#analogical angst

[halfhissandwich]

“Expressing an unhealthy amount of concern.”

[bluukive]

T.H.I.N.K

warnings - mdni, angst, Mandela Catalog inspired, Gojo turns into an alternate/he's been replaced, body horror, psychological manipulation, guns, sụicide mentions, implication of sụicide

wc - 1.4k

an - I don't recommend reading this if you struggle with anything in the warnings. Credits to Alex Kister for creating my fave piece of horror media and credits to lunarelles on IG for the banner

“This is a message for the citizens of Mandela County.”

Gojo was sprawled on the floor, and you were behind him on the couch with both legs dangling off of his broad shoulders. A hand curled into his white locks in an attempt to soothe—- you, him…both of you? You didn’t know, and it didn’t work. 

“If you see a person with biologically impossible characteristics, run away and hide.”

“Y’ever realise how weird it’s gotten? In this county, I mean. It’s too quiet,” Gojo murmurs, face impassive and illuminated by the static of the TV before you both.

“If you see another person that looks identical to you, run away and hide.”

Gojo’s voice was casual, as if he was trying to make light of the current situation. "Everyone’s acting weird, going missing… I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

“Refrain from any kind of communication—”

A sigh left the taller man's lips. Neither of you were listening to the broadcast, too busy reminiscing of the lost days where you could trust your own minds. 

“DO NOT REVEAL YOUR FEARS. They CAN and WILL be used against you.”

“I just miss the old times. I’m scared of being replaced,” his voice drops lower as he leans his head back into your hands. You couldn’t blame him, but silence met his ears. What could you even say to him? You decided to leave him where he was and go to bed.

“Know your place in reality.”

The TV flickered once, twice, before its light fizzled out into darkness. Gojo stood by the TV for the remainder of the night.

“Kill yourself. There’s not enough room for the two of us.” 

--· --- -··     ·· ···     -· --- -     ···· · ·-· ·

The house you shared with Gojo was cold. That was what woke you up the next morning. It was the kind of cold that crawled under your skin and welded your joints together with a painful stiffness.

It was also quiet. Too quiet—unusual, considering that by now, Gojo would’ve been hollering from the kitchen for you to wake up and hand-feed him pancakes. But he wasn’t.

You rubbed your bleary eyes, wincing at the way your muscles screamed in protest at the slightest movement. But closing your eyes again felt wrong. The creeping sensation that the space around you was both occupied and observed made you shudder—like your body hadn’t caught up with the fact that your presence had already been overwritten. You shrugged off the feeling—maybe to your own detriment, and made your way out of the bedroom with the distinct awareness of eyes lingering on you every step of the way.

Gojo’s room was empty when you passed by. Strange, but maybe he’d felt the cold too. When you peered into the kitchen, he was already sitting there. Two bowls of cereal rested on the dining table. Untouched. No spoons.

He was too still for your liking. You weren’t even sure if he was breathing.

With a hesitant tap to his shoulder, you whispered his name.

Gojo didn’t react at first—his body tense, shoulders squared. There was no obvious hostility radiating off of him, but everything about him felt… off.

Then—

“Oh, hi. Didn’t see you there,” he said in a voice that wasn’t quite right. It sounded like someone playing a recording, his mouth just a fraction of a second out of sync.

And that fraction didn’t escape you.

“Why are you just sitting here, you weirdo?” you asked with a weak smile, nudging his shoulder lightly. Gojo craned his neck up to look at you. A smile formed on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His neck moved too far. It stretched unnaturally.

It took everything in you not to react.

“Sleep well?” he asked, beginning to eat his cereal with a spoon that—hadn’t been there before. Gojo raised his arm, dragging the utensil to his mouth like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Another smile. One with too many teeth.

You lied as you sat across from him, palms clammy, gaze fixed firmly on anything but him. “I slept fine, I guess. You?”

“I don’t sleep. Not when you’re gone,” Gojo said. His hands paused mid-air before lowering slowly, unnaturally. Like marionette strings loosening.

“The fuck do you mean by that?” you huffed, squinting your eyes and trying not to betray your increasing dread. He sounded like Gojo—he even acted like Gojo, spouting some bizarre statement like always. But your eyes weren’t lying to you.

“Oh, you know. You close your eyes, and you’re just… gone. I don’t like it when you do that.”

…

“Yeaaah, you’re definitely weird today, haha.” A nervous laugh bubbled up in your throat, blood rushing to your head far too quickly. “Just gonna… excuse myself.”

You couldn’t bear to be in the same room as that.

With a faux grin stretched across your face, you got up and headed back to your room—your last safe place.

--· --- -··     ·· ···     -· --- -     ···· · ·-· ·

The T.H.I.N.K principle. That was all you could think as the days went by. Praying didn’t work. After all, how could you seek solace from a God who had been replaced one of them? 

T - Tell an authority figure about your encounter H - Hinder the alternate's movement I - Identify the class type N - Neutralize the alternate (If safe to do so) K - Know your place in reality

The cold remained in your house, a place that no longer felt like home. It didn’t leave, and neither did ‘Gojo’. His laughter still bounced around the building. He would hum songs, ones that didn’t exist. He’d freeze in place, head bent at an unnatural angle as the memories of what once was began to fade away.

You weren’t blind. It was all an act meant to charm, meant to persuade you that, yes, everything was okay. Nothing had changed, and Gojo was still the man you came to love all those years ago. 

Except he wasn’t.

The last week was draining as you carried out a covert observation, all whilst mourning the loss of the original Gojo. It was agonising— quiet, choked sobs filling the increasingly hostile atmosphere of your bedroom when the sun had set. You had to accept it. He was gone, replaced. All by a type 1 doppelgänger— an exact replica of him consisting of the slightest of flaws that gives his cursed nature away. 

You sat there on your bed, door locked firmly shut as you thought back to the change in behaviours. The breakdown was rapid— seemingly harmless behaviours increasing in sheer absurdity to the point where your own safety was compromised. Gojo’s fingers twitched more frequently at first. His pupils stopped responding to light. Within days, Gojo stopped blinking all together, eyes refusing to dry out.  

That… thing, was wearing his skin. And he was staring at you from outside of his body. 

A heavy weight sat beside you, the metal cold as it served as a silent reminder of what you must do in the worst case (and rapidly approaching) scenario. Neutralise the alternate. 

But a cooing voice brought you out of your thoughts. You sat up straight, eyes flitting to your bedroom door. It sat slightly ajar, the hallway outside pitch-black.

Didn’t you lock it? 

It was as if all oxygen had been choked out of your body. You swallowed, heart seeming to thump steadily in your throat. 

“Open the do-door! I h-haa-have a sur-surprise for y-ou-you!”

A singular eye between the crack of the door came into view.

Then two

Three.

Four.

Five. 

Six blue eyes. 

Six blue eyes that were fixated solely on you. You shrieked, hands fumbling for the gun. Hold it like he taught you to. 

“Ge— get away from me, what are you?!” 

Tears dripped freely from your eyes, blurring your view as you held out the gun in front of you. Both arms shook violently, skewing your aim before you slumped against the bed in defeat. Had you been praying to the one you sought an escape from unknowingly?

“I ha-have a pres-pre-present for yo-you!”

No one was coming to help.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there on the bed, knees tucked to your chest and fingers wrapped around the cool steel. But you were definitely sitting there long enough for those tears to disappear the longer its voice called out of you. The only thing you felt now was acceptance. 

No one was coming to help. 

“I’m ending things on my terms, you bastard,” you hissed, picking up the gun once more. 

BANG!

…

Uh-oh! Bad decision, y/n!

[orbch]

Maybe it’s a cause for concern, but i’m not at ease, keeping my head to the curb

[voidheartkisses]

Narinder and Shamura angst

[part-time-zombie]

Virgil is Logan's closest friend.

In case it wasn't already clear, he truly means a great deal to Logan. He won't admit it, but he can't necessarily deny it either.

Who else among the sides knows Logan so well, and knows exactly what gifts he'd love the most and why he'd love it? Who else ever cared to put in the time and effort to actually cater to his interests so thoroughly, or bothered to at least try to meet them?

Who else does Logan feel like he can actually converse with, who he can let his guard down around and actually relax for once? In all honesty, who among the sides would he fully enjoy being around without feeling like he were holding his breath the whole time?

Other than him, who would actually listen to Logan talk without interrupting, never once making him feel bothersome for sharing his thoughts?

Everyone else has already shut him up and cut him off more than once. Logan has been interrupted, ignored, and outright entirely removed from conversations more times than he'd like to count, and the only one who hasn't done so to him yet is Virgil.

Honestly, that in and of itself is a miracle.

So of course Virgil is Logan's closest friend, maybe even his only friend. And that's more than fine, because he's also Virgil's friend.

Or, he hopes he is.

Because when he sees how Virgil is with the others, how he seeks them out and prioritizes his time with them above all else as if he truly cherished it more than anything, he can't help but wonder...

...how important is Logan to Virgil?

[let-roman-bite-someone]

thinking about how Virgil probably understands how Logan is feeling right now. how Logan feels like no one wants him around anymore, no one values his opinions, the other sides occassionally villanize him or act like he's the problem; and Virgil gets it. he knows exactly how it feels.

and that's why he doesn't make a big deal out of Logan jumping to conclusions about his present. it probably hurt Virgil to see Logan immediately assume that he didn't care enough to prepare a good present but in the end, all Virgil says is “and you thought I would just get you a newspaper”.

because he's been in this exact position before and in that moment, it was Logan who gave him some believable assurance that he is not unwanted, that his presence means something to the rest of them.

so when Logan jumps to a conclusion and assumes that Virgil doesn't like him all that much, Virgil doesn't take it personally. he's just returning the favor.

[mvrphysart]

i’ve done Logan comforting Virgil, but i think Logan deserves some comfort on especially bad days too.

[flankerclinger0a]

Me ballin out to fnf music at 2 in the morning on a Sunday while drawing angsty yaoi murder because the pen called to me and kept me awake for way too many hours causing me to finish the drawing by sunrise

[sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes]

[teruoturtle]

I don't think I'm the only one to make this connection, but I made this anyways

[soupetiedee]

page 2/???

me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when me when tmc angst

[bluukive]

The Moon Above

summary - Both you and Suguru promised each other not to look outside. But something changed his mind. Should you listen to him?

warnings - mention of sụicide, mental health, the moon is evil, really vague descriptions of what's going on, manipulation, even I'm confused

wc - 1366

an - another Local 58 x jjk inspired post because my mind is whizzing. idk how much of this makes sense (plz be nice it's my first attempt writing all cryptid sob)

It felt different tonight. The city was collectively in hiding, eyes and ears glued to the radio, TV, phones— whatever device was available. The streets were silent, and all curtains were drawn tightly shut as the sound of the Emergency Alert System blared loud and disrupted the silence.

"THIS IS A PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT FROM YOUR LOCAL BROADCASTING STATION.

DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR DEVICE

DO NOT LOOK OUTSIDE. 

ALL WINDOWS AND CURTAINS MUST REMAIN CLOSED. IF YOU ARE FOUND TO HAVE OPEN YOUR WINDOWS, YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO GO OUTSIDE. INDIVIDUALS ATTEMPTING TO ENGAGE WITH ANY EXTRATERRESTRIAL PHENOMENA WILL BE ELIMINATED.

IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE BEEN AFFECTED: ISOLATE IMMEDIATELY."

You sat there, bloodshot eyes straining as you took in the message before you. The only thing illuminating your pitch-black room was the TV, and your body was rigid as you held your breath. Tentatively, as if skies above would hear you, you exhaled and let the tightness leave your muscles. 

It’s been pure hell for the last few months. Socialisation and communication was at an all time low. Paranoia had struck the nation when outbreaks of psychosis had spread like wildfire. Reports of ritualistic behaviours, mass suicide and missing individuals was growing increasingly common. And there was no one to blame but yourselves. 

It was hostile. Everyone knew that. But people were so easily swayed by the illusion of salvation it seemed to give. It appeared to whisper and shone bright in the ever-lasting night sky. Bow to me, the voices said. Give in to your saviour. 

But there were no voices. The human mind was terribly weak, making up things that weren’t actually there. Theories began to emerge, causing waves of misinformation to reach even the most isolated corners of the world. No-one knew what was going on— not even the most experienced psychologist or astrophysicist. All everyone knew was that it couldn’t be trusted. People swore that it’d appear to breathe and pulse, but madness would soon follow those who dared to look up. 

Whether it was a vessel to harbour some sort of hostile entity, or whether it was the entity itself, no-one had a clue. All you knew was if you kept the curtains shut, you’d be fine. Mostly. 

A faint buzz brought you out of your thoughts. Cellular devices weren’t prohibited, per se. But you were rather cautious about using one. 

Blinking back the wave of exhaustion, you picked up your phone and saw that it was no other than Suguru, one of the very few you could rely on for support. He was a grounding force in your life, keeping you sane and served as a reminder that no matter how tempting it was outside, it wasn’t worth it. 

“Hello? Sugu?” You whispered, longing to hear the voice of your best friend. Your one and only, you’d often kid. You couldn’t hear anything from the other end of the phone except for some light breathing. With your brows knitted in confusion, you called out to him again.

“Ah, yes. Sorry, y/n. Did you see the recent alert?” Suguru sounded breathless. That was the first thing you noted. As if he’d gone for a run. But not in these conditions, right? 

You shook your head stupidly, as if he could see you. “Yes, we can’t open our curtains. Nothing new. Why?” 

The small huff of laughter you were so used to met your ears. It made you feel good for once, in a time where nothing felt right. But what your dear friend said next had your breath catching.

“My TV was telling me something different. Didn’t you see it? It’s safe again.”

Silence.

That wasn’t right. There had been no other EAS. You sat up straighter on the floor, mouth feeling dry. “No, actually. There haven't been any other messages. I would have texted you if there was,” you responded, forcing your voice to stay casual. But you were far from calm. Your mouth felt as if someone had stuffed cotton into it, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get a good breath of air into your lungs. 

“...it’s beautiful tonight, y’know?” Suguru murmurs so softly. You falter, feeling as if you were underwater. His words came out muffled as all the blood in your body rushed to your head. You should have hung up on him.

Save yourself. 

But like a fool, your trembling hands kept your phone by your ear. “S-suguru? Did you look…outside?”

Another chuckle, and you felt your heart rate picked up drastically. Surely, he didn’t?

“You sound scared,” he teased, eyes focused on one thing only from his own apartment not too far away from yours. His bedroom felt uncomfortably hostile and cramped. What other choice did he have but to open his curtain? “There’s no need to be scared, Not when it’s so peaceful.”

Your hand was shaking almost violently now, the combination of fatigue and tears prickling at your eyes making it unbearably warm in your room. “Don’t look at it, Suguru. Please don’t look at it.”

A soft exhale. Like he’s getting frustrated at you. But you need to remind yourself that this isn’t the Suguru you grew up with. It can’t be. Not anymore. 

He speaks again, but there’s a slight edge to the silk of his voice. “Don’t you trust me, y/n? Don’t you want to see the God hanging down from the sky? It calls to us all.”

Suguru sounds breathless now, as if he’s locked in reverent worship. You’re frozen now, refusing to listen to whatever was at the other end of the phone.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Look out of the window, y/n. Can’t you see me burning under it?” The crackling of the phone grows louder, yet his voice comes through audibly. You swore you could hear your own voice echoing back at you the more you spoke. 

Nothing felt real. Your head was swimming. 

“Don’t call me by my name. Who are you, and what have you done to Suguru?”

“I crawled into his skin. Now, I burn,” a brief pause, the voice growing more distorted by the second. “But I have an eternity to get to know his flesh, and his body will learn to accept me eventually. Look outside.” 

You were so conflicted. Usually, you were so insistent on following the orders of the EAS. But underneath all of the distortion, Suguru sounded so at peace. Didn’t you deserve that too? 

“Y/n. Just one look,” he said. It sounded like him again. Not the other Suguru that made the whispers in your room grow more prominent. 

Would looking make you stop feeling like you were being watched from the inside of your skull? Would it end the constant urge to look into the mirror to check if the eyes of your reflection were still shut when you looked at it? 

And so the last of your resolve cracked after weighing out the pros and cons. Suguru would be proud, right? You finally listened to him for once. You winced as your knees cracked after hours of inactivity. The roar of white noise was dimming the closer you came to the curtain. The whispers seemed to pause. That was the last push you needed. It felt good to be so close to salvation. 

You cast your eyes back, glancing at the TV. If you hadn’t blinked, you would have seen the way your reflection was slower than you. One deep breath. 

Swoosh. 

You blinked hard once the curtain was drawn to the side, shielding your eyes with a pale arm and grimacing at the sensation of light. Suguru was silent now, the phone long forgotten in his hand. You didn’t even notice, not until you gathered your bearings and finally dragged your eyes to the window. 

Your stomach lurched.

“I-I don’t like this. Please stop moving like that.”

But you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Your entire face glowed from the light outside and your feet were planted firmly on the scratchy carpet beneath you. You should turn back now, before you’re caught by the authorities—

“You’ve already looked.”

divider by @/cafekitsune

[orbch]

My sasi animatics are usually just recaps of episodes but I had an idea that I aggroed on LOL so (ill explain the idea more vvv because im insane)

I don’t think that Logan would ever duck out as a result of the lack of acknowledgement he receives. I don’t think he would ever take HIMSELF out of the picture… but I don’t know… him taking the others out is an interesting idea. tehehehee..

I really liked the idea of Logan cutting all contact between Thomas and the others via restricting everyone to their rooms (even if I don’t really rhink something like this would canonically happen, still an interesting thought). And Virgil wants to help him, or stop him, or do anything about this, but seeing someone you are possibly the closest with being corrupted by someone you’ve distanced yourself from for so long kind of muddles what the right way to go about that would be.

So Thomas can feel himself falling into the steadfast work prioritization. And Remus, well Remus is no stranger to being hidden away from Thomas, so he wont let himself mourn the prematurely fleeting liberation. Roman, not used to being trapped in the confines of his own room, is quickly holed into an unbreakable maladaptive daydreaming state. Janus knows well and good what’s happening, it was inevitable, he just never expected such a direct approach from Logan. And Patton,, we know how Patton gets when stuck in his room too long :///

But with that all out of the way Logan and Thomas can finally start a new day and get working. yaayyy..!

[kromazque]

a completely normal father-son fishing trip :)

[edupunkn00b]

Pencils Down

You know those schools where you're stuck with the same kids year after year after year? Where everybody knows everybody's business because you've been in classes with the same exact people since you were five? Virgil finally discovers he doesn't know everything about the very perfect Logan Stone.

Written for @sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes for @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon writing event. Prompt: Analogical academic rivals to lovers. I hope you enjoy! - WC: 3075 - Rated: T - CW: there's a lot of hidden angst here with a happy ending. - For more of my Camp stories

Twenty-one yellow #2 pencils scratching against paper couldn't compete with tick-tick-tick of Mrs. Rosenblum’s big wall clock. With a half-hour to go, Virgil was already on the second-to-last page of their exam, the hours—and hours and hours—of drills and practice tests with his dads finally leaving him feeling like might, just might have a handle on this thing.

The scrape of a chair drew his—and Mrs. Rosenblum’s—attention. “Mr. Stone, please remain seated until you are finished with your exam,” she said in that overly chipper voice she used during tests.

Virgil didn’t need to look up from his own exam to imagine Logan Stone’s nervous little twitches, the patented eye-glass nudge or the way he’d fiddle with his tie. Who the hell wore a tie to high school, anyway?

“Yes, ma’am”—suck up—“I am finished.”

What the—

“Oh, well then, yes, please,” she waved him forward and he shuffled down the aisle, the tips of his ears burning bright red from the glares of his fellow classmates.

This exam, all of their exams this year, really, put them in the running for one of two full-ride scholarships for the school of their choice. With the first spot practically allotted to the principal’s own kid, it was a race to the top.

And fucking Logan Stone was in his way.

“Kiddo, if you don’t get the spot, it’s okay, we’ll make it work,” Pops had said over dinner last night. “When the universe closes one door, another opens. And you can look at other schools, too.”

Dad had ruffled his hair, smirking when he failed to dip away fast enough. “We want you happy, Virge,” he’d said, no trace of his typical joking sarcasm. “Whatever that looks like.”

“I really want to go to GenTech.”

Dad had tiled his head then, that spark in his eye. “Then maybe you just need to… nudge this guy down a flight of stairs before the next test. Steal his spot.”

“Jay!” Pops had scolded, playfully tapping his shoulder.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Dad had protested, then winked at him. “Unless…”

Dragging his concentration back to his work, Virgil turned the page and dove into the final problem set.

He didn’t notice the way Logan lingered in the doorway before turning and disappearing into the hall.

~

Three days later, Virgil sat bouncing his knee at the kitchen table. He refreshed the StandardScore dashboard for the tenth time in half as many minutes, waiting for the little pending box to be replaced with his updated rank.

With less than fifty kids in the entire grade, class rankings were an open secret at school. It wasn’t hard to do the math, to work out exactly where the top five or six students slotted in. And for the past three and a half years, Logan Stone had stood proud at the top of the list quarter after quarter after quarter.

There was the singular exception of that one blessed quarter last spring. Aside from that, Virgil had always been right behind him, running to keep up in a race it seemed he’d never win.

But last April, Logan had missed three days of class in a row, unexcused and unexplained. It was the first time Virgil could remember Logan missing school. Like, ever.

On the fourth day, he’d strolled into the classroom, new tie perfect and hair slicked back like nothing had ever happened. If it wasn’t for the blip in Virgil’s own ranking that month, touching the number one spot just to ricochet back down by the end of May, he might have believed he’d simply misremembered the whole thing.

Logan never talked about it and, frankly, Virgil never asked.

He hit refresh again and the screen took a little longer to load this time. He waited, jiggling knee sending ripples through his half-drunk orange juice. Finally the screen resolved.

Class rank: 2nd

“Unnggggh!” Virgil slammed his laptop shut and fell forward, stopping himself before he banged into it with too much force.

“Aw, Kiddo,” Pops murmured, his big broad hand gentle on Virgil’s shoulder. “Not what you wanted to see?”

“He’s still ahead of me,” he muttered, sitting up and drawing his hood down over his eyes. If he couldn't go to GenTech, he’d end up at State.

With his brothers.

“I know I aced that test, too,” he said, slumping against Pop’s shoulder.

Pops hummed low in his chest, his breathing a steady, reassuring beat. Virgil let out a low sigh. “He’s gotta be only a little ahead. If I could just—“ He groaned and tugged his hoodie lower.

“Do you ever think maybe he feels a little like you do?”

Virgil stilled. He had not.

Smooth, styled, stoic Logan Stone just as anxious as he was? It was absurd. Virgil stared down at his hands. Cuticles jagged, nails bitten to the quick, polish chipped. “There’s no way that guy’s agonizing over all this. He’s way too—“ Virgil cut himself off before he said something that would make Pops pinch his cheek and coo. “Polished.”

“Hm.” Pops said instead. It was almost worse than his cooing. “Have you ever asked him?”

~

“I dunno even know if his family still lives there,” Virgil muttered, feet up on the dash.

One eye on the navigation, the other on the road, Dad nodded as he drove. “So you’ve said,” he murmured, slowing to a stop at the sign. “At least four times now. Worst case, the address in last year’s directory is wrong.” He winked before easing through the intersection. “Best case, you do a little shovie-shove and your problem’s solved.”

“Ugh, Dad,” Virgil muttered. He looked out the window to hide the stupid grin his Dad’s dark humor never failed to yank out of him. "You sound like Remus."

“Just sayin.’” He hummed as he pulled over in front of the two-story brick house on the corner. “Brought the big car. He’s about your size?” Dad made a show of inspecting the back seat and the cargo area behind it. “Plenty of room for a body back there.”

“I’m telling Pops you said that.”

Chuckling, Dad put the car in Park.

Virgil made no move to leave. “Maybe nobody’s home,” he said after a while. The driveway sat empty. “The light’s aren’t on.”

“It’s two o’clock on a bright, sunny day,” Dad remarked, adjusting his sun visor. “I should hope they don’t have their porch light on.”

The house, just like everything else about the inimitable Logan Stone, was immaculate. Lawn perfectly sculpted, the paint job looked fresh, gutters clean, not a scrap of moss or weed in sight.

Even their mailbox sparkled in the sunlight, the letters The Stone Family painted in precise block letters on a fresh white background. The mailbox answered the question of whether they still lived there, at least.

“An HOA’s dream,” Dad murmured, peering past him. “And their neighbors' worst nightmares.”

And Dad was likely right. Compared to the Stone house, the rest of the homes on the block looked downright dumpy. Every dandelion on their next-door-neighbor’s lawn sparkled in neon yellow. The cracked curb across the street and the just slightly askew water spout on the corner shouted their presence when compared to the Stone's perfect house.

A floral sign hung from the Stone’s front door, the big, bright letters legible from the street.

Welcome, Friends!

The other houses on the street bustled with neighborly activity. A lemonade stand sat halfway up the next block and a busy garage sale spread out three houses down. Dads chatted over fences across the street and a little gang of middle schoolers laughed as they raced their bikes down the side street. No-one lingered near the Stone's house. “I bet they have no idea, too,” Dad finally said.

Virgil caught movement in the upstairs window, a flash of Logan’s raven-black hair. “Just like at school,” he sighed. He crossed his arms and glared at his dad, even if he couldn’t put any heat behind it. “Why do you two hafta always be right?”

Dad threw his head back and laughed before reaching across to open his door. “Blame the twins,” he said, giving him a little nudge. “We got it wrong most of the time with them. We've learned.”

Dad waited for him to step of the car, then waved. “Call when you’re done.”

He watched Dad drive away before turning to face the perfectly paved path up to Logan’s front door. The general cheeriness of the neighborhood propelled him forward, certain the ‘gothy emo’ staring at their block’s model home was going to draw more attention than he wanted.

Virgil had barely run the bell when the door cracked open. Shit. Logan had probably been watching from the window.

“Virgil Sanders?” he asked as though he didn’t quite believe his eyes. Voice cracking and eyes wide, Logan bore none of his usual classroom arrogance.

“Um, yeah,” he said. “Hi.” Virgil shoved his hands in his pockets before taking them out again. “Hi,” he said again. “Sorry I didn’t call first, I, uh—“

“My phone number changed,” he said. “My old one from sixth grade?”

Confusion twisted Virgil’s brow before he remembered. “Science fair,” he whispered.

Logan smiled, well, almost smiled. He’d been giddy that night, though, going over their presentation again and again for every parent, student, and teacher who got within three feet of their table.

Their exhibit had won first place.

“We came here to celebrate,” Virgil finished quietly, looking around at the porch. How had he forgotten?

The house had looked different then with Logan’s baby brother’s tricycle and toys littering the yard, the steps, the whole house really. Wild flowers had grown in the front yard and the porch steps had still been singed from their first attempt at their hydrogen peroxide rocket.

Logan had been thrilled that night, brandishing their first place ribbons and posing with him again and again and again for both their parents’ cameras.

His house had been loud, chaotic—happy and active. Now it was just… quiet.

Like Logan was.

He adjusted his glasses, gaze following Virgil’s. “Ah, did you come by to… Well, rather—“ His voice cracked again and he squared his shoulders. A string tugged his spine straight. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He looked more like a teacher than a high schooler. A hot teacher, but—

Shaking himself from his spiraling thoughts, Virgil looked out at the street, imagining his dad might drive up and rescue him from his own cringe-worthy fumbling. No such luck. “I, uh…” He started to nibble his thumbnail, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “I got the class ranking update this morning.”

“Indeed,” Logan murmured without a trace of joy or celebration. Hell, Virgil'd take gloating over that weird, flat mask.

“Yeah, well, um,” he shrugged, jolting at a screech from the lemonade stand down the street. Two of the middle schoolers were there, chasing each other with cups of ice. “Can I come in?”

‘Ah…” Owl eyes blinked back at him, mouth working without forming any words. Virgil was about to take it back, to abort this whole mission, to make up some reason, any reason to just bolt.

He could jog down to the garage sale and get lost in the sea of people. He could call his dad and make a run for it. He could homeschool the rest of the year and just pretend none of this happened. He could—

“Please,” Logan finally said, stepping back and opening the door all the way.

Sunlight streamed inside the dark house, gleaming on the polished wood floor. Virgil pivoted as Logan closed and locked the door behind him, then he looked down at Logan’s stockinged feet and his own ratty Converse. “Should I…” he trailed off, wiggling one foot.

Logan nodded. “If… if you do not mind.”

Virgil kicked off his shoes then bent to align them neatly next to the pair of sneakers and loafers already at the door. He straightened and faced the family portraits covering the hall. The glass sparkled, not a speck of dust to be seen, even on the fancy little swirly bits of the frames.

The house was spotless, and so, so quiet. “It’s like a museum,” he whispered with a little laugh. “Or a—“

He stopped in front of the fireplace. The mantle was crowded with more framed pictures. Some of Logan and his baby brother, some of his parents from when they much, much younger. A few with all of them together. One of the pictures was of him and Logan, at that damn science fair.

Virgil didn’t remember this one being taken, but Logan’s mom had been a speed demon behind the camera that day, snapping candid shots so quick he eventually gave up and stopped paying attention.

In the picture, Virgil was pointing to the rocket boosters, explaining to somebody off-camera some detail of their work. Honestly, didn’t remember much of it anymore. Logan was off to one side, still in-frame, but instead of looking at the camera or the display… he was watching him, a little smile on his face, almost like…

Virgil’s face got hot and he looked away. He was reading way too much into a six year old picture.

“So, um…” Toes scrunching the floor, he peered down the hall and into the empty kitchen. “Everybody out?” he asked. Duh, of course they were out.

Logan shrugged and cleared his throat. “I am here.”

“Right, yeah, I just meant—“ His eye caught on a little desk off in the corner of the big den. A row of their textbooks were laid out neatly in alphabetical order, a stack of notebooks sat in the corner. A pencil cup with pens, highlighters. Scissors and a ruler. It reminded Virgil of the study room desks back in middle school.

Beside the desk was a little table with even more pictures on it. Three pictures, one of Logan’s baby brother—not so baby now Virgil guessed. He looked about eight or nine. There was one of his parents, too, a wedding photo. Those big corny ones where they pose with the rings. The third was all four of them together, dressed up in the dorkiest Christmas sweaters Virgil could imagine.

He chuckled. “Don’t let my dads see that,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ll make us dress up like that, too.”

Logan’s face twitched and he looked away. “They might,” he whispered.

Something else caught his eye on the table he moved closer to inspect it. “So, ah…” Logan’s voice called after him, louder. “You were about to say why you’d stopped by?”

Virgil stood in front of the table. At the center, framed by the family photographs, sat a flat polished grey stone, like the kind you could get for a pet that had died or…

In loving memory, Greg, Olive, and Marcus

“Shit, Logan.” His hand hovered over the stone, wanting to touch it, to know it was real. Knowing he shouldn’t. “Is this…” Logan stood frozen a few feet away, staring at the stone. “Is this what it looks like it is?”

Hands folded, Logan didn’t speak, just nodded.

“What?” Virgil shook his head. “Wh—when? When—what happened?”

Logan slowly joined him in front of the table—the shrine—and picked up the stone. His fingers closed over it and he held it close to his stomach. “They were driving,” he said. His voice was thin and flat and he wouldn’t look at him, just at the family photos on the table. “They were coming to pick—“ His voice cracked and he returned the stone to its spot. “They picked up Marcus first.”

Words failing, Virgil said the only thing he could think of. “When?” As soon as the question formed, though, he was pretty sure he knew.

“Last April.”

“Your parents—“ he couldn’t say the word. “They—last year?” Virgil turned to him but Logan’s eyes were glued to the Christmas photo. That whole month, that whole rest of the year, Logan just acted like nothing was wrong, like nothing had happened. But… Virgil followed his gaze to the picture. “Why… why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Who was I going to tell?”

Virgil looked up. Logan’s eyes were wet behind his glasses and his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. “I turn eighteen in the fall. The house is under a trust and—“ His voice broke and Virgil moved closer. He wasn’t really sure what to do with his hands so he kept one in his pocket and let the other one rest on Logan’s shoulder.

“A social worker visits twice a month, unannounced, to be sure I’m—” Shaking, his words stopped, tears spilling down his cheeks. “If I am not doing well, she is authorized to place me in foster care until I’m eighteen. So I… I demonstrate I can take care of myself.”

The desk for homework, the immaculate house. Virgil looked at his clothes, shirt pressed, a tie on a fucking Saturday. Hair styled, even his nails looked manicured. Logan looked absolutely perfect.

Absolutely perfect so some social worker would have no reason to think he couldn’t care for himself.

“Jeez, Logan… Yeah, but…” Logan looked up at him, mouth a thin line. A tremor started in his jaw, spreading to his chin, his lips. “But you’re alone.”

And Logan crumpled, falling forward with a sob. Virgil caught him and wrapped his arms around him. Face pressed to his shoulder, Logan’s sobs were muffled by his hoodie. But he clung to him, hands twisting in the fleece as he cried.

Virgil didn’t know how long they stood there like but when he looked up the shadows in the room had changed. Logan’s sobs had quieted but he wouldn’t let go. “I… I must apologize for—“

“Shut up,” he said and Logan stiffened in his arms. “You don’t have to apologize. I should—I never—“ Looking over the top of Logan's head, Virgil's eyes snagged on the photo from the science fair. That had been the last group project they’d done together, their teachers always splitting them up.

And Virgil’s just let them.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, man,” he whispered and Logan melted against him, quiet tears starting again. Virgil held him tighter. He rubbed his back, his hair, and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.”

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

SFX: *CRACK* *BANG*

Nightmare: . . .

Dust: . . .

Nightmare: -

Nightmare: the other door wasn't blocked........