. His suit was black and clung to his body so he could move efficiently. He guessed it looked like a gymnasts outfit, or the things that people wore backstage at a play - he was such a theatre nerd in school. He took back alley paths, the only life along them was intoxicated people, or people using heavy drugs, they wouldn't remember him by morning. A hood shielded his face, especially his eyes, so even if someone was aware enough to notice him, they wouldn't get in his way and wouldn't be able to describe him. He was sure he would've gotten caught, but the police didn't dare patrol there, and there were quite a few people dressed similar. 

The stone pavement was freezing, and homeless people were huddled up under cardboard and the occasional sheet. Dan felt slightly sorry for them, he had such an admirable life and they ad next to nothing. If he gave away his money he risked them telling the police that he had extraordinary amounts stashed away. He did ask some of them what they needed if it was during the day, then he'd dash to a store and get them a few things. Every single one of them was grateful for it. Contrary to belief, he was sympathetic to people who deserved it, but he could never let it get in the way of his work.

Harriet's apartment wasn't high up, it was actually on the first floor. It was shocking how many people left their spare keys buried around the place, even more so when that person was an ex-assassin. She'd left her key under a rock under the front window. It really was a bright idea. 

Dan didn't think twice about going in and unlocking the door, the CCTV camera was in shards and no one was around, no one was stupid enough to be outside in this apart from Harriet and her friends. Dan didn't even know if she was out partying that night, all he knew was Harriet wasn't in and he had to wait for her to come back in the darkness. He wished he could play on his phone, or do something, but it was trackable so it had to be left in his apartment. 

It was cold in the apartment, and the only sound was the clicking of the clock that Dan couldn't risk getting up to look at. Seconds went by. Those turned to minutes, Those turned to hours. It was boring.

But it didn't last that long. He'd locked the door on his way in, so the familiar sound of someone's key sliding into the lock made Dan's mind more alert than it had been. He listened hard, there were no voices, a giveaway that Harriet was alone. 

He peered up over the arm of the couch he was sitting by, she was walking all over the place and spluttering with meaningless laughter as she did it. Drunk. She'd be so easy to take out, it was like an early Christmas gift for Dan, but she knew all the tricks of the trade. He just hoped she was too far gone to realise what was happening. She walked into another room, and Dan followed after her, his feet light on the carpet. The bedroom was grand, it was obvious that her boyfriend, Philip, had no say in what it looked like. Her clothes occupied every free surface, there was no sign of him apart from a pair of black converse shoes. It was pitiful, Dan felt sorry for a man he'd never met and never would meet. Harriet had her back to Dan, she was messing in a box that was on the end of her bed. Perfect. Two steps forward was all it took, and she didn't even realise he was there. A knife with no detail was out of its sheath within milliseconds, then Dan took a deep breath in. His one gloved hand wrapped around Harriet and covered her mouth while the other plunged the knife into her back. He knew the exact spots he needed to cut through, but the feeling of the knife sinking through flesh was never pleasant for him to feel. She didn't fight him, but he felt her going weaker in his grasp. He pulled the knife out again, letting the wound bleed out. Harriet became more of a dead weight as the time went by, her white dress staining red as blood trickled out. Her hand did go to the point where it was bleeding in a feeble attempt to stop it, or maybe it was just the realisation. Either way, it didn't work. When Dan brought his arm from around her, she crumpled to the floor. Her chest wasn't rising or falling. It was hard to check her pulse with gloves on, but it was either nonexistent or very faint. She was a goner either way.

There was no remorse in Dan's eyes when he looked at Harriet. He couldn't afford it. As usual, he left through the front door and left it as she did, the keys hanging and door unlocked. The spare key was placed back under the rock. Then it was only to get home, a steady walk down the back alleys would more than work, he could hide in the corners and get home without anyone noticing him. It was easy.

[stefanoaltieri]

The SAT Is Not A Test, It's Trickery.

Right now my kid is undergoing the torture otherwise known across America as the SAT. He has been preparing for this day for quite some time now. By the look and heft of his The Official SAT Study Guide, it seems he has been preparing for the last eleven years. I picked a bookmarked page, random to me, right about midway through the College Board-issued behemoth, page 356 to be exact, and glanced at the cryptogram on the left column. I read through it and thought to myself, “this feels like trap of sorts. This is an intellectual contraption setup to promote failure. This...this is trickery!”

I vaguely remember some chapter in the story of my life when I was somehow reluctantly convinced to undergo such torture myself. There were some figureheads, some caricatures of authority, involved. Something about college, and a test, and scores, and being punctual, and timing. And oh, yes, something involving a pencil, a very specific pencil, a No. 2. It had to be sharpened, of course, and I was instructed to "bring a pair." Apparently that's all the ordeal required. The rest, for the most part, is vague. Very vague.

Bubbles. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. The letters A, B, C, and of course the ever-elusive D, which may as well have been a hostage in an All of the above or None of the above scenario or some variation of the sort. The details escape me now, as I am certain they did then, but I do remember, almost vividly, the clock. More specifically, the minute-hand racing past the hour-hand, on the white-faced something-ix clock stuck on the painted cinder block wall, just above the classroom door. The second-hand was red, and sometimes between glances from the test to the clock, I would catch it standing frozen still for a moment too long.

And oh, yes, there is one more thing. I was never on time for school back then. I usually, almost predictably, always "came way too late," as Dean Young would tell me during one of our many confrontations in the hallway discussing my impending suspension for my failure to appear at detentions assigned to me as disciplinary measures designed to curb my tardiness. Also, I was never prepared, constantly "borrowing" loose leaf paper and a pen from well prepared classmates. And, to a fault, I always left way too early. Some would consider that "cutting class" but I didn't, I simply didn't go to the last class of the day because it was directly after my lunch period, which was technically the period I would cut out of school. So, I argued, in my defense, I did not intentionally "cut" that last period class, whatever it was it was simply an unwitting casualty of bad scheduling, or, more correctly, a matter of conflicting timelines.

As I have learned, conflicting timelines is a recurring theme in life, generally, but more specifically so in mine. But for the sake of brevity I will say for that particular place and time, there was no specific, intentional, rationale or reason for my lateness other than I just either always woke up late or left home late, and I rarely made any attempts to make up for it.  In my last trip through the wringer, during my senior year, this meant missing first period, almost entirely sometimes. I think it was either Algebra or English, but it may have been Gym, as I don't recall ever breaking a sweat in that school. I spent sixth and seventh period mixing and rolling dough at Pizza Boy in the Roosevelt Mall. Suffice it to say, my SAT score was greatly affected by such behavior, et al. Needless to mention, my academic career, in general, and perpetuity, suffered tragically. Fatally. Yes, that's Fatally, with a capital F.

What I don't remember is  anything about workbooks or practice tests or study guides. But Me 2.0 is all up in that. As he very well should be, I mean this kid is an honor roll staple. They could literally use his name as a staple to hold up the Roll of Honor hanging on a hall wall at his school. Like clockwork, if there is an occasional B it is always flanked by a row of A's and often transformed into one by the next marking period. An impeccable attendance record worth boasting about. No tardiness. No absence. Spotless. To a fault. I once told him he could miss a day of school to tag along with me and pick up my new motorcycle in Ohio. I worded it in such a way that it would sound like a really cool thing to do, but used a tone that connoted such concepts as "responsibly" and "thoughtfully". I pitched him something along the lines of making a once in a lifetime, memorable experience of the thing, a one-day father & son road trip. An adventure that would involve bonding, trust, brotherhood and beef jerky; miles and miles of nine-over-the-limit on the clock and lots of cruise control; Rock and Roll - or oldies, depending on which generation you hail from; a case of water for hydration; and some big empty cups for to avoid pulling over during the longer stretches between rest stops. It would have been a party on four wheels, for sixteen hours straight. I even suggested he could snapshot highlight moments of the debacle and post it to his Instagram. I wish I had done something like that with my father as a kid. Now it was my chance to turn the tables on life's mis-dealt hand and break the chain of missed-opportunities. He could tweet about it. #OneDayRoadTrip.  That's what the kids do. Right? YOLO. Right?

He turned me down. He did not want to miss school and have to catch up on his work and... Well, I don't remember the rest of it. I lost him after those first few words because of the confounded mess I became once the look in his eyes hypnotized me senseless. First went sound. Then darkness took over, summoning thoughts of despair and pending doom to any nonconformist-on-the-brink-of-turning-conservative. I was in a momentary state of dumbfounding shock, while the horror of it all echoed in my head with eerie notes something to the tune of "is my son a nerd?"

?

His instinctive reluctance to miss out on a legit, parent-sanctioned school absence for the sake of school-related malarkey made absolutely no sense to me, a dropout. None. Not then. Not still. Doubt it ever will. So, I ventured out on my own. I did it old-school. SOLO. Because that's how I roll. Apparently. But to make sure I didn't end up in a scene from Deliverance, I had the route all planned out, and set up my outdated Android to talk me through the plot twists now and then. As rubber wore down, I occasionally lifted my G3 out of the cup holder to check for signs of life and to make sure the car charger thing kept the battery juiced up in case I got stuck somewhere. It was a couple hours of high spirits until the WaWa coffee ran its course and the radio faded to static and I eventually got bored enough to try and picture-text a few location updates to my son, back at school. He would sneak me a very delayed thumbs up (👍) emoticon now and then during school hours, surely he waited until he was in the crowded hallways, inter-class. Then I remembered I shouldn't text and drive. So I kept it to rest stop texting only, mostly. I even tried miserably to capture a few snapshots of such roadside sights as deep valanced valleys nesting rural villages, and cool old rusted-through farmland robots planted like landmarks amidst the alternating chromatic values of green and freshly-plowed dirt. These, I thought, I would rub in his face when I produced them as evidence that he totally missed out. But I ended up with blurry, skewed shots of road signs, and eighteen wheelers, and dashboard. Lots of dashboard. Once, the ever-intrusive fingertip made a cameo, photobombing what would have otherwise been a postcard-esque shot of a tunnel entrance.

Epic.

Fail.

All in all, it ended up being a trip worth taking. For me. For the obvious reasons, the most logical of which was to haul back the coolest thing on two wheels worth taking such a trip for, which is the only logical reason to ever partake in such shenanigans, solo or accompanied. But admittedly, it wasn't something worth missing school for. Those sixteen hours felt like an eternity of dreadfulness at the time, eight of which mostly spent in pitch-black darkness, on the way back, with my bike in tow, strapped down in the hollow cargo cavity directly behind my seat. Eight hours of going eighty, with eight-hundred pounds of steel and rubber and gasoline held in place, just inches from my head, with the cheapest ratcheting straps I could find. It wasn't safe and it wasn't pleasurable. No place for a kid who's gonna use his brains in life. It was forebodingly dark and loud. Road noise, mostly, echoing through the uninsulated van like a rolling tin can, deadened only by only moments of fleeting redemption as I played hide and seek with the dropouts in radio frequency on which Alice Cooper, God bless his soul, hosted late-night radio. Sipping bad coffee to keep my eyes peeled enough to avoid plot twists involving six-pointers and eighty-miles-an-hour rental vans as I made my way through the peaks and valleys of western Pennsylvania.

But I digress. My kid. My boy. The fruit of my loins. The heir to all my fault-derived understanding of this world and most of my mistake-learned wisdom, is taking the SAT. Right about now, he is fully aware that he is being tested on his aptitude, whereas I felt, at his age, in a similar setting, or generally, that I was being tested on my attitude. I still do. But not him. He's every good thing I could never be if I tried. He was up for it. Prepared for it. He's got this. I know it, and more importantly, he knows it. He gladly sharpened three brand-new Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils, before going bed last night, and told me, with nary a hint of playfulness, "Dad, this is the best pencil in the world."

I concur.

I hope that his No.2 fills in only the right dots. I hope it leaves a trail of lead* that maps out nothing but the right answers, marking only the correct solutions. I hope that whatever fate had in store for him today, it also involves a handful of educated guesses, with some lucky guesses mixed in for good measure, though I doubt he would need that many. I hope he ultimately pencils this in as nothing more than what it is, a minuscule experience in an ever-evolving wheelhouse of much, much greater experiences that a life well lived should undoubtedly grant him. I hope that whatever pattern, whatever master key is used to unscramble this cryptogram of grey bubbles,  I hope it mirrors the pattern that his teachers taught my boy. And I hope that my boy decides to duplicate that pattern through the fullest extent his knowledge. I hope that the system utilized to review his choices can also connect the dots of his answers to his propensity for assessing the true value of knowledge. True value. True knowledge. The kind of knowledge necessary to pursue and carry out a fulfilling life.

I hope the appointed surveyor of errors scans both the marked and the unmarked choices and recognizes them only as the result of the invisible act of choosing choices chosen over choices not chosen, and not use the weight of consequence to suppress any choices he has yet to make or coerce anyone to make a choice about him, in the future, based on his choice of an answer today. I hope this examination of his scholarship can sift through his absorption of the mindless regurgitations of expanded sophomoric academics and screen his wondrous, now-limitless potential, ripening and maturing into a future which seems more and more so uncertain to a father like me and yet so promising for a son like him. I hope that whatever computer computes his standardized Scholastic Aptitude is also programmed with the intangible sensitivity necessary to gauge his ability to use his standardized scholastic intellect to enhance his common sense and his uncommon, not-so-standard sensibilities about and towards the world around him.

I hope the College Board can look at his test score, no matter what it may end up to be, and recognize its irrefutable meaninglessness against his all-in effort, his can-do attitude, his willingness to do and be more and better, and his relentless dedication to apply both his critical thinking and the stuff they teach at school to his advantage and to that of others, especially in situations where his natural instincts may prove futile.

I hope, for the sake of our future, 'cause that's what the children are, that these standardized tests, and their score, don't mean that much to them. And by them I mean the kids.

By the way, In the color of full disclosure, due to one of my innumerable battles with my arch-nemesis Time, I missed the greater bulk of my SAT. My final score was 900-something, which, as evidenced in my writing, is largely attributable to the luck fate had in store for me on that day.

Also, Dean Young was a friendly figure in a stern setting. Sometimes we ate together at the Burger King across the street. His treat. Always.

I never, ever mentioned his toupee. Not to him, not to anyone. Until now.

*is it graphite?