#i made it as gay and poetic as possible :3c

[vincent-frankenstein]

The Smallest of Moments

Summary: "Love, Logan learns, lives in the smallest of moments.

It isn’t born of gold and silver, thornless roses, words painted like the sunset across a glorious scene, as Roman believes; nor is it darkness and dread, swirling agony and hopeless belief in a happy ending just out of reach, as Virgil claimed. It is simple; nonexistent one moment, and there the next, so warm and so filling one can hardly believe they had ever lived without it."

Pairing: Logince (ft. platonic analogical and logicality)

Warnings: none 

Taglist: @joygaytrash @ruh-roh-emer-has-an-account @aliferous-ly @im-crunchie @triton-bear @emiisanidiot @jemthebookworm

(prompt belongs to @aliferous-ly <3 <3)

Love, Logan learns, lives in the smallest of moments.

It isn’t born of gold and silver, thornless roses, words painted like the sunset across a glorious scene, as Roman believes; nor is it darkness and dread, swirling agony and hopeless belief in a happy ending just out of reach, as Virgil claimed. It is simple; nonexistent one moment, and there the next, so warm and so filling one can hardly believe they had ever lived without it.

Logan lived without it. Of course, love is hardly a definable thing; he certainly hadn’t been devoid of it entirely. He has familial love — Patton is like a father, warmth and light and, most certainly, love. And Virgil — his best friend, his brother, more than constitutes the concept of platonic love. He shares a soul, a life, with Thomas; could that not be considered love? This web of warmth and light and life tied between them, surrounding them, enveloping them; he’d never been without it.

But love was a many-faced thing, as nebulous and vague as the cosmos themselves; and though he’d experienced much of it, he had yet to discover that grand, golden finale. He had yet to learn what it was like — to love and be loved in return in that most effervescent way, that elysian dream that inspires countless poems and countless souls. Through his research — and his longing, that ever-present tug held deep in his very core that yearns to know — romantic love becomes something of a deity; something bigger, greater, than anything he’s ever known before.

And that is his first mistake.

He watches for greatness and misses the little things — the smiles meant just for him, nicknames tossed fondly through heated debates; actions torn between platonic and romantic, too ambiguous to be noticed, too important to be ignored. He waits for the sort of dawning sunrise he’s read about and doesn’t realize as it twirls, diaphanous, around him. An oversight on his part; a mistake.

But you can learn from mistakes. And Logan learns.

He learns in the smallest of moments. It’s not big, or grand; it’s a kitchen at midday. It’s calm. It’s quiet. Virgil sits perched on the arm of the couch, absently scrolling on his phone. Patton bustles around him with a spring in his step and a song on his tongue and a duster in his hands. 

And Logan retrieves a  box of shortbread cookies from the cabinet and then, with all the reverence of a man unearthing something sacred, something blessed — he pulls a jar of Crofter’s from the fridge. Excitement bubbles in his chest and he pushes it down, regaining his composure with a practiced ease. He tucks the box of cookies beneath his arm and starts back towards his room, twisting a hand across the jar’s lid.

It doesn’t budge. He tries again — and again, and again, frustration tingeing his excitement a cold, deep blue as he slows to a stop halfway up the stairs. How vexatious. His nose twitches as he strains against the lid, but it remains resolute in barring him from his fruit spread. He’s about to turn around to run it under some hot water when —

“Having trouble?”

Roman stands at the top of the staircase, leaning against the banister with all the casual grace in the world. His sword hangs, gleaming, by his side. “Roman,” Logan says, by way of acknowledgment. His hands lower, drawing the jar in, towards his chest. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Roman lifts a brow, a teasing lilt to his smirk, and Logan realizes where he’s standing. “Ah. My apologies.” He shifts to the side, opening the stairs to allow Roman to pass. Roman doesn’t pass.

Roman strides down the four stairs separating them with a languid grace, his tall, willowy frame bending to see eye-to-eye with Logan. Without a word, he snatches the jar from Logan’s hands, and Logan yelps indignantly. “Roman, I don’t have time for this!” he says, swiping for the jar. Roman lifts it high above his head, far out of reach.

“Calm down, Al-short Einstein,” Roman says with a teasing scoff, folding his arm over Logan’s head to lean on him. Logan sucks in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing, a venomous retort forming on his tongue —

Pop!

“There you go.” Roman grins, offering him the open jar of jam. Logan blinks and takes it, holding it to his chest. He blinks again — once, twice, as something curls in his stomach. It feels like the sound of an orchestra warming up; swirling flutes and sweeping violins, discordant and vague but beautiful all the same. It buzzes with potential. 

“Thank you,” Logan says. Roman laughs, standing up.

“Anything for my damsel in distress. Now then! Patton!” He claps once and brushes past Logan, flitting down the stairs towards the common room. Logan turns without meaning to, his eyebrows furrowing as he watches him go. The violins swell; the orchestra begins to play.

Oh.

It’s not grand, or golden. It’s two people on a staircase with a jar of jelly, a grin and a blush and a laugh like dripping honey. It’s not much. It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Logan’s heart skips a beat. Color rushes to his cheeks. The orchestra plays through his chest — you’ve found it, the piano sings with each resounding note, you’ve found it, you’ve found it. That impossible goal, that diaphanous bond, now twists and stretches around his soul, tinted crimson and gold. 

And it’s warmth and light in ways he’s never felt before, settling deep in his chest like it was always meant to be there. It’s happiness and hope and something more, something deeper and softer.

It’s love.

[id-rather-go-live-in-a-trash-can]

Oh....my gosh-peck.....this is so well done and greatly worded. I love this so much.

The Smallest of Moments

Summary: "Love, Logan learns, lives in the smallest of moments.

It isn’t born of gold and silver, thornless roses, words painted like the sunset across a glorious scene, as Roman believes; nor is it darkness and dread, swirling agony and hopeless belief in a happy ending just out of reach, as Virgil claimed. It is simple; nonexistent one moment, and there the next, so warm and so filling one can hardly believe they had ever lived without it.“

Pairing: Logince (ft. platonic analogical and logicality)

Warnings: none 

Taglist: @joygaytrash @ruh-roh-emer-has-an-account @aliferous-ly @im-crunchie @triton-bear @emiisanidiot @jemthebookworm

(prompt belongs to @aliferous-ly <3 <3)

Love, Logan learns, lives in the smallest of moments.

It isn’t born of gold and silver, thornless roses, words painted like the sunset across a glorious scene, as Roman believes; nor is it darkness and dread, swirling agony and hopeless belief in a happy ending just out of reach, as Virgil claimed. It is simple; nonexistent one moment, and there the next, so warm and so filling one can hardly believe they had ever lived without it.

Logan lived without it. Of course, love is hardly a definable thing; he certainly hadn’t been devoid of it entirely. He has familial love — Patton is like a father, warmth and light and, most certainly, love. And Virgil — his best friend, his brother, more than constitutes the concept of platonic love. He shares a soul, a life, with Thomas; could that not be considered love? This web of warmth and light and life tied between them, surrounding them, enveloping them; he’d never been without it.

But love was a many-faced thing, as nebulous and vague as the cosmos themselves; and though he’d experienced much of it, he had yet to discover that grand, golden finale. He had yet to learn what it was like — to love and be loved in return in that most effervescent way, that elysian dream that inspires countless poems and countless souls. Through his research — and his longing, that ever-present tug held deep in his very core that yearns to know — romantic love becomes something of a deity; something bigger, greater, than anything he’s ever known before.

And that is his first mistake.

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