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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years ago

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Mind of a Child

Prompt: Ok so to make for all the Roman Angst I've requested heres some minor angst/fluff. Again I apologise for all the Roman Angst I've been requesting. Prompt: Roman was a mess. You see there's something that happens to sides if they reach a breaking point that they can't handle. Logan was lucky he finally realized it was time to talk about his feelings and look after himself after the wedding but Roman didn't. So after he sinks out from that awful conversation he finds himself beginning to feel really dizzy and as if he's getting younger and smaller. The next morning when Patton and Janus go to find Roman and comfort him they don't expect to see a five year old curled up in an oversized prince costume terrified to death. So there's only one solution to show how much all the sides value and care for their little Prince, help him destress and look after himself. - meltheromanstan

Fluff and angst time, m'dudes

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, but it all gets cuddled better

Pairings: found family ain't going anywhere

Word Count: 6047

He wants to go back to the way it was.

He just wants to go back.

He just wants to be loved again.

He wants to go back to the way it was.

Roman sinks out and lands hard in his room, bashing his knee against the wall as he crumples to the floor. His hair protests as he tangles his hands in the strands and yanks, trying to think. He lies on the ground, frantically breathing but his lungs won’t inflate properly and his nose starts to burn. He feels nauseous. Is he sick? He turns on his back and it goes away. Humming. You’re supposed to hum when you feel like this. He starts humming something, some parody song that’s stuck in his head. The twitching in his gullet starts to recede only to be replaced by dizziness. Why is he dizzy? He’s on the floor.

His hands flop limply out to the side as he turns back and forth, trying to make sure that he can breathe, that it won’t hurt, what’s happening to him?

A small voice that sounds like a demented version of Remus—a more demented version of Remus—whispers that he deserves this.

But Roman doesn’t know anything anymore and he’s so tired and he just wants things to go back to the way they were.

When there wasn’t so much to worry about aside from making sure Thomas was happy and that he could dream.

When all he had to think about was not hurting Thomas with his dreams and making them good dreams.

When heroes were good and villains were bad and that was it.

He just wants to go back.

He just wants to be loved again.

The lights in his room are too bright. It hurts to keep looking up. So he won’t. He closes his eyes and the dizziness abates, just slightly. He lies on the floor, the cool wood pressing into his back. He lets his head flop from one side to the other. It’s impossible to get comfortable. It’s so loud. It’s so much. He wants someone here with him. He just wants to be told it’s okay. But it isn’t okay. It hasn’t been okay for a very long time.

He wants it to be okay again.

————————

The Mindscape is quiet. Hardly anyone makes a noise as they move about the rooms, some still too on edge to start making peace, some too nervous about sparking another disaster, some too confused to try and navigate the minefield they’ve all found themselves in.

But everything has to start somewhere.

Patton and Janus are the only two on…pretty much alright terms when the morning comes. Virgil is locked in his room. Remus’s brand of chaos is nothing helpful right now. So the two of them take a deep breath and go try to find Roman.

Patton took far too long to put the words to it and Janus would never admit it, but when Roman isn’t around, or when he’s not talking, it’s much harder to cut through the monotony of silence. For better or worse, the prince is impossible to look away from, impossible to ignore. And yes, maybe that has to do in part with how Creativity and the Mindscape work together, not to mention the manifestation of the Sides, but Roman is Roman. And if they’re going to start making any progress on getting back on their feet and getting back to normal, they need to get Roman back.

Patton probably thought that Roman would be easy to apologize to. Not just because it’s worked in the past—although Janus would hiss if he said that wasn’t part of it—but because he knows he’s the one who messed up. Roman likes sincerity, Patton knows what things went wrong, he knows he’s at fault here, a lot, and it won’t be as easy as one apology and everything will be fixed, but it would be a good start.

Janus knows Roman. For better or worse, he knows Roman. Knows what buttons to push, knows when not to push them—or so he thought—and knows that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to do what Patton can’t. Cite the good of the others, the good of Thomas, possibly even the good of Roman if he’s that stubborn. Or he’s a convenient punching bag if Roman needs to lash out before he can start putting the pieces back together if it needs to come to that.

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is Patton knocks lightly on the door and asks if Roman would let them come in. There’s no response. Janus speaks up, says he knows Roman is in there, please, they do just want to talk. Patton sets his hand on the door, just to rest there, maybe coax Roman to come to open it, when it swings open.

Their mouths run dry as it opens fully to reveal Roman’s costume on the floor in a heap.

And no Roman.

Janus muffles a curse and turns in a swirl of black fabric as Patton rushes inside, dropping to his knees by the abandoned costume and searching frantically for any sign of Roman.

What he finds makes him gasp.

Janus whirls around as quickly as he’d turned away to see Patton there, kneeling on the ground next to a tiny child clutching Roman’s sash like a red blanket.

“H-hey, kiddo,” Patton says carefully, trying to regain his composure, “what are you doing here?”

The child shuffles. “It’s my room.”

“This is Roman’s room,” Patton says as Janus carefully closes the door.

The child nods, rubbing the sash across his chin. Patton’s brows furrow as he watches the child’s gaze dart to Janus and back, then to Patton’s hands on his knees. He looks back up at Patton and clutches the sash tighter.

“Do you know where Roman is, kiddo?” The child nods but doesn’t make eye contact. “Can you tell me where?”

The child nods again but doesn’t say anything. The tip of Janus’s tongue starts to tingle. His eyes widen and he starts to walk over, raising his hands when the child’s gaze snaps to him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, crouching down to make himself a little smaller, “I’m just coming over to you.”

The child stays very still as Janus crouches down beside Patton. Janus tilts his head back and forth as he considers the way the child clings to the sash, the way he seems to be somewhat engulfed in the remains of the costume, and the way he keeps looking fearfully between Janus and Patton.

“…Roman?”

Roman’s gaze turns to him and Janus could cry.

“Wait—Roman?” Patton gasps and his hands fly to cover his mouth. “Oh, kiddo, what happened? Are you okay?”

“Don’t overwhelm him,” Janus warns under his breath as they watch poor Roman flinch a little. Patton takes a deep breath and softens his voice.

“Hey, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to scare you. We won’t hurt you, we promise.”

Roman’s grip on the sash doesn’t waver but his eyes lose a little bit of their frightful sheen. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Janus takes off his glove, ignoring Patton’s look and—perhaps—the fact that Roman might not remember what this means. “I promise too.”

Roman looks back and forth between them. “…okay.”

Patton smiles and lets out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. He does have to restrain himself from reaching and pulling the cute little prince into his lap but Roman’s normally defined face is now all chubby cheeks and puppy dog eyes and—no. No.

“Are you okay, kiddo,” he asks instead, still careful to keep his voice soft, “are you hurt at all?”

Roman shakes his head, still clutching the sash.

“What about in here,” Janus asks, laying his hand on his head, then his chest, “or here?”

Before Roman can answer, however, his stomach growls loudly. Janus chuckles.

“That’s enough of an answer for me. Shall we get you something to eat, little prince?”

Roman shakes his head so hard he almost knocks himself over. “Not a prince!”

They both freeze.

Not…not a prince?

Roman is The Prince. He’s Princey. The Prince of Thomas’s Dreams.

“What do you mean, ‘not a prince,’ kiddo?”

“Not a prince,” Roman insists, staring at the ground, “couldn’t—I couldn’t be a prince so…I had to start over.”

Something tugs at a dark place in their chests. Patton glances at Janus. Janus shakes his head slowly.

“Okay, then, Roman,” he says instead, “but can we get you something to eat?”

Roman glances around at the mess of the costume around him. “Clothes?”

“I’m sure someone as creative as you can make as many clothes as you like,” Janus smiles, watching carefully to see Roman’s reaction.

Roman looks at Patton. “What do I make?”

Patton’s smile slips a bit. “Whatever you want, kiddo.”

Roman frowns. “But what do I make?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to tell me.”

Oh. Oh, dear. Patton’s smile fades, replaced with a slowly growing awareness of what’s going on. “You don’t need my permission, kiddo,” he says firmly, leaning down a little so Roman’s eye level is the same as his, “you are allowed to make what you want to make. What makes you happy.”

“What is that?”

Patton is going to cry.

“Why don’t you make what you think would be the most comfortable,” Janus tries, shooting a glance at Patton and laying a hand on his arm, “maybe to go downstairs and get something to eat in?”

Roman thinks for a moment, then he rubs the sash against his cheek and a t-shirt and shorts appear. But they aren’t red. They’re just grey. Janus smiles and stands.

“There you go,” he says, “well done.”

And oh, if the way Roman’s head jerks up in a quick moment of shameless eagerness doesn’t make that smile a little more sincere. He holds out a hand to the little one and Roman takes it, standing slowly as they begin to lead him out of his room.

“What would you like to eat,” Patton asks as they get Roman sat down, “how hungry are you?”

“What can I have?”

“Well,” Patton says as he starts to open and close cabinets, “we’ve got pasta if you want a full dinner, we’ve got crackers, cereal, pretzels, fruit, quite a lot of options.”

“…can I have pretzels, please?”

“One bowl of pretzels coming right up!”

Janus sits next to him as Roman begins to eat the pretzels. Patton comes to join them, sitting a little further away as to not crowd the poor kiddo. He exchanges a look with Janus as Roman continues to eat.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Janus looks up just as Virgil and Logan come down into the living room, talking between themselves. They trail off as they notice Janus staring at them.

“Can we help you?” Then Virgil’s eyes land on Roman. “Holy—“

He slaps a hand over his mouth and glares at Janus. Janus raises an eyebrow and slowly lets him go.

“Rude.”

“But necessary,” Janus says, folding his hands and drawing himself up. Virgil gives him a strange look but refocuses on Roman.

“So…who’s the kid?”

“I believe,” Logan says softly, the way Roman hasn’t looked up at them once and instead continues to eat pretzels almost mechanically not escaping him, “this is Roman.”

At the mention of his name, Roman looks up slowly, meeting Logan’s gaze with more than enough trepidation to set Virgil’s fingers buzzing. Logan tilts his head and waves a little. Roman just stares at him.

“Hello, Roman,” Logan says, still in that very soft voice, “it’s good to see you.”

Roman waves back. Then he glances down at the bowl of pretzels and twists his hands together.

“Are you full, kiddo?” Patton takes the bowl when Roman nods. “Good. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

Roman glances around, shifting a little in his grey t-shirt. “Can I go back to my room now?”

“Of course you can,” Janus says, “would you like one of us to come with you?”

Roman shakes his head quickly. A little too quickly. But he’s been given permission to leave so he scoots off the chair and all but scrambles up the stairs. Logan watches him go, concern written over his features. Virgil waits to hear the soft click of his door shutting before rounding on the others.

“Why the hell is Princey a child?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Patton sighs, stretching a little and rubbing his face, “Janus and I just went up to try and talk to him and found him like that.”

“So it didn’t happen after the wedding?”

They wince and Virgil pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I may not have been there, but I know what happened. And no,” he says, raising his voice a little when both Patton and Janus try to say something, “I’m not interested in your excuses. But if you’re gonna try and tell me you don’t think it’s related I will throw a chair at your head.”

Patton bows his head, twisting his hands together in his lap as shame and guilt color his face. “He…he said something.”

“What did he say?”

“That he couldn’t be a prince,” Janus finishes, looking at the table, “and that he had to start over.”

Fuck.

“A-and he felt like he needed my permission for…everything,” Patton continues, “and Virgil, he looked so scared.”

“Of course he did.”

They turn to look at Logan, still staring up the stairs with gentle concern on his features. Virgil pokes his arm when he doesn’t continue right away.

“Roman’s sudden de-aging is likely due to stress,” he explains, looking back at them, “and thus the initial mindset he had when he regained consciousness as a child was fear. Fear of not knowing what to do or of doing something wrong.”

Patton gulps. Virgil shoots him a soft look and he nods slowly. “I…we were going to talk to him. We…I have been putting pressure on Roman since…it’s been a long time.”

“I think we all have.” Virgil’s gaze darts to Janus who is still all drawn up and inspecting his glove. “And you can turn that off, please.”

Janus sighs and Logan has to blink at how much his character shifts. Janus tugs nervously on his glove and straightens his hat.

“Roman is incredibly fragile right now and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Keeping that off around him is probably a good start.”

“We will need to ask Roman how much he remembers.” Logan adjusts his tie. “What he does remember will dictate how we need to help him.”

“Praise and reassurance.”

Logan raises an eyebrow at Janus who shuffles under his gaze.

“Praise and reassurance,” he repeats, tugging on his glove again, “he…he likes having a sense of structure. To know he’s doing something right.”

The regretful undertone to the words tells them all exactly how he knows that.

“We cannot let him believe that we are only behaving this way toward him because we believe he needs to be fixed,” Logan says firmly, “because that isn’t true. If this is a result of Roman feeling…unloved, then we must show him that he is.”

The word ‘unloved’ gets stuck in his throat and he clears it. Around him, the others are showing similar signs of discomfort.

Roman…their Roman. The idea that he wouldn’t feel loved—that he doesn’t feel loved sits strangely. Like a puzzle piece that just doesn’t fit, even though it has to go there.

While this lovely conversation is happening, of course, they’ve forgotten that there’s someone else who’s noticed the absence of a singing prince.

Remus doesn’t bother entering his brother’s room the normal way, instead sinking straight through the ceiling, fully intending to drive his elbow into Roman’s stomach.

What happens instead is he lands on Roman’s mattress with a dissatisfying thump as a tiny thing squeaks and scurries under the desk.

Remus sits up, frowning at the trembling figure underneath Roman’s desk and peers closer. Did Roman make a new pet for them to join on adventures? Is this one of the villagers that got too hurt and needed to be brought back here to recover?

Only when he sees the eyes peering shakily out at him do his own widen in realization.

“Roro?”

“R-Remus? Re?” And fuck, yeah, that’s Roman’s little head poking out from under there as he scrambles out. “Re? Are—are you back?”

Remus blinks. “Sure, Ro-Bro, I’m back, what—oof!”

A pint-sized pugilist rams itself into Remus’s stomach and knocks him backward onto the bed as his arms instinctively fly around the mass. He looks down, panting, only to see little Roro shaking with the effort of holding onto Remus as tightly as he can. His ribs are starting to protest when Roman turns his head and a cold nose tucks itself right into the crook of his elbow.

“Hey, hey, Roro,” Remus croaks, clumsily petting Roman’s head, “you’re okay. I’m right here, you got me good, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You—they said you were never coming back—everyone hated you, I—they made me say I didn’t like you—they said I was you but they don’t like you and I—I’m sorry—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your rolls and buns there, Roro, take in some oxygen before you pass out on me.” Remus wraps his arms gently but firmly around his now-panicking little bother—brother, pulling him securely into his lap. He has to pry Roman’s grip off of him a little but quickly reattaches the little limpet. “There you go, see? You got me! I’m trapped! I can’t go anywhere!”

His jokes don’t seem to work. If anything, Roman clutches him tighter, trembling in his hold.

“You gotta breathe for me, Ro-Bro, come on…in and out, you can do it.” Remus starts to take big slow breaths, feeling Roman start to copy him. “There you go, Roro. Just like that.”

Little Roman dissolves into a shaking and trembling puddle, cold nose buried in the crook of Remus’s neck as hot tears begin to trickle down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey, what’re those for? You’re safe, Roro, I gotcha, you got me, we got each other. We’re not playing right now, I’m not trapping you, what’s up?”

“Y-you’re—you’re back,” Roman wails, “you’re back, you’re back, don’t go—“

“I’m not going anywhere, Roro, I promise.” He gives Roman a light squeeze. “I’ve gotcha.”

Remus is very glad he actually washed his hands this morning as he begins to wipe away Roman’s tears. His hands are damp within moments but he keeps going, letting the little limpet wipe his nose on his costume and not giving a single flying fuck. Roman’s red nose keeps sniffling so Remus lays back against some of the pillows, heaving the little beast on top of him to have him settle down. Roman does, eventually, slumping into a sprawl all over Remus’s chest. Remus rubs his little brother’s back and nuzzles the top of his head.

“D’you want to tell me what this is all about, Roro?”

Roman mumbles.

“I can’t hear you, Ro-Bro, you gotta speak up.”

He can feel Roman’s throat work against him. “I couldn’t be the prince so I had to start over. Couldn’t—couldn’t do it right.”

“Do what right, Roman,” Remus asks, slowly tightening his grip on his brother again, “what couldn’t you do?”

“Kept messing up. Messed everything up.” Roman’s voice starts to choke off again. “Had—hadda make it right. Wanted to go back to—to—to—when it was okay.”

‘Okay.’

Yeah, nothing about this is ‘okay’ right now.

“Well,” Remus says, resolutely ignoring that for the time being, “why don’t we do something fun?”

Roman nods eagerly, pushing himself up so fast his hands slip and he falls face-first down on Remus’s chest again. Remus chuckles and helps him sit up.

“Wanna go into the Imagination?”

Roman’s smile falters. “We need permission.”

“No we don’t, we’re Creativity. That’s our domain. We run it, we decide when we get to go in!”

But Roman shakes his head stubbornly. “N-no, we—we have to ask first. And I don’t want you to get in trouble f-for me.”

“They can try and make me be in trouble,” Remus sniffs, “but it won’t go well for them.”

Roman looks up at him, expression changing as he slowly reaches up to cup his hands around Remus’s face. “I wanna be like you.”

Remus’s chest clenches. “You want my mustache?”

Roman makes a face. “No. I want—I want to be as sure as you are that nothing bad can happen. I want that.”

Ah, fuck. They had a joke going when they were—well, when both of them were smaller that Roman got the Ego, Remus got the Pride. He never—well, kids hold ideas and let them go. He tossed that one over his shoulder a long time ago. Roman, it seems, never did.

“Hey,” Remus says instead, reaching to cup Roman’s face in his hands, “you’ve got it, Roro. It’s yours too. You just gotta look for it.”

“But that’s hard.”

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” he says, fighting back a joke that he knows Roman won’t understand.

“…you’re really smart, Re.”

“Well—“ he chucks him lightly under the chin— “you’re the one that taught me that.”

Roman’s little face smiles and oh, Remus could rip his fucking thumbs off.

“If you don’t want to go into the Imagination we could always do something here.” Remus jumps off the bed and starts rifling through his ideas. Well, most of them aren’t…something he would do when Roman is this small. “…paint?”

There it is. Roman’s face lights up and he scrambles off the bed to join Remus. “Painting? Can we paint together?”

“Sure. One big canvas, let’s see, you wanna help make it?” They put their hands together and slowly draw a big rectangle in the middle of Roman’s room. “Good job, Ro-Bro, it’s just the right size.”

His brother almost glows at the praise. “Now all we need is—“

“Paint!”

They both turn to each other with their hands full of it. Roman has several bottles clutched in his little hands and Remus is juggling an armful of tubes. They drop them all over the floor and Remus rubs his hands together.

“What’re we gonna paint?”

“The canvas!”

“Yeah, I mean—“ Remus’s jaw drops open when Roman just pours paint onto his hand and smears it across the canvas— “whoa.”

Wrong reaction to have. But the second he sees Roman’s brilliant grin start to fade, he jumps straight on the fuck-that train and grabs another bottle. Soon they’re smearing paint all over the canvas. They end up creating a pretty good gradient of pinks and blues and reds and oranges and yellows. Then Remus grabs a green tube and just squirts it right onto the canvas.

“Hey!” Roman rubs his cheek. “You got paint on me!”

“I think you got paint on you.” Because when your brushes are your hands and you rub your face, paint goes onto your face.

“It was green! You put the green on me!”

Remus grins, bending closer and pretending to examine Roman’s cheek. “I dunno, Roro, I can’t see any green on there.”

Roman grabs a tube of red paint—

“Whoa, hey, there—“

—and squirts it onto the canvas. But mostly Remus.

“Oh, that’s it.”

The two of them spend the rest of the time splashing paint around, not caring about whether it gets on the actual canvas or the canvases they’ve made out of each other. Remus ends up with red splattered across his sash—not a bad look—and a bright blue handprint on his chest. Roman ends up with some green in his hair and streaks of purple down his arms. They’re laughing too hard to be spiteful about it as they chase each other around the canvas, each trying to get their hands on the other first.

If Roman never sees the others opening his door a crack, only to smile and leave them be when they see Remus and the paint with him, it’s perfectly fine.

Remus ends up using his size to his advantage and scooping the little monster up into his arms. He spins him around, laughing maniacally as Roman shrieks and squeals. He holds onto his brother’s arms, head thrown back as they whirl there.

“I win,” Remus pronounces as he sets Roman—carefully!—back down, “you lose.”

Roman giggles, reaching up to poke Remus’s nose with a bright red finger. “No, I win!”

“We both win.” Remus shakes his head only for some of his hair to stand straight on end—the only straight thing in this room—from the paint. “Uh…we should wash this off.”

Roman examines his paint-colored self, his gray shirt and shorts now absolutely awash with rainbow. “Yeah, probably.”

Remus looks at him and gently touches the fabric with his fingers. Roman’s eyes widen as the fabric changes from having paint on it to the colors being part of the fabric itself.

“Whoa! That’s so cool!”

Remus chuckles. “You’re welcome, Roro. Now let’s get cleaned up. I’m sure you’re gonna get hungry in a little bit.”

They make their way to the shower where Remus gets them out of their paint-covered clothes and squeaky clean. Roman’s eyes start to droop as Remus massages the shampoo into his hair.

“You can close your eyes, Ro-Bro, I gotcha.”

And if little Roman is so tired he can barely keep his eyes open long enough to put on pajamas after they get out of the shower, then Remus will happily carry him to bed. Of course the little limpet decides to latch onto him but there are worse fates. He resigns himself to being a personal pillow and stretches out, rubbing Roman’s back to help soothe him to sleep.

There’s a soft knock on the door and Logan eases it open. Remus has a quip on the tip of his tongue at the way the nerd’s expression melts at the sight of little Roro.

“Asleep, then?”

“Mhm.”

Logan glances at their painting. “I must say…it’s spectacular.”

Remus looks at the painting. An abstract swirl of colors and splatters that looks like the perfect chaotic nonsense. He’s more proud of it than expected too.

“He seems happy,” comes Logan’s soft voice, calling his attention back as he sits on the edge of the bed, “or…happier.”

Remus runs a protective hand down Roman’s back. “He said he missed me.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that…being suddenly reverted to an age where you two were together would—“

“No,” he says firmly, “he missed me. When he was big too, Lolo.”

Logan winces. “Oh, dear.”

“Has he told you why this…happened?”

“Not me explicitly, no.” Logan looks up and waits. “Did…did he tell you?”

“He said he wanted to go back to when everything was okay.”

Logan’s eyes widen. Oh. Oh, dear. “He…the last time he was okay…”

Remus’s sharp nod only confirms it. Logan lets out a breath as Roman’s hands twitch in his sleep. Unbidden, the impulse to reach out and squeeze comfortingly rises up sudden and sharp and he reaches out, covering the little one’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“He wasn’t supposed to get hurt,” Remus whispers, “when—when they took us away, they—they were allowed to do whatever they wanted to me, but—but not my brother.”

“Never again,” Logan promises low in his throat, touched by Remus’s sudden display of vulnerability, “you won’t be separated.”

Quite frankly, as he watches Remus tighten his grip on Roman, he’d like to see the others try.

As it turns out, that isn’t anywhere near their realm of possibility. When Roman wakes a little while later to them talking quietly with a rumble in his stomach, Remus carries him downstairs as Patton starts making dinner. Logan has to hide a smile at the way Virgil mouths ‘oh my god’ and Janus stuffs his fist up to his mouth to hide the coo. Patton clumsily answers Remus’s question about whose night it is to help—his—and gently asks Roman if he can set him down.

“You won’t go far?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen the whole time.”

“Here,” Virgil calls, holding out his arms, “I’m the softest thing in this room. Give him to me.”

He’s gonna regret that later but not right now. Not when little Princey is deposited into his lap and promptly snuggles right up to his chest and sighs. Virgil wraps his arms around little Roman and sits back against the couch, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone as his breath warms the top of Roman’s head.

“V-Virgil?”

“Yeah, Princey?” Virgil winces when Roman tenses. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot. What is it, Roman?”

Roman’s hands clench and unclench in his hoodie. “Do…do you miss the other me?”

Well. Don’t start off easy or anything, kid.

Does he?

He’s gonna be honest, he does miss Roman. Misses the banter, misses the confidence, misses the warmth of walking into a room and seeing Roman there. He misses the feeling that Roman would always come up with something, even when things seemed hopeless he would be there to try.

But even though he’s had this Roman for two minutes, he already knows he’d miss him like a lost limb. This Roman, who is all clumsy affection and easy smiles and soft cuddles.

“I miss him,” he decides on eventually, “but you’re my Roman too.”

Roman’s little face is too cute. It’s illegal. Who allowed this?

“Your Roman?”

“Yeah,” Virgil says, giving the boy’s hair a gentle tug, “you’re our Roman.”

Roman’s hands tug gently again. “E-even if I’m not a prince?”

Ah. Virgil sits up a little and pulls Roman into his lap properly. “You were our prince because we thought that was what you wanted to be.”

“Even if I wasn’t good at it?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Virgil swallows the curses and pulls Roman into a tight hug, muttering into his shoulder.

“You were good at it, Roman,” he mumbles, “you were the best prince. You were the best prince because you were our prince. And you were our prince because you were Roman first.”

He can feel Roman’s jumpy little breaths before he’s hugged with a ferocity that takes him by surprise. But he’s not complaining.

“So I can be a prince?”

“If you want to be.”

There’s a pause during which Virgil pointedly does not make eye contact with Janus, before Roman speaks again.

“…I, uh, I think I’d be okay with the nickname, then.”

“Princey?” Roman nods and Virgil grins. “Okay, Princey.”

When he pulls back, there’s a little smile on Roman’s face that stays throughout dinner.

“Well,” Patton says as they start to clear the dishes away, “I’d say it’s a good night for a cuddle pile, wouldn’t you?”

“A splendid idea.” Logan closes the dishwasher. “Down here?”

“Might as well.” They start to organize, Logan directing the creation of the mattress and pillows, Patton and Virgil moving the blankets. Roman looks around for a moment, waiting, before Janus beckons him over to the last of the fading sunlight by the window.

“We,” he says gently as he coaxes Roman to lie down, “have the most important job.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re the ones that get tired first.” To prove a point, Janus lets himself yawn, big and wide. Sure enough, little Roman yawns too. “When Logan tells us all where to go, it’s our job to start being tired so the others have an easier way of settling.”

“That sounds like we have an excuse to fall asleep.”

“That too.”

Roman giggles and it makes Janus’s chest feel light.

“Come here, little prince,” he murmurs, opening his many arms to gather the little one to his chest, “there you are. You look tired, go ahead and close your eyes, it’s alright.”

Roman shifts a little in his grip. “…Janus?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Are…are you gonna take care of me?”

Janus pulls back a little, enough to cup Roman’s face in his hand. “Of course, sweetie, I will always take care of you.”

“N-no matter what?”

“No matter what.” He leans down to gently knock his forehead against Roman’s and press a chaste kiss there. “I’ve got you, little prince.”

The weight of the acts gone without acquittance sit heavily in his stomach, but with Roman cradled tenderly in his embrace, they start to get a little more bearable.

“Come on, cuddle bugs,” Patton calls, hands stroking gently through their hair, “let’s get you onto the mattress.”

Janus uncurls first, only for Roman to blink sleepily up at him.

“Do you need to be carried, sweetie? Is that it, little prince?”

Roman nods and blearily holds up his arms, letting out another squeaky yawn. He makes a few grabbing motions at Logan as he adjusts the last pillow.

“Ah, come here, little one,” Logan murmurs, picking him up, “let’s lie you down, shall we?”

The others join them in their pajamas, Roman’s head in Logan’s lap as he sits against the foot of the couch. Logan’s hand tangles in his hair, nails dancing over his scalp to encourage him to sleep.

“You’re safe, little one,” he promises, “just close your eyes. We’ll be right here for you when you wake up.”

Roman blinks up at him lazily, eyes wet with sleep as he nuzzles into Logan’s stomach. Logan keeps up the soothing rhythm of fingers in his hair, nails across his scalp, until the little one yawns away and closes his eyes. Only when sleep begins to call to him too do they shift, one of Roman’s hands on his chest, the other in Remus’s shirt as his head tucks into the crook of Logan’s shoulder.

The little prince falls asleep, surrounded by the warmth of his family.

————————

Roman blinks awake.

His ceiling doesn’t look like his ceiling and there’s a weight on his stomach that definitely isn’t a pillow. He cranes his head up to look around and his mouth drops open when he sees a slumbering Virgil lying with one arm around him. He turns his head a little more and comes face to face with Logan’s sleeping visage. Remus’s whistling snores are in his ear.

He risks sitting up a little farther, only to see Patton and Janus at the edge of the frankly giant mattress they’ve seem to set up on the floor of the living room. The two of them are almost protectively positioned, guarding the rest of them from whatever would plague them in the night.

His head is a little fuzzy and he can’t remember much of how they got here. Flashes come to him. Pretzels, paint, something about the word ‘prince.’

But, right now, with Logan’s chest rising and falling as Janus mumbles something in his sleep, he can’t be too bothered to worry about it.

Roman settles back down onto the mattress and closes his eyes. As he drifts off to sleep, a small smile touches the corners of his mouth.

For the first time in a long time, he feels okay.

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11toe11-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Horsewomen

May i enter. Quietly. For insight. And take back nothing but truth.

____

I sit here waiting.

I sit here waiting for you.

This is uncomfortable. This is actually a rather unsettling feeling. My breathing is no deeper than my upper chest. I am distracted. I want some distraction. Watch something nonsensical. Eat. Eat plenty. Something to comfort me. This sense of hunger, of not being full, no matter what i am putting in - from the healthiest to the junkiest.

He wants to mute me.

He is making pulao and raita. Just what i need maybe. Maybe with that i’ll be satiated. Calm this restlessness.

Weight on the chest. Cant go, oh damn! on it. Just watch it. Even if i spent the last month and a half working this weight off.

Actors freeze writers block.

Dont i have anything to write? After steam rolling for a week.THe point when i assumed things would come together into a giant revelation?

Breathe into the belly. Reach out from formula.

“What do i mean by…”

I miss. I miss kalari. Its a fact. I miss. I miss thiru. I miss. I am a miss. I am amiss, between a miss and a missus.

Something in the face sharts shifting. Music is hindustani. Kishori amolkar he announces, informs, sticking is head out of building pulao.

Watched S’s viva. As she discussed body widsom as the maker and keeper of stories, and the source of the individial truth and meaning making process we all search for.

Watched Su’s body leave her home of 85 years. Watched Su’s body after her spirit left its home of 85 years. He brows were tight together, as if frozen amidst a painful exercise to recall something.

Mid sentence, mid building he walks over for the hug, hug of reconciliation, hug of understanding, a hug to acknowledge, a hug to reassure - one of us, both of us.

A death happened.

Finally. After a dance on the edges that lasted almost 2 years. I remember sitting in the room with my therapist as art of the Art Therapy studies, and role playing with a strange dream, where i was arguing with R and having some experience of the Buzz road first floor centered around my possessions- why it cant be moved or something and his friends being around and me feeling alientated; while down in the ground floor abyss, the dreamer was distinctly aware of death waiting. The house didnt quite look like this, but was the same. In a way that spaces rearrange them selves in dreams, an additional corridor there, an elevation somewhere else, a door connecting two opposite ends of the house directly.

I dont know her at all. I have barely spoken to her more than a few handful of times in the 4 years that Buzz road has been my home. And none of the conversations have lasted more than a few minutes. She was a fine looking thin lady. Who i was told was a shell of her former robust self, and had alzheimer's setting in. So the main door, which is the common entrance to all the three floors had to be locked early enough. She would have anxieties otherwise.

Nothing too loud or boisterous.

Its never been loud or boisterous at buzz road from the time i have known it. Maybe when i got to know it, it was around the time it had gotten contemplative, retrospective, nostalgic. With not enough energy to hold the heightened states of merry making and large groups splashing their vibrance around. But finding them quietly in the folds of memory, back and forth, and reweaving them, alone.

I came into the quiet buzz road; a buzzing road thats quietened now, i realize.

People were talking about the sheer energy she possessed. I can imagine. Even when the last time we exchanged pleasantries, as i walked to junk the compost into the new compost pit we had going in the back yard, she was clear in her gaze, her glance inspire of all the tubes running out of her. Was that the last time she saw me? Or when i had my lungi pulled up, carrying the water cans to the first floor. I had put on an effort to be myself, anticipating judgements for my hairy legs, or my unconventionality inspite of my desperate attempts to fit into the conventional. Whatever conventional means.

I now wear diamond earrings to honor a memory. Of someone i have only met in books and ideas. WHo would have thunk!

He comes over from the pillars of pulao. Share a few grains of his memory.

The sense of community he is experiencing at the moment - in the virtual world with the responses that came in response to his tribute to her, -in this space, with his cousin who he felt he had nothing in common with. A point he always kept making. Until now, when he seems to suddenly have noticed a shared childhood. He accepted his cousin’s invitation to be there on the 10th and 13th day and was touched by the gensture, though he trailed off a “my beliefs are my own” as he made his way back into the kitchen.

From the kitchen he recounts and as kishori continues to inspire the pulao, how his aunt took him to the hospital after his infamous fall off the rockface, he had managed to get back home pushing his conked motor bike before fainting in the loo with a shirt soaking in blood. Quite dramatic. This bit of the story is new to me. I knew of the fall. And the 7 stitches. I didnt know she featured in the story, which i imagined to be the grand fall that shook the 3 worlds and its from that impact on the earth that i was born.

He was 18. My parents copulated. 1983.

This is quite a nice start to the mythical story.

What is this sentimentality? I am not a sentimental person. Sensitive yes. Sentimental? Not really.

In all senses i am aware of the fact that death doesnt mean anything. Other than the change of the playing scene. For the person who dies. Atleast for most people who die. A change of play for the actor.

For the co-actors, yea its awkward. Suddenly, the improvisation has new energy, an unknown. Space available for new possibilities.

Also a sense of a loss of the playing dynamics, which has to be refigured in new context.

Thats all death is.

And i myself must be dying in a million ways in the million multiverses, never mind “the other” dying. The infinite stages strung together and the actor playing out the infinite possibilities of each second.

The thought of him dying was obsessive,for last two years. Its only of late that i have been able to relax. Otherwise it was a high alert since his tryst with the fissure and bp. I would be up at night watching and monitoring the deapth of his breath as he snored on. The thought of him dying and the paranoia that set in was a pattern repeat of the tightly controlled panic I experienced regularly as a teenager when my mother came home wheezing and we spent the whole nights praying and trying to help her get some relief. With no one else to turn for help. Sheer holding-on to the the caregiver, protector, provider.

Sheer holding-on as the intermediate caregiver, protector, supporter.

Today i am lot more relaxed. The pattern that was triggered two years ago has eased. It gave a sample of the minefield of triggers that lay dormant in my mindscape.

Last night when he spoke of his will, after the initial reaction of sheer panic setting in, and then watching it pass, i was able to engage in the conversation - who should the bangalore house be left for? A. She has plenty in her name already. What about AV? Wonderful idea. He is a lonewolf with a strong sense of community. And will find some meaning and continuity, “make something with it, share it”.

Pondi house is for me.

There is no house in pondi yet. There is land in pondi. And our dreams for the home. Our mutual curiosity of this human instinct, nesting. What does it mean to make a nest with someone - which is neither his nor mine, but ours.

Pondi house is for us.

Its ours.

Quite fitting for the closet romantics that we both are.

Such a relief this sentence gave me. Pondi house is for us. Its ours.

What a burden it seems to be lifting from my shoulders.

My self image moves, glides past the harshly lit railings where it was held prisoner by my critical self - ever questioning my intentions of initiating and insisting on insisting on a home in pondicherry. Is it greed? Is it the easy way out? Are you in this for the money?

To something lit with a much softer glow of depth and wisdom. And love and respect.

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan takes the manch.

Nobody else may understand this. But we do. You and i, do.

That ours is a dance of light and shadows. We love and hate. Trust and mistrust. We make love with the enemy. Sleep, cook. Learn to trust. Love. The historical “ other”.

Far from Romeo Juliet. Far far from it. Infact, it probably starts where SSpere left off.

Imagine in play space: Romeo is reborn. Some 20 years ahead of Juliet, who was stuck in a limbo in some portal. And they finally meet. And there is nothing in the way- no warring families, no borders, no jealous friends, no helpful friends either - there is nothing helping, there is nothing standing in the way - except themselves. And all their assumption and presumptions.

“oh! I dint realize you were so obsessive.”

“Oh! I didnt realize you had such a nasty streak”

“You dont listen”

“This is far from the ever after i imagined”

Well, as i write this i suppose this is following the graph of every relationship there is. Nothing unconventional here. Inspite of all our ideas and stories of how unconventional this is.

Also, we arent really gear shifting because we have no kids.

Am i ok with that? Not having a child? Yes. In many ways. It will be nice to have someone to shape and mould and protect and spoil. But when i imagine, i dont think i will be doing something very different from what my mother did - circumstances and conveniences may be different - but the structure is the same - shape, mould, protect and spoil and love - with different degrees of ingredients - but still a replication of the process. Thats what nature is best at, no? Replicating. I dont want to do that. I can see past that temptation.

A cat will do. Or a squirrel. Or a raven. Or a garden lizard, according to him.

Coco.

One coco gone from the terrace. So many coco’s playing around in the goundfloor garden.

Sleepy.

Call with K is postponed to tomorrow.

Project Objex continues to delvelop and offer rich insights offline. Though the thread is held online. No, The thread is seemingly held online.

I find myself pretty uninteresting at the moment.

Stitching classes with mom is nice. Nice is a strange word. And a strange word is what i need to describe it. She is clear and simple. With sketchy camera angling skills. But in her area of expertise, she leaves me with no room for doubts or confusions. Reminded me of how she used to teach me as a child. I remember she used to say a thing only twice, if i made her repeat a third time, i would get whacks for not paying attention. And now she seems to be the epitome of patience, as i also notice my child self coming to the fore, to provoke and test, with disinterest and wandering attention and confusion. She holds the thread with such firm clarity and patience, that i notice the child self dissolving away, making way for me to inhabit the present. In the beginning, 15 minutes into the session, i noticed fatigue and disinterest and irritation setting. And by the end of the class i was clear and inspired and received the information she was clearly trying to transmit. I notice myself eagerly summarising all that i understood at the end of the session. Satisfaction and closure for her. And for me.

All that the giver has to give, needs a taker.

So that the giver can give fully and completely. And be free.

I feel when i am listening to my mother, i feel i am also simultaneously receiving from my grandmother. A line of women who understood cloth. And clothes.

A line of women, who were a few generations ago not permitted to cover their breasts, fashioning the most interesting and quirky ways of covering and revealing.

A line of women, some of who also sliced and placed a breast or two at the altar of life unlived.

A life of women who may have forgotten the joys of sun and wind and rains on naked breasts.

For me to understand R, i had to bring it closer to home. Last night the news of his aunts passing, meant that the inevitable event of his parents passing is clearer in the minds eye. I wouldnt have understood it, if i hadnt played out the scene of mom passing. And i notice that i keep telling myself that i will hold it together, like a stoic -like the stoic. Though the physical sensation is of a collapse a caving in. Like it matters. As if what matters is how i respond to it.

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden disappearance of an actor...

Ashwini BIde Deshpande takes the mach.

The transformer catches fire. In a way that i have never seen it catch fire before - with a big long sideways trialing flame. And abruptly stops. WE gather candles and he goes to alert the watchman to make the calls to the electricity board. And i wonder if its a hello from the other worlds.

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden appearance of an actor...gentle drizzzle

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden disappearance of an actor...and the only thing that matter there is how you respond to the moment, to the change in space, how i respond to a new space.

He does the tadka, a vertical flame lover the ladle he uses for tadka.

We are such theatre.

But why is our sensation of it so mundane and unheightned. As if there is no audience.

The sense of audience , of someone watching is what has fuelled most of the adventures in life. Like on is at once living at writing ones autobiography, and featuring in a biography, all at the same time. The vantage of the witness. Is what inspired this whole era of camera and film and now virtual.

Very many ways of the mirror.

The vantage of the inner witness. Makes me relax a little, teeny weeny, into the belly. The breath is quarter an inch deeper.

What was the word that mom used for leaving a little extra provision of cloth - side something...let me check the book. Not side - seam. Seam Allowance. At least i got the first alphabet right. S. Mom and me have a long way to here, i see.

I didnt realise or register that R’s aunt used to play male roles in the play. She was an actress. I didnt know R’s very married aunt was happy to flirt with the handsome doc while R was getting stitched up from his fall. But around her, knowing that she lived down stairs, and maybe from the kind of home she lived in and her seemingly very traditional exchanges with people around her, I shrank. I felt I would be judged for not fitting in line with the expectation of a space. Walked past her awkwardly, pausing only for pleasantries. Not visiting her in her room as often as i could have and as often as i wanted to even, for the strangeness of the exchange.

Nor having the balls to suggest playing some classical music to her. Some respite from the dreaded TV.

Did i judge her illness or her age or her wealth?

Made it all about me?

Wanting to listen to music quietly together with a practical stranger at her bedside, we must share some language no? Some connection had to have happened. Some step one and two had to be crossed to find that step three. Or could i have straight have jumped to three? Long and short, that want, which kept appearing as an image, i believed was a response to her experience of intense loneliness. And my helplessness.

Which is understandable, one of the first descriptions of her from people who knew her was how social she was -how she was surrounded by friends. Yet in the past year and a half she saw no one except the nurses who were with here round the clock, her children, daughterinlaw, sister who regularly visited and maybe us once in a while and her, and occasional visits from her nieces and nephews. Watched plenty of TV. And went in and out of a hospital. And lived in looping memory. Ate mostly from a tube. The dabba that formulas came in we now use to store flowers for the pooja room everyday.

I would have really liked to go and sit and listen to her, her stories. But i didnt have the balls. What if she rejected me. I would take it very personally. I would be very hurt.

Because i kept dancing on the brink of the rejections. Dreading rejections from R, from friends, from peers, from the kalari. That i so intensely yearn to belong.

And so imagining that possible rejection, and a cruel word - i never made an effort. Even when i wanted to.

Just before she left to the hospital the last time round, I didnt go into her room. Walking past the gesture of one of her nurses to come in - justifying it mentally with “not wearing a mask”. Maybe i was arguing a lot with R and had no bandwidth for the extended family at the moment. Maybe when i argue with R i see no reason why i live here. Maybe when i am arguing with R, i feel I dont belong here. And my whole presence here is a lie. And i dint want her too catch my dishonesty of intentions, of superficiality. My fears.

I have often been plagued by the feeling of helplessness here at buzz road. Much lesser now. This round of our stay has been far more hands on, “empowered”, and with room for changes and play of dynamics. Me allowing myself to do the things i feel like doing at the cost of being “seen”.

Noticing caste encoded in the body memory. Because i have no lived memory of it. My earliest association with identity is being told by my father that i had “no caste, no gender, no religion”, i was human and a girl as equal to any boy.

Why then did i feel my space shrink here? Did i subtly read your judgments without even noticing it? R tells me that you singled out your daughter for her dark skin. Not moer than half a shade darker surely, because i didnt at all notice any color variations in your skins; you all looked like you were from the same family and that was it. Is that why i feel great kindship with the people who work here - because i unknowingly somewhere by the color of my skin maybe they judge me as one of them?

So there is a story of rejection here that i picked up from the space and wove into my story.

Kabira khada baazar mein

Mangey sabki Kahir

Nahi kahoon sey dosti

Nahi kahoon sey bair

I spent an hour faffing to escape finishing this page. Because it doesnt seem to be getting over. One think is linking to the next and then to the next, faster than i can write.

Or want to write.

I can let go.

Yes.

I can let this go.

I dont have to hold on to it like the bag that L and I tugged between each other other over compulsion to be the ideal daughterinlaw/good samaritan.

Lets me just summarize to myself that today i glimpsed the family, this group of people bound together by blood relations, a lot deeper than i ever have. I noticed wounds, as much as i noticed bonds. I noticed bonds, as much as i noticed wounds.

And i have no idea how i walked into this story, which seems to be an epic in itself with my own sense of great mythical journeying. I want nothing from them except peace and resolving and healing of wounds.

And thats what seems to be happening.

No one is counting all this work we are doing in the GDP. I always liked micro economics over macro economics.

Something.

Sleep

___

I gently close the door behind me. Notice the skin a bit shirvelled from time spent a touch too long in war. Thank you for keeping me safe in your waters. Thank you for the waves.

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