#justfor2fics

[justfor2am]

what a waste of a lovely night (roceit week 2022)

Day 2: dance/protect Premise: A masked ball is the perfect place to flirt and flit about with rich strangers you'll never meet again. Just don't be mad when it's your gentleman-in-waiting that you're swooning after. TWs: N/A Word Count: 1135 AO3

"Care for a dance, stranger?" That was the phrase of the night, it seemed. The biannual Citrine Gala was underway, and for a fun twist on what was otherwise doomed to be a boring, socialite-only event, its dress-code dictated two crucial rules: one, to bring an "unlikely" plus one, and two, to disguise your face.

Yes, a masquerade ball would certainly make things interesting this year. Of course, certain people couldn't help but stand out. You'd be a fool not to recognize the heir and eldest son of the Alestria family; never mind the fact that his suit had the family's crest pressed into his lapel (he would like the record to state this was against his request), most guests first noticed the grand portrait hanging over the mantel in the dance hall. It was his parents turn to host after all, so masked or not he was easy to find. It didn't help that he towered over the majority of the crowd, enough to make anyone intrigued and vying for a closer look. With sun-kissed skin and a delightful, messy toss of dark amber hair, the signature hue of the King himself, there was no mistaking him.

For the sake of the event, party-goers pretended not to know who he was, tried to speak casually to him, but the prince could spot a poor liar a mile away. It was a laugh that rang on for too long, or a second glance that turned into a third, and then a fourth. And in all the guffaw of pretending he wasn't a walking retirement fund, not a single soul had asked him to dance.

At least, until a stranger in a gilded ballgown strode forward, outstretching their hand, waiting for him to take it. "Care to join me?" they asked, a hand fan conveniently hiding what was left of their face, so that only their eyes could be clearly made out. They were honey colored, bright and sharp, but they also stirred something within the prince's chest, something warm and familiar.

He eyed over the stranger with intrigue. Namely, their dress did not seem to be of any famous designer like all the other guests; it was skillfully crafted, not one ruffle out of place, nor one stitch falling apart. But the fabric was cheap, not even a royal-grade seamstress could hide such an obvious fact. The hand fan, which at a first glance seemed to glimmer with jewels, at closer inspection seemed more like the work of shards of glass and glitter. Their shoes that clinked against the tile floor were dull, either a worn down heel or dress shoes, both odd for someone who carried themselves as though they were born suckling on a silver spoon.

The prince smiled, and took up the stranger's hand. Around the pair, a quiet roar of whispers erupted and were silenced within a single breath. "I would be delighted," he hummed, and the stranger's golden eyes crinkled, a secret smile hidden for just the two of them to hear. They clicked their fan shut, hanging it from its loop around their wrist in one easy motion.

Upon their hands they wore black, satin gloves (the only piece in their ensemble that seemed to be worth any real money), all the way up to their elbows that matched the accents of the dress, and hands that the prince first thought were dainty and pristine, felt svelte, yes, but also callused, work-worn in a way that tugged at the prince's heart and baffled his mind.

They smelled like fake money, and dressed like fake royalty.

And in spite of the questions racing through the prince's mind, they were all washed away when the stranger pulled him forward in a fluid motion until they were flush with one another, and lead him twirling across the dance floor. Whoever this stranger was, they were hellbent on putting the prince into the role of an admirer for the evening, and with a level of ease the prince did not think he was capable of, he allowed the other to dictate his night.

At some point the two abandoned the event, finding themselves wandering the garden as the hour grew close to midnight. The prince then posed a question: "And what might your name be?"

The stranger answered, "Well, that would defeat the point of the masks, wouldn't it?" They pulled their fan back out, hiding their expression from him.

The prince smiled, "And what does that matter? Tell me, where's your family from?"

Once more, but now with a soured tone, "I shouldn't say, I don't want to spoil our fun."

With a soft frown, "I only ask so that I might find you again."

The stranger paused, lowering their fan with slight amazement. "…And why would you want that?"

Instead of a reply, the prince first reached for the other's hand, running his fingertips lightly over their palm, feeling the calluses underneath the gentle fabric. "So that I might know a way to spare you from your labors. You dance far too wonderfully to have hands like this."

The stranger smiled, lifting their fan once more. "My prince, you won't know me unless I want to be known. But rest assured, you will see me again."

With a startled look, "you knew who I was? What gave it away?" he asked, a pout on his lips, and the stranger couldn't help but laugh.

"My prince, you still haven't learned how to waltz properly. I would have spotted your lopsided gait a league away," they snickered, and the prince grew even more lost.

"How would you even know that? Who are you, really, I need to know!"

"Ah, there it is," they smiled tiredly, tugging their hand away and turning neatly on their heel back towards the party. "That impatient, curious mind of yours. Honestly, if you'd spent even half the night thinking through the clues I've left you instead of tripping all over me, you'd have known my name by now."

"But—" The stranger tutted, cutting the prince off. "None of that now. If you haven't found me out now, then I doubt you ever will." And if there was a touch of bitterness in their voice, they chose to ignore it. "Perhaps, even, it is better that you don't."

"Goodnight, Roman," they said quietly, walking off into the night with false merriment in their steps, and a simmering regret in their heart. What were they to do? They was his gentleman-in-waiting, the "help", nothing more. A glorified personal servant. Never able to rise above their role, forget courting a member of the royal family.

As for the prince, the gears clicked slowly in his head as the familiar stranger grew distant, and as his jaw dropped, his heart soared. "… Janus?"

[justfor2am]

connection: lost (roceit week 2022)

Day 1: rose/reconcile Premise: April 13th didn't go well, and roman's bitter with everyone except himself. Especially a certain prosecutor. TWs: N/A Word Count: 476 AO3

A slammed front door. Pangs of past moments that he was once so certain of his opinion on. The judge's call, his own; a mis-judgement, on someone's part. (Certainly not his own.) A resolution that left him standing in the dark, and the enemy in the light.

Roman would not be a prince of the night, no matter what color that wicked viper tried to paint him in.

"I don't see why you're so insistent on pretending I'm not here," Janus murmured from where he sat up-right at the kitchen table, sipping quietly at a mug of tea. Roman flinched, his verbal train of thought derailed before he'd even gotten to the best part, his promise for vengeance on an unfair verdict-

"Wasn't it you who set the verdict, or am I remembering wrong?" Janus interrupted yet again, hiding his coy smile in his mug.

Roman huffed, finally standing from his no-longer comfortable position curled around a notebook on the couch, vanishing the book away before pacing towards Janus. His every move confident, certain, Roman knew which side of history he stood upon, and this misfit of misery would not besmirch his-

"I thought that nickname was better suited for Virgil? The misfit part I understand, but misery? Wouldn't 'misleader' or 'mendacity' work better?" Janus said, expressionless as he continued to sip, a quiet stream of steam drifting up into the air.

"Would you stop that?" Roman huffed, stomping a heeled boot into the floor.

"Hm? Stop what, exactly?" Janus bluffed, the laugh in his voice all too clear for Roman's liking.

He crossed his arms in loud annoyance, "I am trying to set the scene here and you keep interrupting my internal monologue!"

"First of all, how dramatic of you to feel the need to monologue at me," Janus rolled his eyes. "Secondly, it isn't my fault your thoughts are so loud, there was only so much I could do to ignore it until it became simply too embarrassing to pretend otherwise."

"Always the one with an answer ready, hm?" Roman glared, upturning his nose away from the other with a noisy 'hmph'. "Fine then. If you can't at the very least be nice enough to play along... I'll make this easy for you." Roman strode to the doorway, back facing the other in a loud defiance.

Janus lowered his tea.

"If you think, for one second, that you're winning here, you're wrong. Whatever it is, your big plan for ruining Thomas's future, our future, I will stop you. I will do whatever it takes, at any cost. And that stunt you pulled, in the courtroom?" For a moment it seemed Roman had run out of steam, but he merely cleared his throat, and lowered his tone.

"It cost you any chance of making this mess up to me. I hope it was worth it."

[justfor2am]

kill the ones you love

Demus/Intruceit Word count:1160 Mafia Soulmates AU

TW: guns, blood, general violence

Summary: Part of the family, that's what he said. Follow the rules and you'll be safe, he said.

No attachments, he said. If only things were that easy.

Alternatively: Remus took too much from someone who already had nothing, and Janus doesn't know when to quit.

Read at Ao3 ________

A twirl of the blade in his right hand, an unearned grin splayed over Janus's crooked maw, and the latter looked down curiously at his victim, laying on the cold tile with their back pressed against the wall: weaponless, cornered, vulnerable in more ways than one.

Remus glowered up at him, trying to pretend that the silver gun held in Janus's gloved left hand that was pointed towards his forehead was his greatest annoyance at the moment. That all he was feeling was annoyance, as though the situation was an inconvenience at best. He'd been in this situation many a time before, back when inexperience and a quick mouth was all he had to work with.

It was a long while scraping up his way to the top, and here his lackey was, trying to take all the glory for himself in one fell swoop. It would be impressive, inspiring almost, if it wasn't Remus that needed to die for it.

Janus inspected the blade of the knife, letting out a low whistle. "Ivory handle, I didn't take you to be the flashy sort. Then again, I didn't take you to be so poorly armed, but I suppose I overestimated you, didn't I?" he chuckled, reveling in the moment of superiority.

A quick glance to his left showed a handgun well out of reach, and Janus looked backwards to it as well. He tsk-ed, "oh, right, except for that sorry thing. Well, it's not going to do you much use right now, isn't it?"

"...Why are you doing this?" Remus muttered lowly, taking in shallow breaths. A small pool of blood slowly trickled out of his side, where he was feebly attempting to press the wound shut. The gleam of scarlet dripping from the blade dangling in Janus's grip was insulting enough, and Remus fought to ignore it. This was already embarrassing enough to handle.

The struggle itself had not been balanced. Janus had spent too much time under the sole of Remus's boot to not pick up on the former's flaws, his weaknesses, his tendency to disarm himself when it was just the two of them. As though he wouldn’t notice.

When asked of it, months ago, Remus claimed it was nothing. But Janus knew trust when he saw it, and he hit the ground running with it. Within time, he was no longer a pawn, easily disposed of, but an asset, a value to the "family". But it was never enough. As much as he poked and prodded, Janus could never quite reach the position of right-hand-man, of the power he thought he rightfully deserved.

His patience wore thin, and here they were; Janus, perched over a palid, bleeding Remus, gun to his head, and sole weapon, a knife kept on his person for the illusion of distrust in the one person he was scared to open up to, now in the hands of someone that in another life, could have been so much more.

Janus let the other’s question hang in the air, watching with morbid curiosity as the other fought to keep their eyes open, and his finger twitched on the trigger. Taking his sweet time, he rolled his head from side to side, pondering. "Do you remember," he asked casually, as though asking for the time, "your soulmate policy?"

He lifted his shoe, pushing it forcefully into Remus's chest. As the other coughed and fought for air, Janus went on. "No attachments. Period. Now, I was never in disagreement with your call, for the record. I think, given how you run things... lovers don't exactly factor in too well." Janus pulled up the bottom corner of his own shirt to reveal a soul mark on his abdomen: a shepherd's crook, with a snake encircling it.

"We were ordered to kill them. Simple enough. Only, there was a small problem, wasn't there?" Pulling his leg back, he leaned down and shoved Remus's neck into the wall, letting the other squirm a moment before dragging his hand down to the top of his collared shirt, tugging to reveal a matching soul mark on his collarbone. "You weren't willing to get rid of yours."

They locked eyes. An unspoken silence passed between them, and gently, lacking any of the sadistic roughness with which he'd been treated thus far with, Janus cradled Remus's cheek, running his thumb softly against his battered skin. For a moment, he almost looked remorseful. "You couldn't get rid of me. You brought me closer, thinking it would be enough. You poor thing." He shook his head gently, and Remus could feel the cold metal of the gun's barrel pressed between his ribs. "You became weak."

He would not beg, and Janus knew that. Remus had not gone down without a fight, and a quiet part of himself wished that the struggle had gone on longer, prolonging their dance for power instead of the painfully curt beating it was.

To be fair, Janus did knock him upside the head with a pistol.

Instead, Remus's eyes darted across Janus's face, desperately searching for a crack in the man's disposition that he could use to his advantage, but there was none. It was woefully obvious (to Janus at least) that Remus never intended to bridge that gap beyond boss and employee, that the natural bond the two could have kindled didn't linger in his mind for a moment.

So, Janus disconnected himself from his emotions towards the other, piece by piece as the hole in his heart hollowed and grew with every head shake, with every 'no', with every moment he almost reached out but didn't. Couldn't.

Janus knew this moment would haunt him the rest of his days. But he was numb to it, and happily so. It made the thought of his heart being permanently disfigured a little less daunting.

Remus, finally realizing there was truly no action he could take to save his life at this point, dropped the peeved facade, and laughed, broken and tired, eyes shining with a fear he was now unfamiliar with. His head rolled back as he cackled, and Remus’s gasps for air could almost be mistaken for hysteria. He had forgotten what it felt like to be this close to death, and in a twisted sense, he'd missed it. And what a fitting person to be the one to take it.

"I'll see you in Hell," he choked out, trembling from either the blood loss or the terror, Janus couldn't tell. Remus didn't close his eyes, knowing damn well that Janus would want him to. If he was going to go out by his soulmate's hands, then Remus considered it a fair enough parting gift.

"Not if I see you first," Janus replied quietly, a similar fear beginning to bubble up inside him. And for all his blustering and cockiness at having the upper-hand, Janus closed his eyes and turned his head away as he pulled the trigger.

[justfor2am]

Request: Logince vampire prompt

Most would think that Logan was an ordinary person. He woke up at 6, went to work at 7:15, got home at 5:30, and went to bed at 9:20, or 9:40 on the days he got carried away with a good book. A steady, regular cycle. Work was his time for adventure, as a crime statistics analyst for the city, Logan kept up with crime happenings and goings for the sake of professional purposes alone. That was more than enough ‘adventure’ for him.

Sure, besides work, there was a number of things that changed during the day, but they were minute things, like what he was having for lunch, or the colour of his tie, or the weather, sometimes. He was normal.

Logan was perfectly happy with normal. Under ideal circumstances, he would have liked to continue being normal, if the universe hadn’t thrown an anomaly into his way. 

The anomaly took the form of a pale, ghoulish man, whom for all his merits appeared young under his faded appearance, and he was currently stationed defensively on Logan’s kitchen table, as if offended. Which, really didn’t make sense, as he was floating a good foot above the table, looked like Death had kissed him just that morning, and was too certain of himself for comfort.

A coffee cup in his shaking left hand, Logan glanced at the time. It was nearing 10:30, and surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. There was no possibility for this strange man to be in his kitchen at this hour. Logan was dreaming, he was hallucinating, he was losing his marbles, he was-

“Hey! Earth to glasses, are you even paying attention to me? Kinda telling you some crucial information here!” The- oh, what even was he? A ghost? No, too physical-looking. Certainly not a spirit then, wait, mythical creatures weren’t even real, why was he even considering-

“Glasses! Nerd! Dude, seriously, it’s gonna be light by the time I make contact with you, zone in!” The strange man yelled again, now waving his arms in a frantic manner.

Logan snapped out of his spiral, and carefully set down his cup on the counter behind him. “Three questions. One, what the hell are you? Two, how the hell did you get in here, and three, whatever you’re doing here, can you not involve me in it?”

The (spirit? ghoul? oh whatever-) rolled his eyes, and raised his hand, ticking fingers off as he answered, “Vampire, as of like a few weeks ago. Newsflash, vampires are real. Please process that quickly.”

“Two, the whole ‘you-have-to-invite-vampires-into-your-dwelling-personally’ isn’t actually true, we just need an open door, and your back door is really busted up on the hinges.”

“Thirdly, if you had been paying attention to my very important speech at all, I need your help.” He floated down from the table to hover near Logan, who took several reasonable step backwards. 

“Hide you? Vampires? That’s not nearly enough information for me.” Logan shook his head, glancing around for some kind of weapon. “And why should I help you if I don’t even know your name?

The vampire hesitated before replying, “Roman. My name is Roman Prince. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Logan froze. “You’re the man who was murdered two weeks ago. Your body went missing, the case file was lost. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Everything about your case left the police scared out of their minds...” he went on. “They now think we have a deranged murderer in the city.”

Roman nodded somberly, and gave him a bitter smile. “Well, I’m as close to dead as it gets, right? No pulse, I don’t breathe, all things considered, I should have stayed right put where the police found me.”

His spirit brightened slightly, “I’ll strike you a deal. I can read it all over your face, you’re fascinated by me.” At this Logan became flustered, he did not enjoy being seen as an open book. It was unprofessional.

“I was murdered, and yet, I’m still here. Did some digging at City Hall, you’re one of the best detectives they’ve got, right?”

Logan huffed. “I’m a crime stats analyst. I don’t visit crimes scenes, I record their happenings and data. While I am efficient and have occasionally helped solve a case, I don’t make a habit of it.”

“Still, you’re telling me you’ve never itched to solve a case? You’re telling me you work with other detectives, and you haven’t wanted to live their lives for a moment?” Roman crossed his arms, the ghost of a grin dancing on his face. “If you can figure out what happened to me, you’ll be better than all of those has-beens in the FLPD.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Here Logan was, well past 10:30 by now, standing in his kitchen with an oddly charming vampire...that wanted to help him achieve a promotion? 

“Why me?” Logan asked. “Of all the detectives and analysts you could have chosen, why me?”

Roman paused for a moment. “In all honesty, I’m not sure. But something in me felt confidence when I read your name. Or maybe that’s the vampire in me, I’m not quite sure.” He added hastily.

“And, how do I know you’re not going to try to turn me?” Logan backed up into the counter, groping behind him for something to defend himself with.

The vampire laughed, “Now why would I want to turn my partner?”

At that, Logan tilted his head, “Partner?”

“Surely with everything I’ve told you, you’re not about to walk away now, are you?” While Roman wore a smug grin on his face, something in his eyes was less certain than the façade he was putting on. 

Logan sighed, sticking out his hand to shake. “Fine, I’m in. My name is Logan Maddens, for the record, but I suppose you already knew that.”

Roman seemed a little surprised at the gesture, but he shook Logan’s hand anyway. “It sounds better coming from you.” Great, a flirt.

The other rolled his eyes. “For someone who’s quite literally a murder victim, you’re rather cheery, aren’t you?”

“Someone has to be, book-for-brains.” The vampire teased.

Logan groaned internally. This was going to be a long investigation.

[justfor2am]

It’s Just a Fracture

This is based around the comic @aimasup drew, hope you like it! I’d suggest reading the comic first, you can find part one here!

The two had always played the same game. From Creativity’s initial division, Remus and Roman were eager to better the other. Competitions became their norm, and it was common to find the two sparing in one room or another. 

Logan, in his frustration at their constant destruction, dedicated a specific room for their matches, unofficially dubbed the Judgement Hall. Winner conquers, loser takes the shame. And Roman kept. On. Winning. Game after game, round after round, somehow he always scrapped himself a victory. It was humiliating, and the loss was even more staggering when Remus gained his ranks among the Dark Sides. “You can’t even pin him once? How pitiful.” It was these sort of annoying comments that he despised most.

This time, Roman would be no such victor. Remus would win, if it killed them both.

Roman understood that their sparing matches were no longer for fun, but a necessity. If Remus losses, he stays away from the Light Sides. If Roman losses, well.... he’s refused to let that option become a possibility.

The two faced each other with distinctively different purposes. They began their fight as most of them do, with Remus flying at him full-force. They danced around each other, blows missed and landing, a flurry of destruction following them in a delightful mess. Remus was thriving in it.

Roman was not. He couldn’t understand what was different this time, but something about his brother was off. He was pulling out all the stops, unafraid of getting a little hurt himself. When his lovely morning star just couldn’t cut it, maybe something more direct would be the ticket.

Shurikens went flying, and Roman was only growing more frustrated. He needed to end this already, just pin Remus down and-

Wait. Where did Remus go? Roman blocked himself at the riskiest second, as Remus slammed his morning star mercilessly down on his brother’s startled figure. In trying to kick the other off, their weapons went flying, and Remus came crashing down on top of his brother. 

The last thing the two of them remember was a bright, white light.

A few moments later, there was the One again. Creativity. No more division, no more brothers...their initial fracture was no more. Creativity regarded himself, it had been many years since he had existed, and it was almost nice. Here he was, whole again.

A sigh of relief passed through him, an ornate crown reforming where years ago it floated above his head. This is what he’d been missing, the calm unity of ideas passing through his mind. “You’re back,” he mumbled to himself. We’re back.

But this was wrong. It was as if every nerve that had been begging for years to be stitched back together, was begging and pleading to be torn back apart. Two distinctively different voices arguing in his one head, each asking for different things. Their words blended and blurred his train of thought; Creativity couldn’t take it. He wanted to be together, he wanted to exist! He deserved to live, didn’t he?

A stubborn voice within himself echoed, “Maybe if you had been better.” The words cut into his very form, and where there was once one side, was now two ripping themselves away.

Roman sat up in a confused hurry. His memories were blurry, all he could really pick out was fusing and saying...something? God, this was so confusing.  For the first time in what felt like a lifetime ago, he was someone that he (as damming as the thought was,) didn’t want to be. That ‘person’ was in the past, he was gone, there was no use in remembering him. To do so would only make the break sting more, and he was tired of hurting.

He turned around to talk to Remus, ask his what he knew, but something was wrong.

Remus had curled in on himself, facing away from his brother. Still, quiet, all of the things that he normal wasn’t. Roman reached out to him, to do what, he wasn’t sure (provide comfort? A hug? A shove out the door?) when he moved.

Hot tears burned their way down Remus’ face; of course Roman was the one asking questions. Of course he didn’t remember, didn’t understand. Who was the great and fucking spectacular Roman to care about what they’d left behind?

Roman pulled his hand back, staring at his crying brother. Remus could hardly stand the embarrassment; somehow, this was worse than losing their battles. This time, he’d surrendered; he’d fully given up. There was no more crown, no more King, no more peace, because that’s all Remus had really wanted, for a second, some fucking peace.

So he ran. It was strange, running away. Normally, he was determined to leave the last hit, land the final blow. But he ran away, like a wounded animal. Like a coward in the dark.

Roman could never understand why Remus cried, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. I mean, it was only a fracture.

[justfor2am]

Request: Logince fantasy au

(you had me at ‘logince’. also i got very carried away.)

“Roman, please put the sword away, it’s not cursed.” Logan was beyond exasperated with the young prince, who insisted on dealing with every threat the two came across with by pointing something sharp at it.

“How can you be so sure? May-haps it’s hiding its power from you, because it knows you would destroy it!” He kept his sword steady and did not let his eyes waiver from the strange runic symbols on the forest floor.

“Because, my prince, I drew it, remember?” Logan shut his book of runes, rolling his eyes at the other. “I would think you’d have learned to recognize my magic by now. It’s almost as if you don’t pay attention to my lessons.”

Roman felt his cheeks grow rosy; Logan had indeed brought him here the other day.  He huffed and tucked his sword away. “Well, I don’t even know why I have to take lessons from you; we’re the same age.”

“Actually,” Logan kneeled beside the runes, referencing his book every so often, “I’m older than you by two months. And, seeing as how I’m already a certified Class C Warlock, I’d appreciate it if you realized I am, in fact, smarter than you.”

“Oh big deal.” Roman sat next to him and crossed his arms. “You can do magic, but you still can’t beat me in sparing? What are the numbers now, 46 to 0?”

Logan ignored him, adjusted his glasses, and shut his book again. He set it aside, and pulled out a short, stone dagger. “I’ve done the best I can. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Roman had grown serious, and nodded firmly. “With everything that’s happening within the Kingdom and the threats you’ve received, it’s our best option. This way, we’ll both be safe.”

He pushed his glasses back up again, lightly brushing his fingers against their wooden frame. “You do realize this won’t stop them, right? If they find out where I’m really from?” Logan hesitated. “I don’t believe there is any sane magic in the known world that could protect you from them.”

The air was heavy and it weighed on them; the two needed to hurry up. Roman took one of Logan’s hands within his own, “You’re the smartest person I know. There, I said it. We’re in this together, and I’m not afraid of anything this forest could throw at me, if it means with both get out together, and alive.”

Roman took the knife and pierced his finger. A drop of scarlet blood formed, and he let it fall on the rune. A faint, ruby glow arose upon contact, and hovered. “For better or worse, I’m with you.”

Logan stared at the runes, then his hand that Roman was still holding, and then Roman. He nodded, mimicking the other’s actions. “For better, I hope.” The drop of sapphire oozed and dripped slowly to the ground, and a mixture of bright violet rose up and circled around them.

They each set one hand upon the circle, and laced the other with each other’s. Logan’s eyes shone an electric blue as he quietly chanted under his breath, the mist becoming darker and dense. He went on like this for several minutes, before stopping abruptly.

They looked each other in the eyes. This was it, this was the moment. The mist became more and more compact, swirling around their laced hands before stopping on a finger from each, curling tighter and solidifying before their very eyes. The bands were a heavy black, with swirlings of red and blue within them.

The two stood up and took the time to destroyed the runes. They exited the forest quickly, not stopping until they were well within the castle’s vast garden.

Roman stopped, and he reached for Logan’s hand, lacing their ringed fingers together again. “You know, for a fae, you’re not as much of a trickster as people would think.”

Logan looked at their hands, and for the first time since leaving the forest, he smiled. “Perhaps if you could let yourself from three years ago know that, I wouldn’t be stuck here teaching you.”

“You know you love it.” He said, but the prince side-eyed the fae nervously. “What exactly do these mean?”

“Well, I guess to put it in human terms, we’re married. Sort of!” He added on hastily, spying Roman’s panicked expression. “This doesn’t legally hold any weight within the Kingdom, you’re not King now.”

“But if we keep these on, the other will always know where they are, and if they’re in pain.” He finished quietly. The night was quiet, and a waning moon shone brightly above. “There’s no turning back now.”

Turning to face him, Roman brushed a loose tuff of hair away from Logan’s eyes. He wondered how he’d never noticed the truth about him before, how his eyes were a little too bright and his skin just a tad off. His strong distaste for things made of metal, and the more jagged nature to his teeth. 

However, and in spite of these things, Roman wouldn’t have him any other way.

"I promise, I won’t let anyone touch a hair on your head.” He placed a gentle kiss to Logan’s forehead. “You’re safe here with me, always.” Another kiss, now to each cheek. 

Logan could feel his face flushing, but he smiled regardless. “And?” In a way, these were almost like vows, the fae thought.

“There is nothing in this world, or in any world, that could make me forget to love you.” They kissed, cautious, knowing that any guard or staff could see them and pull them apart. They kissed, knowing that it was their first, and possibly their last. 

They kissed under a moon that wanted to hide away, and took in any unwanted lovers with her.

[justfor2am]

Snow in Venice

Words: 4610

Warnings: Character death, terminal illness, crying, alcohol mention

Ships: Logicality, implied Prinxiety, Logince

I technically wrote this a while back on a different site, but I figured I could bring this over here too! Hope y’all enjoy. Based around the cover of ‘Snow in Venice’ Thomas posted a couple years ago. I apologize if the Italian is wrong, I had to use google translate for some bits.

Abejita: little bee

Logan has the perfect life. A wonderful husband, a house, and a place in the world. But seasons change, and with it, Logan finds himself chasing old horizons and running into new ones.

   "Maybe my song isn't happy enough but I, I see it take flight with the snowflakes above me..." Patton's voice carried through the kitchen, over the light sizzle of eggs in a battered frying pan. Logan had been busying himself with setting the table, when a faint smile passed over his lips.

        "That song again? I'd thought by now you'd grow tired of it." His voice held no bite as he set down the last of the cutlery, and snaked his arms around the other's waist. Logan loved hearing Patton sing; sweet like the cardinals chirping outside their front porch. Light streamed through the open curtains of the window; the air was a fair and breezy reminder of the coming spring weather.

        Patton laughed under his breath, soft, golden brown curls falling into his eyes. He pushed his hair back, (Logan really must get him a haircut) and shrugged. "I don't know, it just makes me happy. Even though the singer is sad, they're still looking for their partner."

        He turned off the gas-lit stove with a click. "It's almost romantic." Patton smiled at his husband, and left a sweet kiss on his lips. Logan could never get enough of his kisses, and his ears turned pink in embarrassment. "I suppose that's one way of viewing it."

        "Come on, honeybee. Breakfast's ready!"

                                                        •••

        "My coffee gets cold, as I'm staring enthralled, at the snow, that keeps falling outside." The words were no longer belted out in a rich, warm tone. Patton's lungs had grown far too weak for such things in recent months, and Logan didn't want him straining himself anymore than necessary. Patton busied himself with another knitted scarf, humming under his breath; Logan prepped him another cup of tea and tried to ignore the fits of coughing that frequented his room.

        "You really should rest your voice, I don't want you to lose it again." Logan carried a small tray into the other's room, a cup of lavender tea with two spoonfuls of honey they way he liked. The tray was set down on the nightstand, and Logan picked up Patton's last, unfinished cup. He was having trouble keeping anything down, these days.

        Patton's fingers froze in their weaving, the yellow and green thread uneven and messy. He slowly turned to look at Logan, a thin, fragile smile gracing his face. "You're so sweet, but I promise, I'm nearly well. Can't I go outside for a little while?" He asked.

        Logan watched him carefully, those round, hazel eyes that didn't shine the way they used to. Logan saw how Patton's hand shook, how he could barely keep his knitting even. And he didn't want to remember the last time he'd let his husband get out of bed unattended; a nearly twisted ankle had given them both much more than a small fright.

        It pained him to shake his head, to look Patton in those gorgeous, hazel eyes and tell him "no," tell him "he couldn't risk getting any more ill."

        Patton said he wasn't sick, this was just a small flu, a cold, allergies. Every day, something new. Every day, the same request to leave bed rest just for a day, an hour, a minute. All he wanted to do was feel the sun again, or if it were raining, to splash in puddles and not care if his socks got wet. To be and feel alive.

        Eventually, he stopped asking. Mid summer, when Logan brought him his hourly tea, he asked a different question. "Honeybee," Patton said, "Could you bring me a map?"

        Confused, Logan set down the cup of tea. "A map? A map of what?"

        He paused, thinking. "Europe, I think. Yeah, Europe." He was almost cheery, a new, excited spark emitting from Patton. "And a pencil, if you don't mind."

        Logan brought him what he'd requested, and kissed him. "I don't know what you're planning, but don't strain yourself." He said. "The last thing I want is for you to fall asleep while working."

        The latter only smiled, and cupped his cheek. "You're one to talk, sweetheart."

                                                        •••

        Patton hadn't been this bubbly in ages. Through all of the coughing and feverish ranting, he kept his spirits high with what he was now calling, "The Fredricksen Project".

        "You know," he pushed another red pin into the now lightly battered-up map, connecting the blue thread to yet another city, "Like Carl and Ellie Fredricksen, from Up?"

        Logan chuckled, moving to sit on the bed next to Patton, "Last time I checked,  they only wanted to visit one place in South America, or did we not view the same movie?" He took a seat next to Patton on the bed, where he was now tying a light blue thread from one pin to another. There were quite a number of places marked, London, Paris, Berlin, Rome- "...I don't suppose you're also planning for modes of transportation?" He asked lightly. "London and Paris aren't exactly next-door-neighbors."

        His husband only shook his head and laughed. "That's part of the fun. We'll figure it out as we go." Patton pushed the map away from himself, taking a long look at it. "I think," he said, "we're still missing something." He pursed his lips, and clicked his tongue in a wondering key. "I just don't know what."

        Logan picked up the map, and smiled. "Perhaps a final stop in Venice wouldn't be a bad idea." He took a red pin, marking the city. "What do you think? I've heard it's lovely in the spring." 

        Patton nodded, and kissed his lips with a content hum. "Venice sounds perfect." He sat up slightly, stretching his back. "When would you want to go?"

        Tapping a pencil against the paper, Logan counted the points listed. "There's quite a lot of cities to visit, it would take us a while. We've only just finished paying off the house, and there's still my work at the university that needs to be taken into account-"

        He was interrupted by a heavy bout of coughing, and his eyes darted to Patton's frail figure, curling up into himself. Logan's hands went like clockwork, first to push away any loose pins or papers away from Patton, then to the glass of water that always sat on the nightstand. But he refused the water, instead taking a long, heavy breath. Patton leaned back against the pillows and sighed.

        Logan pushed his curls away from his eyes, and he could see what was left of that bright cheerfulness draining away. Patton was exhausted, or maybe more than that. Something like running on empty, Logan supposed.

        "Maybe we should wait a while, until your health impro-" "No." Logan blinked, his train of thought interrupted. Patton rubbed his eyes, and pulled his heavy black-framed glasses off. "I don't want to wait anymore."

        It was rare for his husband to sound so blank, even with the state of his illness. This was something new. "...What do you mean?" He asked.

        Patton stared down at his bedsheets, folding the fabric between his fingers. "I...I don't want to put this off anymore." He paused, adding hastily, "The trip, I don't want to wait on the trip anymore."

        "I think it's time we had ourselves another adventure, you know?" His hazel eyes met Logan's, and once again, Logan found it painful to tell him 'no'.  "Yes, I think it's time."

        He stood up, leaving the map with Patton. "But, not today. Soon, however. I promise."

        Patton nodded, looking back down at his hands. "Soon."

                                                        •••

        "I got you something!" Patton hid his phone screen from Logan, who in turn, playfully covered his eyes. "I suppose this is a 'no peeking' type situation?"

        Patton giggled, "Yup! You have to guess."

        "How many guesses do I get?"

        "Um, one."

        Logan uncovered his eyes slightly. "Well those don't sound like fair odds."

        "Hey, no peeking!" Patton chided, and Logan covered his eyes again. "Wait, can I just tell you? It's really, really special."

        "Do I get to uncover my eyes if you do?" Logan asked.

        "Sure, now come, come!" Patton reached for Logan's hand. Logan uncovered his eyes and threaded their fingers together. "What did you get me?"

        Patton turned his phone back on, "I know our anniversary is a few weeks away, but I wanted to go ahead and get this early." On his phone, there was a receipt for a connected-flight plane ticket. Logan scrolled through the page, and skimmed the cities listed. "London, Paris, Berlin... Patton, how did you afford this?"

        He shrugged, still smiling. "I went through my retirement fund. Was a penny and a half, but I'm glad I did." 

        Logan was dumbfounded. "I, this is a wonderful gift Patton, I love it." He hesitated. "But, I can't accept this. It's too much, you'll need something to fall back on financially in the future. Besides, there's only one ticket, and if you're implying that I take this trip without you, I could never."

        Patton squeezed his hand. "Honeybee, it's okay. This is just the first step, you know. We'll start saving, and I'll get a ticket for myself later. But this is yours, and I want you to have it."

        His breathing failed him for a moment, and Patton took a long pause. "From me to you, our adventure is finally starting."

                                                         •••

        "I don't want you here; please go home."

        "My home is right here; I'm not leaving."

        This was the types of talks Logan and Patton were having now, but instead of their cozy two-story home, and soft beds, and hot tea, there were sterilized hospital rooms, and hard beds, and beeping machines.

        Patton was counting his fifteenth day in this room, and fourth in his attempts to convince Logan to leave. "I don't want you to see me like this, I know it hurts you." His voice was faint and broken, and anything he said was more often than not, followed by a coughing spell. "It's time to go."

        "If you think I could leave you in a hospital all alone, of all places, and be able to live with myself, then you are sorely mistaken." Logan had his arms crossed in a defensive pose across his chest, pacing the room with an irregular foot step. "It's not time to go anywhere, Patton. I need to be with you, here."

        Logan could see Patton shaking his head out of the corner of his eye, and he sighed. "I'm not going to leave you, and that's final."

        "I've trapped you, I didn't mean to do that-"

         "You've done no such thing, rest your voice."

        "Lo, you need to go."

        "I can't. I won't. I'm not going to."

        Patton coughed, and fell back against his pillows harshly. "I think, maybe, we have different meanings to where you would go."

        He stopped pacing. "I'm talking about our house," Logan said. "What do you mean?"

        "Europe."

        He froze. "No. Absolutely not. I cannot go to Europe and simply leave you here."

        "You already have a ticket, remember?" Patton mumbled. He closed his eyes, and slowed his ragged breathing. "Everything's ready, and I really want you to go. Take pictures for me, if you'd like."

        Logan shook his head firmly, "I'm not going to Europe while you're so ill. When you get better, we can take the trip together. I promised you that, remember? I promised that we would go soon, the moment you were well enough to travel. Besides, there's almost enough saved up to buy you your ticket, it's just a matter of waiting a little while longer."

        Patton opened his eyes slowly, and stared up at the ceiling. "You know I can't wait anymore.

        "That's not true, you're getting better."

        "You know that's a lie honeybee, please don't lie to yourself."

        "Stop saying that, you're getting better I know it-" He wasn't sure at what point he'd walked to the window, or why he was leaning against it trying not to cry. Logan wasn't sure of anything anymore.

        "And traveling light.... is a curse, and a blessing. For someone like me, whose heart has gone missing..." Patton's voice was thin and worn out, but Logan needed to hear it.

        So get on that plane, as the snow turns to rain, and I'm writing your name, on the clouds..." 

                                                        •••

        Logan had always hated airports. The noisy bustling of business men in grey suits and black ties, maternal figures herding their children and partners to the correct gate with an exhausted expression, and those were only two types of people that frequented this place.

        It was something akin to purgatory for him, and Logan was filled with doubt from the baggage checks to the physical act of boarding the plane itself. There was very little he still carried with himself: a single suitcase with simple, practical garments, a wallet with as much money the bank allowed him to withdraw stuffed messily inside, and a few legal things here and there. Birth certificates, social security cards, passports, things he wanted to do away with.

        He found himself taking a window seat, waiting for the actual departure. Getting to this point had been incredibly difficult, and somehow the funeral was the least painful of the events leading up to this point. The event was an unsteady blur, from unknown guests leaving their best regards with him, to unwanted handshakes and teary looks as he sat silently by the casket staring unblinking at those who were mourning.

        He didn't want to mourn here, where people would judge and jeer, those who never approved of their marriage muttering under their breaths as to how deserved his husband's death was. 

        "Fuck them," Logan thought. Logan opted to mourn in private, when the viewing was over, and the body burned. Patton had always wanted to have his ashes turned into a tree. "Give back to the world!" he would have said. Patton was always giving too much. Giving was what killed him, handing out bits and pieces of his soul until there was nothing left of himself to keep ,and he was flat-lining at the hospital, and the room was so full, too many people, too many hands on his husband, where was his-

        Logan casually brushed away a stray tear that crawled its way down his face. No, not here. Not in an airport, of all places. He stared hard out of the window, his breath heavy, fogging up the glass.

        He wrote his name. It faded quickly, and Logan sniffed as quietly as possible. This was no place for crying. 

        This was no place for remembering.

                                                        •••

        The trip was fairly straight-forward. Logan found himself at what most would consider the most attractive tourist locations: London was the Buckingham Palace, a bus tour, the Tower of London, and a quick view from The Shard before departing for France. The sooner he got out of the UK, the better. Logan could remember all of the places Patton had longed to visit here, planned to a key. It hurt to stay.

        Before he left, Logan did make time to visit platform 9 3/4. He took a picture of the trolley stuck in the wall, and an attendant approached him. "You're allowed to take a picture on it too, if you'd like."

        He shook his head politely. "No, thank you. The pictures aren't for me." He walked away quickly, looking to avoid her follow-up questions. Yes, he should leave London promptly.

        France, unfortunately, was not any better for his emotions. Paris, the revered "City of Love": couples walking in happy, bubbly pairs and kissing by the Eiffel Tower ate away at Logan's heart, in pinching, little munches. He spent the least time in Paris, eager to see any place that wasn't so full of romance and well....love.

       Germany was a welcomed stop. Here, it wasn't so bad to drink beer at three in the afternoon by yourself in a park, so long as you didn't bother anyone walking by. Logan rummaged through his suitcase and pulled out Patton's map. There were still two more cities left, and he groaned to himself. There was very little will left in him to get off of this stupid bench, let alone finish the trip. Yes, Berlin was lovely.

        But it would be better with him here. 

                                                        •••

        The endeavor that was this trip wasn't to be completed in a matter of weeks, oh no. Logan had set out shortly after Patton's passing in late November. It was passing New Year's now, and he'd spent it drinking in Rome. In his defense, there was an extensive selection of wines to be had in Italy, and it would be a disservice to not enjoy a few glasses. Or at least, that's what the bartender had told him.

        Logan had left Berlin some days before the coming of the year, in a state of heated embarrassment. As it turns out, to make calls overseas via cell phone, you need an international calling card, which Logan did not own nor cared to purchase. He knew that family and friends back in the States were probably wondering where he was. In rather broken Italian, Logan made his way to a phone booth that hadn't seen a human in ages, and stuffed several euros into its slot.

        "Dove stai chiamando?" ("Where are you calling to?") the automatic voice system asked.

        "Um, gli stati Uniti?" (Um, the United States?") he replied.

        "Si prega di inserire il numero desiderato, ora." ("Please enter the desired number, now.")

        "...grazie." (Thank you.)

        He punched in the 0-0-1 for international calling, and froze. Logan didn't really want to call home, but felt that out of obligation, he should. He shook his head, and entered a familiar number.

        "Hello?" He spoke into the receiver. "Hello, greetings, um, it's...it's Logan. I know I haven't called in a while, I've just been...uncertain, of myself as of late. I wanted to check on how you were doing-"

        "Hey there!" A voice replied. "You've reached the voicemail of Patton Sanders!"

        Logan's shoulders sagged. The message played on, "oh, Logan's at the door, that's my husband. Logan, honeybee, come say hi! Oh whoops, that was the mail lady, sorry Mary Lee! Well anyway, this is his voicemail too, so just leave a message and we'll get back to you in a jiffy! Bye now!"

        A long beep played, and for a while Logan didn't say anything. He stared at the light flurry of snow that had started to pile up against the phone booth door. Months. It had been months since Logan had heard his husband speak. 

        He cleared his throat. "H-hello Patton, it's me. I know it seems odd to leave a voicemail, but many odd things have happened to me lately."

        "Uh, well, it's still snowing here. I'm in Berlin, by the way. On our trip? I'm sorry you couldn't make it, you couldn't imagine the views I've seen...um...I miss you. I miss you quite a lot, and I'll be home soon, okay? I promise. I love you."  Logan set the receiver back down on its hook, and rubbed his face pink, trying to fight away the tears. Not here, not now.

        "I love you. I love you a lot." 

        Now he was in Rome, trying to forget all of the emotions that had attacked him in that moment. Grief, joy, heartbreak, it just wasn't the right time for these things.

                                                        •••

        "Venice, the great city of.... Oh, who cares anymore." Logan thought, shuffling in from the heavy mid-January snow into a quaint café a few blocks from the airport. All of the time he's spent in Italy, Logan found himself enjoying the language as he ordered a small coffee in (albeit rather clumsy) Italian.

        The café carried a mellow atmosphere, with a guest tucked away in a far corner skillfully playing the piano. The lights were fairy-like and dim, and with plush pillows and chairs, it felt like home. Logan took his coffee to an empty table, and pulled out the battered map one more time. Venice was the last city Patton had planned for, and Logan was faced with the drudgery of home life staring him in the eyes blankly. 

        As much as he had wished for Patton's cheerful presence on this trip, Europe had become a healing experience for Logan, and he wasn't looking forward to leaving. Instead, Logan focused on the moment, and sipped his coffee slowly as the pianist started to shift songs.

        "Forse la mia canzone non è abbastanza felice ma io, lo vedo prendere il volo con i fiocchi di neve sopra di me." The voice was warm and rich, full of a vibrant tone that Logan could only call familiar.

        Half way into the first verse, Logan could hear the man shift into English. "And maybe I'll see you again when it's snowing in Venice. And I will be on my way home." Several heads had turned to catch a glimpse of the singer, but most simply nodded along, accustomed to these types of performances happening. 

        Logan stood, and made his way to the piano as the man sang on, "And see you in London or maybe in Paris. Berlin will be waiting, and so will be Rome," Logan knew this song. Had the words stitched into his heart and brain, knew the notes by memory. "And maybe I'll see you again when it's snowing in Venice. And I will be on my way home." The singer paid no attention to Logan, eyes closed in thought as he played. 

        "Oh la Venezia, mi fa cosi bene." Logan sang along quietly, sitting down nearby the piano. "Esco ogni sera, e vado a ballare." The pianist lowered his voice to raise Logan's, eyes still closed as he followed the tune. "Che ben atmosfera, che bellissima neve. Non ce proprio niente," the singer opened his eyes, and caught Logan's eye. He paused, hands floating atop the keys.

        Logan finished the phrase, "....Che mi posso mancare..." The two stared at each other a long time. There was something familiar about the other, but the two had never met before. The café had gone quiet, and whispered murmurs were floating around.

        Before Logan could even say a word, the stranger spoke. "...Virgil?"

                                                        •••

        The air was crisp and sharp, the heavy snow from before lightening into a gentle flurry. The two men sat together outside at the edge of a fountain, now frozen over and still.

        The pianist apologized for earlier, his suave, confident movements now awkward and nervous. "I hope I didn't startle you with what I said, you looked so much like someone I used to know." His voice was muffled from the heavy scarf around his neck.

        Logan waved him down, "It's alright, of all the things I've have to deal with on this excursion of mine so far, I would say this is the least unpleasant. Dare I even say, interesting. You speak two languages?"

        "Three," He mumbled. "I grew up in Spain and moved to Italy a few years ago. I've picked up what I can from the locals, and now it's my home."

        "Where did you learn English from?" Logan asked.

        The man sighed, and pulled down his scarf. "From him. Virgil." he clarified. "We met after I moved here, he was a college foreign exchange student from the United States. He spent two years here in Italy, and I found myself entertained with his language that I only knew bits and pieces of."

        "Eventually," he said, "I took an English class at a small college here, and the rest is history." His breath made small puffs of smoke rise up into the air, and his cheeks a rosy pink.

        "That's incredible." Logan said, watching his own breath lift into the breeze. "The only Italian I know is by ear, and even that is limited to a semester at best."

        They sat in silence for a while. "I never got your name."

        "I'm Roman. You?"

        "Logan. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

                                                        •••

        The two chatted for some time, until the sun started to reach for the horizon with its orange hues. Logan learned several things about Roman in that time: he moved to Italy to become a performer, he dated Virgil during their second year together but separated when Virgil had to return to the U.S., the two no longer spoke, and Roman was always wondering how he was doing back home.

        Logan told Roman plenty about himself: how his husband had planned the trip, about Patton's terminal illness and passing, how much he enjoyed having someone to share his grief with. When the tears came, and after so long of holding them back you'd think this would have happened sooner, Roman simply pulled a crumpled tissue out of his pocket, and gave him a side hug.

        "I think you know where you're supposed to be," Roman said. "And it's not here."

        From there, it was a simple exchanging of numbers and a short cab to the airport.

        Upon returning to the States, Logan bought the first calling card he could find and dialed Roman's number with an unsteady hand. "Hello? This is Logan."

        "Missing me already?" The voice teased. Logan sighed with relief, and chuckled. "I bet you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? I'm only testing my card." He hailed a cab from the airport parking lot. "When did you say you could visit?"

        "March uh....shoot, what's that number? After the twelve? I can't ever say it right."

        "Thirteenth?"

        "Yes, that one! March one-three." He quipped.

        Logan smiled, "I don't know if I'll have my house clean by then, it's been empty for some time now. I wouldn't be surprised to find it over run with dust bunnies by now."

        Roman laughed loudly into the receiver, and Logan found himself remembering Patton's laugh within it; rich and full of life. "Please, a few dust bunnies is nothing compared to a good duster and enough time."

        "I guess you'll just have to come and see for yourself." Logan opened the door to the cab and pulled out his suitcase, staring up at the empty house. The paint was cracked in a few places, and the mailbox was overflowing with letters.

        The inside was perfectly persevered under a heavy layer of dust, and each room had a vast empty feeling to them; a need to be filled.

        "We've got our work cut out for us here, Roman." Logan set down his suitcase on the kitchen tables, and he yanked the dusty curtains open, propping his phone under his ear.

        "Oh, we'll manage. I better I can dust faster than you can, Abejita." 

        Roman laughed again, and Logan watched the bits of dust fall to the floor and on the sink, pilling even further. But the mountain of dust was a more welcomed sight than Logan's own grief, which felt small next to Roman's voice.

        He looked out the window. Patton's ash tree was much more than a sprout now. It was tall and thin, with wispy branches and a few vibrant, green leaves.

        A bird was singing. The sun was out. Roman rambled in his ear, and Logan felt at ease.

        "I'm so excited to visit America, I've never been there before! Florida must be beautiful abejita, I've seen pictures of your palm trees and wide beaches, and of flowers and animals..."

        "Yes, yes." Logan replied, but he was barely paying attention anymore. He closed his eyes, and hummed to himself.

        "It's home."

[justfor2am]

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