#chapter 1 orange | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat · 1 month

Text

Hearthfire (2/16)

Chapter I | The Daily Qualms of Rainbow and His Colours

<- Prev // Masterpost // Next ->

--- --- ---

Summary: A meeting goes awry when citric anger bursts out of one Side, and another has a very distressing moment. Orange addresses what he needs to care for in his garden.

Warning: insecurity, implied/referenced dissociation, burn scars, minor blood, implied/referenced self-harm, accidental self-harm, panic attacks; let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 6198

--- --- ---

Sometimes complementary colours clash and argue, and sometimes every single colour looks that much stranger and sharper than it used to.

A door clicks shut behind Rainbow, dragging himself down to the living room and plopping onto the couch. Indigo trails behind him and automatically slots into his designated spot, blinking for a moment as he realizes where he is. Under more ideal circumstances, Rainbow would spare a concerned glance to his logical Side; however, right now, all he does is put his head in his hands and sighs frustrated.

He’s in his pajamas; a pair of dark grey sleeping pants, his Steven Universe t-shirt, and fuzzy greyish socks. His fuzzy socks have coloured polka dots decorating them, colours ranging all across the spectrum: dark and light blues, yellows, reds, greens, purples, oranges—of course, there’s orange, there always has been—amongst the darker background. His sleeping pants have black and white stripes on the hem, almost like an informative and hand-drawn poster you’d see in a highschool.

Indigo is in his typical attire, tie and dress pants all the same. A darker blue than before, but still, not much else has changed with his clothing. His eyes are a dim indigo—isn’t that fitting, though, a dim Indigo—lacking their usual awareness as his surroundings come back to him. Indigo has his hands folded behind him, resting against the small of his back. As soon as he realizes what’s happened and where he’s standing, he huffs quietly to himself. Rainbow makes no comment on the audibly annoyed noise.

Indigo relaxes his posture and fidgets with his tie, fixing any centimeter of looseness. There isn’t any. He turns to Rainbow, seeing his own posture and body language. He braces for what he knows will most likely come next; Rainbow braces for what he believes to be more unnecessary nagging from his so-called ‘mother hen’.

“Thomas—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare, Logan,” Rainbow sharply interrupts.

Indigo swallows, tensing all over again.

“What would you have me do, then? Let you laze around?” his voice is firm, measured.

Rainbow doesn’t answer. Indigo feels the tiny tendrils of flaming orange prick his eyes, but he pushes it away. He refuses to let it burst out again, especially in front of his centre. Bitter, citrus thoughts spit, I am not emotional, I won’t have an outburst. I’m not; I won’t. They would taste like sour lemon to a snake, and they look like fiery amber to a canary.

After a few moments of silence, he speaks again, “I am aware I can be...repetitive, but the repetition is necessary for you to listen.”

Rainbow lifts his head up from his hands and pauses, but he does not look in Indigo’s direction.

“You may not want to do the things I tell you, but I’m— they’re important things to do for your wellbeing,” Indigo continues.

Rainbow scoffs, “I already listen to you, Logan. You’re my Logic, I can’t just shut you off.”

Indigo falters.

“Even when I want to…” comes out in a trailed-off mumble.

The scholarly persona hears it anyway, pushing down the sharp sting in his chest.

Indigo clears his throat, “Then I’m sure you’re knowledgeable about the fact that, as your Logic, what I say is logical and necessary.”

Rainbow clenches his teeth, stubborn.

“It’s just a few dishes, Logan,” he mutters.

‘So Thomas didn’t wash a couple of dishes yet, big deal,’ echoes in the back of Indigo's head, and he has to blink it away before he refocuses. It’s like citric acid, sour and tart and blooming orange in the eyes of those who see it. More accurately, the one who can see all those bitter thoughts and memories.

“Doing the dishes and laundry are important tasks to do, Thomas. I understand you need rest, and that’s okay. But I also think you pushing these chores off for as long as you have is turning out to be harmful,” Indigo continues.

Rainbow doesn’t say anything. The citric feeling builds further, and every push downwards Indigo makes only compresses it into a compact block of hurt hurt hurt.

“All I ask is that you listen—”

“Logan. We just went over this. I already listen to you! I know I need to do the dishes and the laundry and a bunch of other things. I know!” Rainbow’s words burst like stinging wasps, biting at his Logic’s chest and leaving marks.

Indigo’s vision is blinded by pure, concentrated orange for a very brief moment. He almost thinks it’s his doing, but it’s not his frustration flooding his sight. It’s Rainbow’s. And he may as well be the cause of Rainbow's burst of orange fireworks, but all he’s doing is his job. His job is important. He’s...his job is important.

An orange mist drifts in the kitchen, peeking out from a corner as it watches.

Before Indigo can try again, try to reason and talk again, he’s interrupted by another Side’s arrival.

Red, in all of his princely demeanor, sinks up with a pose ready as he arrives. He glances around the room, seeing Indigo and Rainbow in the middle of an argument. They’d call it a ‘dilemma’, but honesty is as yellow as glittering snakes. It’s not just a dilemma with these people, is it? There’s always something in the undercurrent. Red assumes his assigned position by the t.v. before choosing to speak.

“I see Logan’s already began his lecturing, hasn’t he?” Red starts with a teasing remark, of course, though unhelpful.

“I am not lecturing—”

“Oh please, when do you not give a lecture, Logan? You're the one with the tie, Professor Buzzkill,” he interrupts, and Indigo rolls his eyes in response.

“I am not a ‘buzzkill’, as you put it. I am merely trying to help Thomas with maintaining a healthy schedule for the sake of his mental health,” Indigo quickly shows a notecard with the word ‘buzzkill’ and its meaning before summoning it away.

Usually, the sight of his notecards would elicit praise for his effort or a light-hearted moment to ease tension, but…but this time, Rainbow doesn’t even acknowledge it. The scholarly Side feels the itchiness of disappointment on his skin, and his stomach drops a little. So much for his effort, huh? More effort wasted. Is it always Indigo’s efforts that remain in vain? Doesn’t Rainbow pay attention to what he does to himself?

“Then explain why Thomas is so down in the dumps!”

“I am not the Side to ask about his feelings, Roman—”

“Well, what are you here for? I say you need to leave it be, Nerd.”

“‘Leave it be’? I can’t just ‘leave it be’, Roman! He needs a schedule to make a habit out of, and to make sure he does the things necessary to take care of himself and this apartment. He doesn’t want to, but he needs to have a schedule implemented.”

“And where has trying to force a schedule gotten you, Specs?”

Indigo clamps his mouth shut, staring at Red with glassy eyes before once again pushing it down. He doesn’t notice the expression on the Prince’s face. Interestingly, it’s guilt and perhaps remorse that paints his cheeks.

Feelings have no place with me, he thinks; upset, bitter, tart. Now is not the time to be…just not now.

“Oh, come now, bickering has always gotten us to where we wanted to be,” a smooth voice says, announcing its citric presence.

Both Sides tense at the sound of the slithering serpent’s arrival, turning slightly to see him. Red’s face hardens and grows cold, though icy blue isn’t his colour. Indigo, with a practiced blank expression, nods in greeting.

“Janus,” he tries to remain resolute, but his voice almost wobbles near the end.

“Why the faces, hm?” Yellow insincerely asks.

“What do you want, Snake?” a harsh, cold Red speaks in place of the warm Prince.

“Oh, Roman, so kind. You know why I’m here, don’t you? I’m a part of Thomas, after all.”

“Not a helpful one…”

“Hm. Well, I’m here to aid while Patton’s a bit…preoccupied with something.”

Indigo raises an eyebrow. To a stranger, it’d look like condescending questions or an inquisitive mind. To those who’ve known him—his expressions, at least—know it’s more concern than anything else.

“What did you do with Patton?!” Red almost shouts, a harsh fire in his chest.

“Relax, Roman. He’s just busy,” Yellow drawls.

Red scoffs.

Indigo clears his throat, fidgeting with his tie, “May I inquire what he’s busy with? In a discussion concerning feelings, his presence is welcomed.”

“A discussion, that’s what we’re calling this?” the serpent questions, condescending tone slipping like honey off his forked tongue.

“Of course. A discussion is when two or more parties engage in—”

“Not literal, Brainiac,” Red interrupts him, again.

“If you must know, he’s been handling…a situation with our dear worrier. He won’t be available for a while,” Yellow examines his nails, though he’s wearing the same old dish-washing gloves as he always does. “It seems Thomas is awfully stressed at the moment.”

“Is Virgil alright?” Indigo asks, bare concern no longer hidden behind a mask of professionalism.

Yellow’s face softens for a mere second before he continues, “Oh, he’s fine. Absolutely okay with all the bickering you’re doing out here. So wonderful and fine.”

Indigo frowns, concern for his peer worsening. He sighs, and the mask of professionalism slides back in place. It’s as if it never left, fitting his face and posture like plaster.

“I suppose he’s unavailable as well, then?” he inquires.

“It would seem so,” Yellow says.

“You’re just going to take his word for it?” Red still wears icy blue on his skin.

“I see no reason not to, Roman. I understand his word hasn’t always been the complete truth, but—”

“Then how can you trust him? How can you tell if he’s lying or not?”

Strange how ice can be so orange, isn’t it? It’s not supposed to be. It’s meant to be cold and violently blue. But, you see, blue does not belong on Red.

Orange has always looked better on Red.

Another sigh from Indigo, “I suppose you know better than me, then? If you’re so insistent on mistrusting him.”

Red sputters and clamps his mouth shut, shining eyes and such bare betrayal flickering like broken spotlights. Indigo clenches his jaw to ignore the clenching of his heart, something vile shoots up his stomach to his throat. He shakes his head lightly, but it does nothing to push away the dastardly thing pressing against his pulse point from inside. He almost gazes off in thought before forcing himself to stay present in the real world, here, with Yellow and Red and a still quiet Rainbow sitting on the couch.

Speaking of Rainbow…

“None of this is going anywhere…” he grumbles, a hand in his hair that itches to tug tug tug.

His hand twitches.

His Sides pause, looking at him and how distressed he looks. Yellow gazes upon the details of his face, noting the dark eye bags that look far too similar to Purple’s. His hair is tousled like he’d just gotten out of bed. Pajamas still adorned and a boring, dark grey robe to hide in. He looks…well, it’s a lot like when Green finally introduced himself to Rainbow. To put it bluntly, he looks like shit.

He probably feels like shit, if everyone’s arguing is any indication.

Indigo frowns at the distressed state of his centre.

Think, think, think! I’m the logical one. I’m supposed to guide him. How can I help? How can I guide him out of this? his thoughts turn like rapid, oiled-up gears.

A touch of rust flares and grows on those gears, twitching them as they bleed liquid amber. Magma, it feels hot, unpleasantly so. It’s like the liquid amber burns the gears as it covers them in an almost blinding sense of not fair. Indigo shoves the feeling of hot, honey-like amber away.

Red shifts in place, awkwardness bleeding through the Prince role he plays. Yellow merely hums, feigning every bit of the disinterested participant. There’s no citric mist between them, nothing is actually swirling around the metaphorical strings connecting the Sides, but it feels like fog and tar and thick sludge pushing them further into a disconnected and hostile state towards each other. Indigo and Red remain tense as Yellow fakes the idle stance of a bystander. Yellow fakes a lot of things, and he’s not the only one. They all fake something. All of them.

“Hm, well, where were we?” Yellow starts.

“I believe you mentioned Virgil being unavailable?” Indigo says conversely.

“Wait…why would Virge want Patton with him? He hasn't exactly been civil with Stormcloud lately,” Red questions.

“Yes, well, who do you think he’d rather between him and I? Hm? If you could imagine him liking me over Patton, well then,” sarcasm is bitter on a serpent’s tongue.

“...Fine, then,” Red concedes, keeping a hand on his sword’s hilt and turns to Indigo. “He needs a break.”

Yellow glances at Red’s hand before shifting his gaze away, fidgeting and tugging a glove on tighter.

“...Virgil?” Indigo inquires, confused with a slight head tilt.

“What—no! Maybe…” Red shakes his head. “I mean Thomas. Thomas needs a break from all of your lectures about something he already knows, Pocket Protector.”

“He’s gotten breaks, Roman. He still hasn’t listened—he hasn’t made a repeated effort towards the schedule he agreed to doing!”

“Maybe all of your nagging isn’t helping! Ever thought of that, Nerd?”

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t just let him laze around—”

“He isn’t ‘lazing’ around, Logan,” Yellow introjects.

They turn to him.

“There’s no limit on how much a person needs to rest for,” he continues, “Some people need more time to rest than others, and that’s okay.”

“I understand that, Janus,” Indigo gestures to his necktie. “But surely there’s a time when people must go back to working?”

“Of course, and he will. Once he’s taken the time he needs to rest, Logan.”

“He’s already taken so much time—”

“So? What authority do you claim over his decisions, hm? Do you control his every whim?”

“No, I—”

“Well, then, I don’t see what the problem is.”

“He won’t get things done if he’s resting for such long periods of time. Studies have shown that—”

Red crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, and Indigo can’t bring himself to continue his point. He ends abruptly with a glance darting from his peers. Yellow pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and exhales sharply.

“You’re being so helpful, Logan. Why don’t you continue that sentence?” Yellow nearly spits.

A greenish silhouette pops up behind Red, behind the t.v., and it catches Rainbow’s eye. He slowly raises his head as his Sides continue to squabble, bringing his hand away from his hair. He narrows his eyes, rubbing away any stray sleep that may blur them. His eyes widen and shoulders slump in defeat once he realizes who it is.

“I am helpful—”

“If you’re so helpful, then why stop saying your point? How’s that helpful?” Yellow persists.

“Oh, shut it, Snake!” Red retorts, eyes burning flicks of orange. “You’re not any better, acting all high and mighty like an egotistical villain!”

“Well, everyone is an egotist, Roman. You know that, don’t you?”

“Will you stop!” his voice breaks, and Indigo swallows as his heart clenches again. “I can’t deal with your shit, Janus!”

“My ‘shit’? My, you must be spending time with Virgil, talking like that,” Yellow fakes a gasp, gloved hand scandalously hovering over his mouth. “What would Patton say if he heard you?”

A stab in the back; Red’s eyes shine with teary flickering orange, and he speaks lowly, “Don’t you dare bring him into this! He isn’t here to follow blindly behind you, Villain.”

Red’s hand grips tighter on his sword’s hilt. Yellow doesn’t notice. Something akin to a shadowy, sinking feeling drops in Indigo’s gut. Foreboding, is it? Perhaps that’s the right word. A strong sense of foreboding tingles up his arms like purple, spiky vines.

The greenish silhouette grins manically as it watches with creepy, wide eyes. The Others don’t notice. Rainbow stares at it.

“‘Blindly’? Is that supposed to be a pun, Roman? Well, then, job well done,” Yellow claps with feigned praise.

Something snaps, but Red doesn’t hear it. His blood is roaring in his ears. He can’t think, he can’t hear. When did it get so hard to see anything but glaring orange?

Green whistles an uh-oh from behind the tv.

The orange mist drifts from the kitchen to the bottom landing of the stairs, unnoticed and unseen.

Indigo can’t move, not with a pounding heartbeat and purple vines curling around his lungs as they worm their way up his arms to his chest.

Red’s eyes glow a furious citrus, and he burns.

“Why won’t you stop hurting me?!” he shouts, a bout of anger bursting out of him in a small shockwave.

Everything and everyone falls silent. All eyes land on Red, who breathes heavily with tears gathered in his eyes. He blinks, confused, glancing around as if he doesn’t know where he is. He puts a hand to his cheek, feeling the wetness of tears. He glances down at his hand in dazed shock as his tears glide down his face. Orange bleeds out of his eyes, and they’re back to being green. He can see again, albeit it being blurry while he silently cries. White knuckles, his hand on his sword’s hilt aches. He forcibly relaxes it enough to let go. When he does, however, the hilt clinks and thuds to ground. It fell off the sword. It’s broken. He—he broke his sword. He broke his sword.

He glances up to everyone’s eyes, and promptly sinks out in a hurry.

The air is still, stale, frozen. No one takes their eyes off where Red had been. Yellow’s face is noticeably paler, mouth agape. Indigo still can’t seem to move, shining eyes of his own. Green’s expression has fallen, eyes narrow and low growling vibrates from his throat. Rainbow is…he can’t think properly. His face is tear-stricken and messy with red-rimmed eyes. He can still feel the anger, that bitter hurt, still shaking his heart. He—Red just…oh dear. Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Roman, he just…” Rainbow’s voice is shaky and quiet, breath hitching as his own tears stream down his face. “He’s…”

“Oh, god,” Yellow mutters, horror leaking from his tongue.

Indigo does not speak. He can hardly breathe at this point.

“What in the fuck have you done to him?” Green growls, glaring blades at the snake-like persona.

Yellow’s eyes snap up to him.

“I didn’t—I never meant to—”

“To what? Hurt him? Use him as a tool for your own fuckin’ benefit? What could you possibly be innocent for, Janus?”

Indigo cannot hear, cannot see, cannot smell anything but salt and metal. There’s a sharp sting in his palm. He still can’t move.

Yellow gulps, hands tugging on the ends of his capelet.

“He ain’t supposed to get hurt! He shouldn’t be this fuckin’ hurt! Burst out and battle you, sure—but not that,” Green raises his voice and roars, orange sparks in his mouth as he yells.

Rainbow watches, a little shaky and so horribly worried. Red’s so hurt, and he—he expects to be hurt so much that he broke down. What in the fuck. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Rainbow scans the room, seeing how upset and hurt his Sides are, these parts of himself. Green and Yellow are still going at it, and Green is so furious. The orange sparks reach his eyes, but it’s beyond what the mist has domain over.

The orange mist floats up to the top landing of the stairs, and it watches.

It waits.

Rainbow’s gaze spots Indigo, and…oh, dear.

“Logan?” he shakily asks.

No response. Just wide eyes and fear.

“Logan,” he calls out again, a little louder.

Fear, so much fear. His eyes almost look dark and violet. His hands sting. It’s all Indigo knows, stinging hands. Sting, sting, sting.

“Hey, Logan? Buddy, can you hear me?” Rainbow stands and shuffles carefully over to the scholarly persona.

Green and Yellow stop, facing Indigo as well. He still won’t respond. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his lip wobbles. Rainbow gets close enough to see him shake and how hard he clenches his hand.

“Oh, buddy…”

Rainbow reaches down, down, down into his heart; a cyan-coloured heat warms up his chest, and his caring nature washes over him as he figures out how to help his Logic. His own shakiness dies down as focuses on Indigo, and his lungs allow oxygen to move more freely through his body.

“Logan, bud, can you hear me?” he softly asks, giving Indigo space so as to avoid crowding him.

Green glares once more at Yellow, whispering, “We ain’t done.”

Yellow gives a small nod, and they both turn their focus on helping Indigo.

“Lolo?” Green tries, but no answer.

Yellow clears his throat before speaking just as soft, “Logan, darling, are you alright?”

Rainbow doesn’t have the energy to process his ‘dark’ Sides being so gentle and kind and, well, soft. He moves an inch closer to Indigo.

The orange mist waits and watches in equal parts worry and anticipation.

“Hey, buddy, it’s me, it’s Thomas. Can you make a noise if you hear me?” Rainbow gently asks.

A quiet noise whines from Indigo’s throat, scared and confused.

The Others’ shoulders slump in relief.

“Hi, bud. You’re having a hard time, huh?”

Another quiet, scared whine.

“That’s okay. Everything’s okay now, we’ve got you. Janus and Remus are here with us, alright? They want to help.”

Yellow and Green both glance at Rainbow in a brief shock. He hasn’t said that out loud before, has he? Acknowledged their efforts—though odd in their own right—to help? That they did help in the ways they knew how? Interesting…perhaps Rainbow’s helping more than just Indigo, whether he notices or not.

An almost sobbing whine cuts through the air.

“Hey, hey. C’mon, focus on me, bud. Do you want them here?”

A softer whine.

“...Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

A shaky, whiny mhm rumbles from Indigo.

“‘Yes’?”

He repeats the sound.

“Okay, they’ll stay,” Rainbow glances at Yellow and Green, seeing them nod. “They’re staying, it’s okay, you’re safe with us.”

A hitching breath, huffing through Indigo’s nose. His hands hurt. They sting. They won’t stop stinging.

“Hey—oh. Oh, buddy, you gotta stop clenching your hands. Stop—no, hey—”

Rainbow tries to gentle Indigo’s hands to relax, but they flinch away once a centimeter of touch reaches them. A frightened whimper bleeds from the poor Logic’s throat, and a murky feeling of what do I do clogs Rainbow’s brain like overwhelming cotton. Yellow tugs Rainbow aside gently, giving him a look not unkindly. His centre simply answers with a silent plea that screams help, please help, I don’t know what to do and it’s scaring me. Yellow swallows down the guilt about Red, pushes away the heaviness from Green, and focuses. Slowly and light on his feet, the serpentine comes towards a still-closed-eyed Indigo. He gestures for the other two to back up a little bit, and they comply. Worry for the scholarly persona outweighs previous arguments and bitter anger.

“Logan, darling,” Yellow starts, voice softly lilting like a song without a melody, “It’s alright. Shh, shh, hush now. You’re okay and safe, and it’s alright.”

Rainbow watches in wonder at Yellow’s comforting voice.

Green won’t take his eyes off Indigo, watching every wobble and twitch.

“Your hands are hurting, aren’t they? Do they sting?”

Indigo nods shakily, unsure of the calm voice.

“You need to let them go. Ease your fingers, knuckle by knuckle. It’ll help them hurt less. Yes—there you go, good job, Logan.”

Indigo’s fingers slowly, so slowly, relax and ease on his palm. The sharp scent of blood makes Yellow’s throat drier than it should be. Though now not so clenched hard in on themselves, Indigo’s hands still shake shake shake with all the tension of a frightened child.

“Good, Logan, that’s good,” Yellow keeps up a litany of reassurances, though voice sounds a tad hoarse now.

Indigo won’t stop tensing around him. Yellow can smell the blood. Green and Rainbow can too, most likely. They need to tend to it, and help Indigo breathe. But how is he going to breathe and relax if he can’t stop tensing around the person trying to help him? Yellow knows why, which doesn’t help. The phantom hold of his cane, pulling a desperate Indigo away and shifting to steal his identity for the sake of Rainbow—well, it echoes in his head and itches the scales beneath his gloves. His gloves. Right, maybe...oh, if he must. If it helps.

Yellow carefully tugs his gloves off in an attempt to show Indigo that he means no harm, that he’s here to help, that it’s okay, it really is okay. Rainbow eyes his hand in surprise. Green’s gaze flicks to the bright, yellow gloves being tucked into a pocket. He himself has been aching to do something, and if Yellow doesn’t figure out how to seem safe to Indigo, he may as well pounce and growl his way to him. Yellow takes a deep breath of his own before trying.

“I have my gloves off, Sweetie,” Indigo shakes his head, not believing the serpentine’s sweet words. “I do, I promise I do. Open your eyes and see. C’mon, just a little peek for me?”

Indigo can’t stop peeking an eye open, through all the spiky and swirling purple that has him captive. His breath hitches again at the sight of bare hands and glittering scales. A whine pierces from his lips as he processes what that means, what it means when Yellow takes his gloves off. He was there for the time he did that around the Others and Rainbow, wasn’t he? Oh, wait, no, he wasn’t. He’d been pushed aside. He hadn’t come back during all that, did he? So, perhaps, this is the first time Indigo’s understanding what gloveless hands truly mean. He’s been quite a quick learner. As is his nature.

The whispers of truth, no hiding hands, truth truth truth shift around in Indigo’s brain. Some of the purple vines that pulse in his veins ease back. Truth is important, is it not?

“See? Wonderful, Logan, just like that,” Yellow reassures as he slowly edges closer to an easing Indigo.

As soon as he sees a scaled hand nearing him, Indigo flinches back. The purple, hurtful vines worsen and squeeze his coherent thoughts like wringing a towel dry. Yellow immediately backs away so as to not make it worse. He’s just making it worse. Of course, he is. Why would any sort of scientist trust such a citric snake?

Yelllow can’t help Indigo do much else. He still tenses around him. He doesn’t trust his lilting voice with what he tries to say. He can’t help him. Yellow feels a numb, floating feeling of what he can only label as hopelessness.

Somewhere, in a far off Flower Garden, a bumblebee stutters in flight and dims.

Green pushes forward, ignoring the strange look in Yellow, and focuses on the dear distressed Indigo. Rainbow still can only stare as his brain remains smothered by choking cotton. He spares an actual, small cough. Yellow glances at him, but says nothing. He tugs his gloves back on, his own sense of tiny, purple arachnids crawling all over his bare hands and scales.

As soon as Indigo catches eye of Green, he eases again. His eyes are wide and open now, staying almost eerily on the Duke in front of him. As he inches closer to the poor Logical Side, there’s a noticeable lack of a flinch. Indigo’s not afraid of him, not really. Out of all the Sides, he’ll listen when it’s important.

And Indigo’s important.

He eases slowly, more and more, and then there’s a warm hand on his stomach that makes him gasp.

“There, Lolo,” Green mutters in his naturally scratchy voice, “Breathin’ ‘s good, yeah?”

Indigo nods as he tries to take a breath in and a breath out, reaching out a shaky and minorly blood-stained hand. He grabs and holds on to the wrist that’s near his stomach, the hand there rubbing tiny circles in an effort to soothe. It works.

Green doesn’t give a flying fuck about the little bits of blood getting on his costume. He’s gotten worse and weirder substances on himself before. Green’s never been one to back down from the disgusting and the shunned.

When Indigo stutters and shudders, Green hushes him gently. The grounding wait of his hand on Indigo eases the shaking until it’s hardly there at all. Greenish gremlins bounce around Indigo’s mind, their taunting whispers heard by the slimy sludge of a royal. Green changes gears.

“Did ya know pinworms can live in your colon?” he says.

This catches not only the panicking scholar’s attention, but also the grimace of Rainbow at the mention of parasitic worms. Yellow sinks out at Green continues on with a distracting rant about gross parasites, whooshing down into the dark depths of where his room resides. No one takes enough notice to say anything.

“They also live ‘round the rectum!” Green chirps conversely.

Indigo blinks as the purple vines around his lungs and in his veins retreat slowly away.

“I think it’s ‘cause they lay their eggs ‘round the butt. Hehe, the butt, hah!” a cackle spikes through the air horribly, but it makes Indigo slump the smallest bit.

“An—anim’ls like to be near their eg—eggs,” Indigo whispers, wetly stumbling out words.

Rainbow’s shoulders slump as his precious Logic calms down, finally gaining control of his lungs again.

“Sooo, what I’m hearin’ is I’m right?” a smirk dances on Green’s lips.

“Mhm, prob—obably. ‘S jus’ a theory, though.”

“Nope, I’m right and I should say it!”

“R’mus.”

“I know for a fact they lay eggs on the ass! And now I know why.”

Indigo huffs, amused exasperation leaking from it, “Thought you said they lay ‘em aroun—ugh...around the anus?”

“I did! That’s practically the ass!”

“Remus, no—”

“Remus, yes.”

It’s a dumb banter, they’ve done much funnier shit than talking about theories that can be technically seen as fact, but it surprises a light chuckle out of Indigo. The entire room feels as though it sings happily at the sound, air buzzing. His laugh is a little wet, he sniffles, but it’s there and wonderful. The violet, spiky, annoying vines retreat entirely. Indigo slumps forward, and Green catches him.

“Hey, I caught a whale’s—”

“Remus,” Rainbow sighs out before he can finish the joke.

“Now, now, Thommy Salami, just ‘cause I’ve got Lolo here don’t mean ya can just try ‘n make me quiet. That ain’t how I work, y’know!”

Rainbow squeezes his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He makes a vague wave in the air as if to gesture to everything.

“Right, I know,” he mumbles, “Hard habit to break.”

Green shrugs, holding on tight to Indigo as the astrophile rubs his tears away.

“Eh, I don’t fuckin’ care. You either break it,” and he takes a pause to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, “or listen to me~”

Rainbow groans as Green snorts at him, almost waiting for Purple to pop up at the suggestion. When he doesn’t, however, Rainbow’s exhaustion decides to make itself known.

“I’m going back to bed, take a nap. Whatever,” Rainbow grumbles as he practically throws himself onto the couch, tugging a soft blanket off the back.

Indigo stands up and separates from Green; the Duke lets him.

“It…” Indigo sighs, now with his bearings again. “I suppose it might be beneficial if I do the same.”

Rainbow looks at him, frowning. They still need to bandage his hands.

“Are you okay, Logan? I’ve never seen you react like that before,” he inquires worriedly.

Indigo simply nods, and a lemon-yellow thread quickly blinks in and out of existence before disappearing entirely. It’s an error to most eyes, invisible to their centre, but it catches the eye of slimy Green. He makes no comment.

“Alright, just...let me know if you need anything, okay? I know today wasn’t—let’s just rest for now and talk later? Okay?” Rainbow offers.

“Alright, Thomas. Rest well,” Indigo says as he sinks out, pulling Green down with him.

“Hey—” is the last Rainbow hears of Green before he and his Logic are gone.

Indigo’s hands still aren’t taken care of.

The only beings left are the tired centre and the citric mist upon the top of the stairs.

The orange mist sinks and seemingly absorbs itself into the carpet of the stairs, leaving rest reassured that Indigo will be somewhat okay for the time being.

=====

Orange pops up into his room, his mist form flowing off him like a strange waterfall as he shifts into his usual state of being.

That entire mess of a meeting was so fucking exhausting just to watch, Jesus fucking Christ. At least this one didn’t include mention of Nico, though it may as well be a big part of the aftermath of how they keep handling that situation.

He brushes off his spiked leather jacket—even though there’s no dust—and adjusts his flame glasses on the bridge of his nose. His hand brushes against the burn scars that take up a good portion of his face, nearing his eye, and he sighs. Walking towards his bed and sitting down, he scrubs a hand over the side of his face that isn’t scarred. He glances around his room, trying wrap his head around how horribly fucked everything is with the Others right now.

Orange’s room is decorated in varying themes of bright Autumn and fire imagery, pale canary feathers strewn about the carpet. His room is about the standard of any generic room: a bed, a desk, a closet. The difference is his bed is instead more of a loft-nestish hybrid, his desk sitting underneath. There’s feathers on his mattress—by ‘mattress’, he means a nest of blankets, comforters, and pillows—and there’s a repurposed feather pen sitting at an angle by its ink bottle. His closet is made of scored wood and dark metal handles. He has a window that looks not into the Imagination, but into his own place that he tends to: the Flower Garden. Simply named, sure, but fantastical names aren’t needed when the function is all the simpler.

The window sits open ajar, letting in the occasional cool breeze that rolls through the Flower Garden. The tainted smell of wilting, dying, icky flora brings Orange backs to stand, wordlessly heading to the only door that leads to it. Its plain orange-painted door, engraved in its wood is the simple symbol of a canary carrying a butterfly weed in its talons. Orange pushes the door open, and nearly shivers when he sets sight on the state of his poor garden.

Rainbow is not okay, not with wilting flowers and dimming fauna. Not with birds who stutter in flight, not with critters who grow exhausted by a few steps of running around, not with this. Not with the Orange Tree decaying with rotted fruit.

Hopeless.

He is, quite literally, feeling so damn Hopeless.

And it’s so cold in the Flower Garden, even though a bright Sun rests at its peak.

The mysterious orange Side gets to work as he tends to the garden.

He snaps on the necessary gardening gloves, the hems slightly burnt from an incident not too long ago, tugging them on securely. There’s a bucket near the pond in the centre of the garden, one he picks up to collect the fallen, rotten oranges with. There’s still some growing in the tree, some still seem ripe up in the branches, so he leaves them be. There’s still hope, and there’s still Hope. Orange knows well enough how to tend to these things.

As he checks in on the animals, on the flora littered everywhere, he spots a struggling bumblebee. It buzzes as it stumbles into a landing, finding rest on a decently okay flower. It snuggles into the pollen and the petals, trying to find home in it. A red feather falls in front of Orange’s face, and he looks up in time to see the poor hatching chirp in pain. A red cardinal, usually groomed neatly, lands and perches on an Orange Tree branch. This particular branch has very few fruit left on it, though a stray orange blossom lays waking. One of the cardinal’s wings looks oddly bent, feathers messy and almost mud-spotted. The darling bird chirps again, this time looking right at Orange. Its wing is probably either sprained or broken. Right now, it cannot fly.

The little cardinal cannot fly.

Orange frowns, setting the bucket down at the base of the Orange Tree.

There’s a lot of work needed to be done if Rainbow wants to Hope again.

#sanders sides #orange side #orange sanders #thomas sanders #character thomas #virgil sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #chapter 1 #hearthfire

3 notes · View notes