#let us not speak on the fragility and failure of these wips. let us just weep by their coffins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

91percentpynch · 4 years ago

Text

lonely heart - kevaaron au pt 4

oh look it‘s me, coming out of my dark hole to make you suffer with a super sad chapter with a nasty cliffhanger:) so get your tissues ready and enjoy!! okay first of all sorry that i didn‘t update this in a g e s and that it‘s rather short and for the cliffhanger, but i‘ll try to update it more regularly now:)

check this out for the other parts:)

trigger warnings: drug abuse, mention of suicide, mention of mental health issues, very sad aaron, mention of blood

“You were too good for me”, Aaron whispered into the void. “You were way too fucking good for me. You made me a better man. And I fucked up”

Aaron got up as he felt the tears burning in his eyes. He knew he wouldn‘t be able to sleep alone tonight. Like every single goddamn night since he left Kevin. Like every single goddamn night since he made the biggest mistake of his life.

„Taylor?“, the blonde haired boy murmered, „You up?“

„Babe, you know I‘m up. My girlfriend lives three states away, we talk every single day at the same time as you call your man. Not that I would be able to sleep when you call him, cause a) i love Day and b) you‘re always sad and high and end up in my room anygays, so did he take the phone darling?“

Taylor was Aaron‘s roommate and the closest thing he had to a best friend. She had been there for him every single day, cuddled him, held him while he cried and dried his tears afterwards. And Aaron did the same when she misssed her girlfriend too much.

„You do realize he is not my man anymore, I fucked that up. Big time. He did actually take the phone just to tell me to fuck off and stop calling“

„You could always go over there and say it in his pretty face. Didn’t say you can’t come over did he?Pro point: Might lead to making out“, Taylor said while taking him in her arms. „Plus another pro point: you‘d get sober again. And you‘re less moody. No offense but a Kevin-less Aaron is hardly managable, like you‘re either a whiny little bitch or you‘ll give me the death glare of the cenutry. Legit worse than Andrew‘s and I called him a cute little baby boo once when I was drunk and he almost stabbed me right there with a look on his face like I just murdered Neil in front of him“

„Tay, I take that as a compliment. And we both know Kevin’s a bit of a dumbass so he did not exactly tell me Not To Come over just stopp calling. Anyways I don‘t even know where he lives. And stop talking about me getting high, you do the same shit“

„Yeah but I know my limits and I have not the same history as you. And for the i DoN‘t EvEn KnOwS wHeRe He LiVeS, phone number. Now“

„O- okay“, Aaron said and told her Kevin‘s phone number while Taylor calmingly stroked his back.

„Neat, got him“, Taylor said after a while. „He‘s with the scary big dude and his adorable little boyfriend I think? I have their address right here, I think we‘re gonna visit them tomorrow cause it‘s like 4 am right now and we don‘t wanna rob him his beauty sleep plus we don‘t want to wake the scary big dude. And I‘m pretty sure the adorable small golden retriver boy could and would stab us“

„Did you just stalk my ex and located his phone at 4 am like fucking Garcias in Criminal Minds?“, Aaron said confused.

„Anything for you big guy. And as I said I miss Day‘s pretty face, preferably in your pretty face so you shut the fuck up about how stressed and depressed and lonely you are.“, Taylor chuckled as Aaron looked at her shocked.

„Well I miss Casey, preferable in your face so YOU shut up“, Aaron was never as good in witty remarks as his brother. Especially high Aaron.

„Babe I think it‘s time for you to go to bed, you‘re not fun when you‘re sad, high and tired. Come here, let me cuddle you, while you whiney little bitch sleep“

Aaron slowly went over to Taylor and into her loving arms, laying down, trying to fall asleep.

After a long while aaron drifted into sleep, just to be greeted by familiar smaragd eyes. In his dream Kevin and he never broke up. Kevin was on top of him, his hands gently discovered Aaron‘s body, touching him as if he was sacred, something to worship. Kevin‘s lips were at Aaron‘s ear whispering sweet nothingness. Aaron‘s hips moved against Kevin‘s loving touch. „Stress release“ Kevin called these holy moments in dawn. „Highlight of my day“ Aaron called them.

The dream was as beautiful as it was cruel. It was as if his body, his mind were as much refusing as able to believe that Kevin was gone. It was his own fault, Aaron knew it. But the ever present voice of his mother, disapproving and disgusting, in his head was just too much for him to handle. He thought - foolish as Aaron was - that the pain of living without Kevin would be better, less cruel, less painful. But he never knew real love and therefore never experienced its lost. Until that faitful day. Until Kevin took his bags and left.

Aaron was used to pain. The hot one after an extraordinarily vicious hit. The cold one when his mother died. The numbing one when the hunger was growing more and more unbareable. But nothing was even slightly as hard to handle as the loss of Kevin in his life.

Kevin was the first good thing Aaron had. He gave him a will to stay, to try, to give this stupid sport everything he got. And Exy turned into more mundane things like getting his eating routine under control or getting a more or less acceptable sleeping schedule. The dark days were still there, for both of them, and they would probably never leave them completely alone, but they got less. And when they did happen they would hold each other together.

Ever since he fucked up things with Kevin, Aaron had more and more dark days. The voice of his mother telling him he‘s a failure, the bored stare of his brother and Aaron convincing himself Andrew wouldn‘t even bet an eye if he died, the voice telling him the world would be a better place without him growing louder and lourder every passing day.

Logically he could say that the death of a single person wouldn‘t change much for the over all world population, expect maybe it‘s some kind of insane mademan dicator or someone important, but still. It made sense. All he did after all was fucking up, being a failure, never good enough, never perfect.

His lonely heart only screamed Kevin‘s name and he knew if Kevin didn‘t take him back, his life wouldn‘t make much sense anymore. Well he would definetly not tell Kevin that. He would not manipulate Kevin into loving him, because that wouldn‘t be much better than not having him at all.

Aaron woke up the next day around noon. He didn‘t really feel like getting up, like getting up was simply too much. But Aaron knew he had to. He didn‘t want to worry Taylor more than he already did. And it would end today. One way or the other.

So he got up, put on the first pair of black jeans he could find and the first sweater his hands could find. Ironically it was one of the sweaters Kevin gave him, on the third of december last year. It was one of Aaron‘s favourites as well.

„Ready for the big Day, small guy?“, Taylor said winking at him.

„Not really? What the fuck am I supposed to do there anyways?“, Aaron replied on his way to the coffee maker.

„Talk to him? Deliver one of those borderline cringe big speeches. Get im flowers. Break into his bedroom and say ‚Draw me like one of your french girls‘, naked of course“, Taylor laughed at the face Aaron made, listening to her suggestions.

„I think I like the big speech. I mean I‘m shit with words, but I‘m sure you want to help your boy getting ‚his man‘ back, right? Also what kind of flowers would you give someone you dumped cause the voice of your dead mother told you it was wrong and disgusting, which you never told him for obvious reasons?“

„Honey, you‘re so fucked up sometimes, I love you but you should go to a therapist or something. Also I‘d say sunflowers or roses? I don‘t speak flowers man, I‘m the tech nerd. Not the romantic one, the nerd. But we‘re gonna make a snazzy speech and you‘re gonna get your man back“

After their typical breakfast - if Aaron didn‘t forget to eat again - they sat down together on the living room floor, paper and pen ready, trying to write the world changing speech.

„Why is this so fucking hard? Why can I only tell him how much I love and miss him when I‘m high off my ass“, Aaron complained.

„What about you don‘t think about him that much. Just tell me what you love about him and then we write that down?“, Taylor suggested.

Aaron took a deep breathe and closed his eyes. „I loved him because he was the first one who saw me. Aaron Minyard. And not just the other Minyard, the lesser twin, the shadow of Andrew. He looked at me and somehow chose me. Even if he could have had everyone else. He chose me, even though I‘m not special. Kevin chose the failure when he could have had the first prize. He looked at me and saw something worth loving, worth keeping around. Hardly anyone could tell Andrew and me apart. But it took him less than a day to do so. Kevin is strong, so so strong and somehow chose the most fragile thing he could find, took it and made it worth soemthing. Kevin made me feel something. Not numbness. Not pain. Something warm and beautiful and living. He gave me a reason to stay alive. Kevin made my life bearable, he made my life beautiful. We were both broken and we would probably still be broken if we were together but we softened each other‘s edges. Kevin believed in me when no one else would. He knew how I felt, knew what I needed and when I needed it. Kev gave me love and safety and I kicked it with my feet. This man is like a god who fell for whatever reasons for a homeless man. And I know I don‘t deserve him but I also know I cannot live without him. And I know that I must tell him that before it‘s too late. If it‘s not too late already“

Taylor wipped a tear out of her eyes. „That‘s it. You tell him that and we‘ll get him back“, she said. „Can I hug you?“

„Sure you loser“

„Ah there is my boy“

They spent the rest of the afternoon writing down the speech, making edits here and there. In the end Aaron collected the pages and went to his room to change. He replaced Kevin‘s sweater with a simple black jumper, put on his Docs, got his keys and left.

Aaro did feel a little uncomfortable, stalking Kevin like that. But he knew this was his chance to fix things. This was his chance to get Kevin back, to make his life worth living again. Which to be fair was a bit selfish, but you are allowed to be a little selfish sometimes, aren‘t you?

Jean and Jeremy‘s apartment complex was a 15 minute drive away from the flat Aaron shared with his three roommates. Theirs was fanzier, obviously. After all Jeremy was a professional Exy player and Jean was some kind of semi famous artist or fashion maker or whatever. They could give Kevin the world. They could give him what he desereved. All Aaron had to offer was an apology and his love. No money. Not yet anyway. Just anxiety, depression and stress.

But if Kevin was willing to take his love, to give Aaron one more chance, he promised himself Aaron would make it count. He will tell Kevin how much he loves Kevin every single god damn day. Aaron will get therapy and work on his issues. Sober up and this time for good. He will do anything to be worth of god‘s love. Just that god in his case was a twenty two year old boy with black hair, forming soft waves at the end and a smile that will make the sun jealous. Eyes made out of smaragd. Lips so sinful and kissable.

Aaron sat down in front of the door, waiting for his courage to come back to him. He could do this. He would get his man back.

Hours passed, or maybe it were only minutes or seconds after all before someone came closer. Ever so slowly Aaron lifted his head, just to look in the ever so familiar green eyes, big with shock.

„You said to stop calling. You never mentioned face to face conversations“, Aaron said, his voice hoarse.

Kevin stared at him as if he was a ghost, a reminder of his past life, something he rather wanted to forget.

„Look I know I fucked up. I know I‘m not good enough for you. I know you deserve the world and I cannot give it to you. And when you look me in the eyes and tell me you don‘t feel anything for me anymore, no love or hate or affection or whatever humans feel, I will turn away right now and go and never come back. Never bother you again. But if you allow me to apologize, if you however decide to gieve me one last chance, I prepared this whole ass speech for you“

Aaron was sure they could hear his heart beating against his chest, roaring, screaming to return home. To return to Kevin where it belonged.

Kevin‘s eyes wandered to the floor, his fingers automatically closed around his left wrist. A nervous habit. Just another little part that makes Aaron‘s heart ache.

Slowly, almost painfully slowly, he lifted those unbelieveable beautiful eyes and met Aaron‘s golden ones. Kevin studied him and the world around them stopped.

Out of the corner of Aaron‘s eyes he could see Jean going still, his breathing too calm, too even. It‘s the same thing Andrew does when someone fucks with Josten. At least his death would be fast. Or slow. Whatever. Aaron didn‘t really care, without Kevin it wasn‘t worth anygthing anyway.

„Why“, Kevin said after what feels like forever, „Why would I forgive you? Why would I give you another chance? Why would you think you can come back here just to fuck me over again? Aaron I loved you, I really did. I always will. You were my first love and maybe, yeah maybe, my last one. But right now I can‘t. I just, I just can‘t. Please leave. Please leave me alone. For now. Maybe, one day we can talk about it. But right now I cannot handle the thought of you to leave me. To tell me all these beautiful lies, to cut me open and leave me to bleed out. I love you“, tears were running down Kevin‘s cheek. Tears Aaron one day, a long time ago, promised himself he would never let Kevin feel again. Pain. Sadness. Everything because of his failure, because of his weakness, because he‘s a fucking piece of shit.

„Thank you for giving me a reason to stay. Jusst remember that you were my light, my warmth, my happiness and I never stopped loving you. Never will. Please just be happy“, Aaron replied as he turned around to walk to his cars.

When he was sure he was out of ear shot, he let himself feel. Feel the pain. Feel the loneliness. Feel the numbness and the cold and the hatred. It was in that moment, that moment where he was alone and nothing more to lose, that he decided that it was enough. He would end it. End it tonight.

„Thank you“, he texted Taylor. „I‘m glad I didn‘t eat you in the womb“, he texted Andrew. „You were not so bad after all“, he sent to Neil. And lastly „Thank you for taking me under your wing“, to Nicky. They would understand. It would take them some time but in the end they would feel better. They would be happier without them. Because at the end of the day he caused them pain and wasn‘t really worth a thing.

So when he got in his car, tears running uncontrallably down his cheeks, he knew what he had to do.

#all for the game #the foxhole court #the raven king #the king’s men #kevin day #aaron minyard #ship: kevaaron #kevaaron

31 notes · View notes

ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years ago

Text

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic!

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block.

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that!

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn’t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

204 notes · View notes

barbex · 5 years ago

Text

I was tagged for a First Line thing by ?? @cullenlovesmen ? and more? I forgot but thank you that you all still think of me even though I so often don’t respond to your tag games @gremlinquisitor @lauraemoriarty @bexterrr @hollyand-writes @aban-asaara @natsora @theherocomplex @dafan7711 @pikapeppa @charlatron @imbiowaresbitch @adalhied-prime

Chapter 19 of Lyrium Skin:

"Could you give me hand, Fenris?" Merrill crouches at the edge of the cliff they've been scouring for the last three hours, leaning over the edge in what looks like an attempt to kill herself by crashing onto the wave breaking rocks far below.

Using this for my status report for the-WIP-project, let me give you a bit of a Making-of for this bit. I really like this start because of the scene setting in one sentence.

But I have some writerly ramblings...

I struggled (what else is new) to start this chapter. The last chapter was so very painful and emotional, I had no idea how to continue from there. But as always, the characters are a reflection of their writer and after weeks of chewing this over, I decided to lean into the avoidance. This bit here comes a little further down the page:

Ever since his breakdown in Anders' and Hawke's arms, after Anders had done the magical maintenance on his lyrium brands, the three of them have slept in Hawke's bed every night and he has woken up with Anders' arm wrapped around him and his nose buried in Hawke's neck on most mornings. It's a peaceful truce between them that he has not believed to be possible.

They haven't spoken about it, what it means and if it will lead to more but it has become a fragile little ritual. Every night, the three of them eat dinner together and then retreat to the library to read. Anders is always too restless and goes back into the basement to check his patients and at some point at night, Hawke and Fenris drag him back upstairs, make him clean himself, sometimes even bathe him together if he's too exhausted to do it himself. Fenris got him an orlesian toothbrush and it's one of the funniest things for Fenris to watch Marian and Anders struggle to brush their teeth with the unfamiliar tools. And then the three of them climb into bed together and quickly fall asleep as if they have done this forever.

He has no reference if this is a normal development for their fragile mutual acceptance and friendship but several crude remarks from Isabela has him suspect that it probably isn't. But he has never felt this safe in his life before.

Yes, that’s a whole lot of internal thoughts introspection to explain why I’m not writing “the morning after”. It feels a bit like cheating, to be honest. But I allow myself this cheating because Fenris truly knows jack shit about normal human relationships, Anders is a mess of PTSD and Hawke... Miss Do-not-talk-about-feelings isn’t exactly an expert on relationships either.

Now there is a question hidden in here somewhere why these three relationship failures speak so much to me but I’m not quite willing to explore that. Let’s just say, the morale of this story is:

When in doubt, lean into the characters.

#tag game #about writing #theWIPproject2020 #the-WIP-project

17 notes · View notes

amairawrites · 5 years ago

Note

⭐

I know most people who follow my tumblr came here because they read To Be Vulnerable.

So I’m going to talk about the story behind Fragile! You can go read it here.

It’s my least-read fic on AO3, currently the newest posted (I’m not counting chapter updates on TBV). But the abandoned WIP it came from is the oldest fic I wrote in the VLD fandom. Fragile was one of the early sections the fic, chronologically.

Stand By Me was always an ambitious project that I was never really going to finish – a full series rewrite, from the perspectives of Pidge and Shiro, completely abandoning the idea that this was ever supposed to be a child-appropriate show and diving straight into the very real effects of war on teenagers and young adults.

I, uh… clearly don’t do cutesy fluffy stories?

So, the basics: very slowburn eventual Keith/Pidge ship, left off at 36k words (some of which had been color-coded gray to mark it as no longer what I wanted), probably rated M or E for vaguely described awkward teenagers having their first time together and references to rubbing one out, and a whole lot of violence.

I adapted small bits of the show adapted to meet the tone or plot twists I had been planning. For example, when Ulaz first infiltrates the castle and flings Pidge across the hall, she collides with Keith, who cushions her fall, then gets back up to attack. In Stand By Me, he stays by her side and instead assumes a defensive pose over her to protect her.

A lot of it was working the song Stand By Me into the story as a thematic element as well as a way for the paladins to bond. Originally, Shiro sings it to Pidge when she’s stressed and upset and missing her family. Later, after he disappears, she finds Keith sitting in the observation deck (Did the castleship have one in the show? Who cares! You can do anything in fanfics!) singing the song to himself, and joins in.

I also jumped on the idea of the paladin bonds extending beyond paladin-lion to allow the paladins to connect to each other. It varied between characters, but the general idea covered sensing basic thoughts and emotions, as well as physical proximity and well-being.

Oh, and that everyone’s bayards could change shape with enough focus and a strong enough bond with their lion etc.

Ultimately, it shaped up to be a far more violent, raw, and emotional story than VLD was. I dropped it because I couldn’t figure out a satisfying ending after the major climax. I also decided a lot of what I had written earlier didn’t fit with what I was aiming for later, and that was a problem when I basically jumped around from start to finish and left huge gaps of plot development untouched. Then a lost of the plot points I was running with felt unsatisfying or downright bad, and then….

Yeah. I’m also a better writer now than I was when I started writing it.

And, if you’re still curious, I’m sharing another snippet of Stand By Me behind the cut. Feel free to message me with more questions about it, too!

Warnings for graphic violence in the first scene, and extremely mild sexual content between teenagers in the following scene.

Context: When Lotor’s crew encounters the paladins in the fanfic timeline’s equivalent to early s3 (Shiro is missing), it gets very violent very quickly. This is at the end of their third encounter, where Lotor is actually trying to kill them.

*****

“Keith! NO!” Pidge screams, spinning towards him.

His skin is split up the side, and she can’t tell where his blood ends and the red accents on his armor begin. The same red splatters up the blade of Lotor’s sword.

Time seems to slow as her bayard crackles to life. Lotor raises his arm for a finishing strike.

Lotor is a skilled, accomplished warrior. He could easily defeat opponents twice his size, one-handed and blindfolded. He has sent Pidge flying across hallways without any effort. In his eyes, she is not, and never has been, any threat to him.

Which is probably why, when Pidge lets out a feral screech and sprints at him, he barely gives her a second look, a flick of his sword.

A flick that somehow positions it perfectly for her to disarm him.

Keith meets her eyes and mouths some kind of protest.

She’s sure her mind has gone offline. Her body moves of its own accord. Distantly, she’s aware that the other Paladins are charging in behind her, and she knows they’re there, but they might as well be figments of her imagination, shades of reality that don’t matter. All sound is muffled, all thought ceases. She can’t do anything other than keep her eyes locked with Keith’s. She can’t hear anything other than his desperate, shaky breaths.

She can’t lose him, too.

The grappling hook of her bayard wraps around the blade and her hand yanks it back. Her head turns for a brief moment to track it as it skitters across the floor, as she crouches, scoops it up, and swings it upwards.

Through Lotor’s right thigh, opening his abdomen, and ending at a bone in his left shoulder.

His face is the textbook picture of shock, of surprise, mouth drawn open in a silent gasp, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, as though it was frozen in that position long before his own sword broke his skin.

Blood, purplish and hot, erupts out of his chest in spurts. Pidge relaxes her arm, nearly vomiting at the soft squelch his wound makes as she lets the sword drop.

Sound is back. Time is back. Everything is loud and fast and overwhelming and she’s going to be sick.

And Lotor falls forward, collapses onto her, leaks on her. Someone is shrieking, screaming, crying, and she doesn’t even realize it’s her until Hunk pulls the dying prince off and drops him to the floor. There are entrails on her thighs, and some sick part of her mind actually pauses to wonder if Galrans or Alteans have digestive systems configured like humans’ and maybe those are intestines?

Then, as if it’s not enough already, Lotor actually gurgles his final breaths, and Pidge tastes bile and acid in her throat, feels it in her nose, and – oh, she’s actually vomiting now.

She yanks her helmet off and scrambles over toward Keith, only for Hunk to grab her around the waist and pin her to his side.

“Hunk, let me go! Let me go! I have to – have to get to Keith. I have to protect Keith,” she half-sobs, her voice shrill and pinched. None of her kicks or punches have any effect, and his grip is starting to hurt even as his voice soothes, and she has no fight left in her anyway.

“It’s okay, Pidge. You already protected him. Lance and Allura got him, and he’s going to be okay.”

******

Lotor grins viciously at her, yellow eyes crinkling with joy at his handiwork.

Keith is dead.

He’s dead, and it’s her fault that she couldn’t stop Lotor in time. She cries out, lunges for him, but nothing she does can touch him. He’s too fast, too strong.

The walls start to curve and droop inwards and he just laughs over her.

Purple blood splatters out his chest.

Lotor hisses her name, her failure.

But it’s not Lotor anymore – it’s Shiro, and he’s dying on her bayard, and she’s killed him, she’s killed him, she’s a murderer.

“How could you?” he asks. Purple blood streams out of his mouth and lands on her face, and the droplets start to spread, consuming and erasing everything in their path.

He’s disintegrating outwards from his chest, and screaming at her, and she’s screaming at herself. The blood on her face is dripping onto her hands, staining them red and purple, and her skin turns black and dead.

He glares at her as she begs for him to stay, and she tries to claw at his shoulders but her hands are nothing more than bone now, and she can’t move. Then she can’t speak.

She can only watch as he vanishes, only listen as he tells her how she’s fallen, how she’s a monster, how she has failed.

Then she can’t hear, can’t feel, can’t…

“Pidge! Pidge! It’s just a dream!”

She lurches forward, gasping and coughing.

She’s in her bed, in someone’s arms. Arms that are rubbing up and down her back.

“It’s just a dream, Pidge,” Keith murmurs into her hair.

She bursts into tears at his voice, and he hugs her tight.

He’s alive. He’s here, done with his time in the healing pod, looking good as new. She doesn’t know how long she clings to his jacket, but he doesn’t complain.

“I… I was too late, and Lotor killed you,” she eventually chokes out, and he holds her tighter. “And… and then when I killed Lotor, it was actually Shiro.”

Saying it out loud brings on another burst of tears, and a third arm around her shoulders.

She whips around, at least as much as she can with Keith still squeezing her. The other three Paladins are in the room as well. Lance is next to her, his face the very portrait of brotherly concern, Hunk and Allura flanking him.

Right. Lance has sisters. He knows the sound of nightmare screams.

The smile on Allura’s lips is meant to be reassuring, but the concern creasing her brows ruins the effect and just makes her look bewildered. The waver in her voice doesn’t help either. “We came to let you know Keith was awake, but…”

The silence stretches into awkwardness, until Lance slides in behind her, all splayed limbs and smug smiles.

“We figured you’d get more use out of the handsomest pillow in the galaxy.”

Pidge giggles, despite herself, and Keith reaches past her to grab her pillow and whack Lance square in the face with it, finally smiling at his muffled “Hey!”

“Pidge,” Allura begins again, “will you be alright?”

Lance’s arms stretch out to her, his smile dropping from smug into sweet, and Pidge scoots up to him, letting him fold her in his embrace.

“I got you, Pidgita,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and it’s almost like having Matt here, and the tears well up again.

Keith snuggles up on her other side, and it’s almost like having Shiro there, and she finally cracks out, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Well, the beds weren’t designed to fit five Paladins, but…” Allura trails off, her tone all mischief. She and Hunk share a look before they both shrug and jump onto the bed anyway, to the immediate protests of the three under them. They crush their victims for a few ticks before Hunk peels off the pile and starts pushing the mess on the floor toward the walls.

“I’ll just go grab my mattress, then.”

It takes a few moments for his words to register, what with the distraction of Lance’s fingers combing her hair.

“Wait, really?”

He shrugs again, as if it’s obvious. “Well, yeah. I mean, you’re already settled in, and Allura and I won’t fit on your bed too.”

They take up their vigil on the floor, mattress framed by all Pidge’s tech clutter, and she wants to thank them all for being so supportive, but the words that exit her mouth are, “You know, Lance, you’d have much better luck with the ladies if you were sweet like this rather than trying to be suave.”

“See if I come comfort you next time you have a nightmare,” he says with an exaggerated pout, but pulls her closer anyway.

Objectively, the pile on her bed can’t be comfortable for anyone except maybe Keith, who is curled up with his head resting on her chest. But the security everyone seems to get from each other, judging by their contented sighs as they settle in to sleep, overrides any anticipated aches and pains.

******

Pidge drifts into consciousness somewhere in the late morning. Her room is still dim, and silent aside from the soft sighs Keith makes as he sleeps next to her. At some point, the others must have returned to their own rooms, or got up to go about their day.

Slowly, she eases out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pads over to her bathroom. Her eyes burn and her face feels sticky and gross and the rest of her body has that odd sweat funk, and nothing sounds as good as a nice, hot shower.

She had taken it for granted, when she first got here, that there were giant showers in all the rooms and they used regular hot water. Over time, after eating nothing but goo for weeks on end and drinking what smells like moldy hot dog water entirely too often, she’s gained a new appreciation for the fact that Alteans don’t clean themselves with dust baths or wash in undiluted ammonia or something else equally unappealing.

However, not even the spray of water feels that great right now, as it stings against the previous night’s dried tears and sears into the raw skin of her cheeks.

Pidge blinks rapidly, but rather than clearing away the old tears, she only succeeds in bringing on a wave of new ones. A high, keening wail tears itself from her throat, bringing with it some kind of directionless grief.

Sliding down the wall of the shower, she hugs her knees to her chest and gasps, trying in vain not to cry.

“Pidge?” Keith, his voice still a sleepy rasp, pokes his head past the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”

She tries to answer, but only manages an unintelligible series of screeches and cries, her throat simultaneously weak and tight. A moment later, Keith’s face makes its appearance at the edge of the sliding shower door. She tucks her arms and legs closer around her.

“Hey, can I come in?”

This time, Pidge does manage to croak out a word. “Yeah.”

He leans in, hissing when the water strikes his shirt. “Fuck, that stings. Ugh. Give me a second.”

Pidge nods, and watches mutely as he pulls his shirt and jeans off, movements stiff and slow, far from his usual fluid grace. Now he’s just as naked as she is, and her eyes track to the jagged red scar tracing a line from his right thigh to his right armpit.

Raising an eyebrow, Keith sits across from her, angling his body so none of the water sprays directly onto the new skin, pulling his left leg in to hide behind. “Like what you see?”

Her face flushes, and she’s sure it’s just as pink as his scar is red. “Does it hurt?” She reaches towards his waist, before catching herself, flushing even deeper and snapping her hand back to her lap. “Sorry. I mean, I know it can’t feel that great, even with the healing pods, and… sorry. I should have been quicker to stop him.”

Keith scoots closer, grabs her hand, and pulls it to his chest. Neither of them breathe as he drags her fingertips down the line, to his ribs and waist and pelvis and thigh. His skin is so soft, taut against the muscle underneath it, and her blush probably covers every inch of her body now.

“It’s a little raw, and aches like a bruise,” he suddenly answers, making her jump and twitch back. His lips quirk up into a smirk and he twines his hand with hers. “Thank you, Pidge.”

“It’s Katie,” she blurts out. His eyebrow arches again. Shit, she’s blushing even harder now. “My real name is Katie.”

“I gathered, but….”

Her mouth works faster than her brain, and every word makes her want to die of embarrassment. “I mean, we’re sitting here in the shower, completely naked. It doesn’t really make sense if you don’t know my real name.”

“Sure, Katie,” he answers, smiling. “I already knew.”

“Oh.”

They keep their eyes locked on each other’s face as much as possible, occasionally dropping their stare downward, until it’s too much for Pidge, and she uncurls and flings her arms and legs out.

“Look! Just look! Holy shit, just get it over with!”

His eyes go wide and jaw falls slack. He bypasses pink entirely, instantly flushing a deep red all the way down to his sternum, even while his gaze roves over every inch of her. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he looks away.

“Well?” she demands.

“You’re… very pretty, Pidge,” he murmurs, hunching his shoulders up.

She giggles, hating the sound, but she can’t fight the grin on her face. She pulls her limbs back, sitting in a normal cross-legged position, and rakes her wet hair away from her face. Keith is still red all over, hunching so far that his face is half hidden behind his left leg.

Pidge looks him up and down. “Your turn?”

“Nooo, no please.”

“You’ll have to stand up eventually, you know.”

He doesn’t respond, only pulling his legs closer and folding them in front of his – oh. Ohhhh.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Keith.”

He grumbles some garbled string of words she can’t quite pick up on over the sound of the shower.

“Besides,” she continues with a grin and a nod towards his crotch, “he’s got good taste.”

“Oh my god.” Keith draws his arms around his knees and hides his face entirely. His blush spreads to his elbows.

She sighs. “At least move over so I can take my shower.”

“I – you know, fine. Here, look.”

He stands, slowly, his right side stiff and tense, and holds his arms out, turning in a circle for her.

He’s all muscle, lean and slim and dangerous. The defined V of the middle of his back is mirrored at the bottom of his abs. A small patch of fine hair trails down the middle of his chest, picking up again just below his navel and down to his crotch. The spray from the shower splashes off his shoulders and back as he stops and drops his arms, framing him with an ethereal mist. His hair is plastered to his face and neck, his mouth pressed into a line as he waits for her to speak.

Her eyes drift from head to toe and back.

He is gorgeous. How has she never noticed before now?

“Wow,” Pidge breathes, then immediately wants to smack herself for sounding like some dazed airhead – and feeling like one, too. She rises to her feet and sweeps his hair away from his forehead. “To answer your earlier question, yes, I like what I see.”

Keith half-gurgles, half-whines, hiding his face in his left hand, as his right goes to shield his groin. He and Pidge both let out nervous giggles. She slides by him, blushing so hard her head spins as her bare thigh brushes against his.

“Pidge!” he squeaks.

“Sorry, sorry. Here,” she grumbles, leaning out of the shower and grabbing an extra washcloth, “you can use my stuff.”

They retreat to opposite ends of the shower, facing away from each other, and hastily clean themselves.

“Hey Pidge? Can you get my shoulder? I can’t quite reach it.”

She turns back around, and before she can oblige, her eye catches on a series of small, puckered scars next to his left hipbone. Because curiosity has been known to override all her other senses, including common sense, she reaches out and brushes her fingers over them.

Keith freezes.

Slowly, his hand peels hers off of his hip. No other part of him moves.

He’s trembling.

“Keith?” Pidge lifts her eyes to his, only to be met with the most fearful expression she’s ever seen. “What happened?”

After a few deep breaths, he lets out a shuddering sigh and droops slightly, looking so ashamed that Pidge has to wonder if they’re self-inflicted. Or maybe he ran with a bad crowd, or –

“Cigarette burns from my foster mom, when she was drunk. My… fourth or fifth home, I think. The last home.”

Her mind short-circuits and her eyes jerk back to the scars. There are at least a dozen, some larger than others. She pulls her hand free from his and places her palm over the marred skin, holding steady even though he shivers and flinches away. She doesn’t miss his sharp gasp when she places her other hand on his right hip.

He’s so tightly wound, so rigid and scared, and she wracks her brain for the right words, coming up empty.

“There’s nothing I can say to make it better, is there,” she finally sighs.

Keith’s eyebrows raise slightly.

Pidge curls her fingers into his hips and mutters, “I suppose she’s lucky I’m not on Earth, because I might just kill her for hurting you.”

His eyebrows raise straight to his hairline.

“Shiro almost did.”

“What?”

“I mean, he didn’t, but he was so angry. He somehow got custody of me instead, even though he’s not an actual foster parent, and he was going to officially help emancipate me after he got back from Kerberos, but…”

She takes a step closer to him, and he draws her into a loose hug, as little of their bare skin touching as possible for it to still count as an embrace.

He brushes his hand along her left shoulder. “What’s this?”

Pidge knows what exactly he’s looking at without having to ask for clarification, the circle of odd spots that aren’t freckles but dust her skin like them. “Bullies in middle school. They thought it would be funny to stick the nerd with a bunch of mechanical pencils.”

She feels rather than hears his growl.

Then Keith dips his head down and presses his mouth to those little scars and her brain short-circuits for an entirely new reason. Her hands grip his hips even tighter, keeping him in place as she twists forward to tuck her head against his collarbone. The breathy sigh that earns her, hot against her neck, sends a rush of adrenaline straight to her chest.

Which means it’s the perfect time for her door’s comm to buzz. They jolt apart as though zapped.

“Pidge, it’s Allura. I wanted to see if you and Keith are awake yet,” comes the muffled voice from her bedroom comm speaker.

She quickly holds a finger to her lips and Keith nods. “Redirect comms to bathroom,” she states, turning to face the shower door, and a speaker next to it chimes in response. “Hey Allura, I’m just showering. We’ll be out soon.”

“Oh! Sorry, Pidge. Take your time. Is Keith alright?”

“Will do, thanks. He’s doing well, just a bit stiff.”

Keith chokes behind her, and she has to stifle her own laughter as she realizes the other way that answer could be interpreted.

Fortunately, Allura is oblivious to Earth slang. “I should have figured. He had quite a bit of damage to the underlying muscles. Even with the sleeping pod, it’ll take some time for them to be back to normal. Well, when you’re done, we have some data from Lotor’s ship that needs analysis.”

“I’ll be right on it. See you in a bit.” She waits a moment, then, “Reset comms to bedroom.”

After a beat, Pidge half-turns and very, very openly checks out Keith. “Just a bit stiff.”

“Oh my god, Pidge,” he groans.

She bursts into laughter, nearly cackling, as she quickly scrubs his shoulder. “I’m going to go dry off your shirt, and you can take your time finishing up.”

“Take my… what?”

Her eyes flick down again. “Just make sure it all gets down the drain.”

“Pidge!” Keith yelps, flushing bright red again.

She just grins and steps out of the shower.

Ten minutes later, after his shirt has been wrapped up in a towel and wrung enough that it’s only barely damp, Keith emerges from the bathroom.

“You’re terrible,” he says, scowling at her, wearing only a towel around his waist. He slightly purses his lips as he studies her sweatshirt. “That’s getting a bit worn out.”

“And too small,” Pidge grouses. “But I don’t have anything else.”

She towels off her hair, then does the same to Keith, and they quickly get dressed.

The look on Lance’s face as he sees them both exit her room together, hair equally damp, is so priceless that Pidge can’t help but start giggling again.

Keith just curses under his breath.

“Aw, don’t worry Keith,” she purrs, “I promise to do my level best not to think of it during our next group memory exercise.”

“Pidge!”

He’s bright red again, and looking more embarrassed than he was in the shower, but a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

She can’t even remember why she had been so upset.

*****

#fragile #fanfic #WIP graveyard #Voltron legendary defender

2 notes · View notes