#the food shaming is fine the classism. is not

[yardsards]

Oh god ambrosia... so bad. I get the classism argument for some foods (beans on toast does sound like something I'd come up with during a really bad executive function day) but going out of your way to mix 3 canned fruits with marshmallows and sour cream is absolutely a choice

white ppl aged 40+ will make dishes with a dozen ingredients, none of which are seasonings

and it's like. this very specific cultural phenomenon in which people use canned/instant/etc. food as the sole Ingredients in recipes. and it's like. there's no shame in eating canned or frozen food, it's easy and accessible. but once you start using it as Ingredients in those big elaborate dishes, then you've stripped away most of the convenience aspect.

and the element of like, each ingredient on its own usually tastes fine (albeit often too plain) but mixing them makes it taste Worse. because they're trying to make up for the lack of flavour by adding more foods rather than just adding some seasoning.

and it hearkens back to the days of corporations pushing recipes onto unsuspecting newly middle class housewives. recipes that were designed by underpaid employees doing the equivalent of a table of elementary schoolers mixing their leftovers together during the last couple minutes of lunch period and triple dog daring some poor schmuck into tasting it. all to sell more Jello™ brand gelatin and Campbell's™ brand soup and whatnot. selling the idea of convenience (a luxury, to show they're not one of The Poors) without being TOO convenient (lest they feel like they are failing their Gender Roles). tasting good was far from the priority

i feel like the spiritual successor to it is like. the time my mother showed me this "life hack" she found on facebook about ways to doctor canned cake frosting and i had to inform her that you could just straightup make homemade buttercream with less steps than that and for close to the same price

i am rambling for no good reason here but yeah

[burner-of-ships]

so i read Lies We Sing To The Sea, and honestly i do not think this book was worth all the drama that surrounded it.

it's a perfectly fine YA fantasy, even complete with a love triangle. i read it in 3 days, it wasn't exactly mindblowing but it was engaging enough and the ending genuinely surprised me. i liked it, but probably won't read it again.

and the entire tag for the book is just people who haven't even read it screeching about how the author, Sarah Underwood hasn't read the Odyssey, and is from England.

and now i feel the need to rant:

right away i'm going to brush away the England point, because it feels like just another symptom of this weird hatred of England that's overcome tumblr in the past few years. sometimes it's funny, like yeah, we are pretty shitty, the monarchy and the British Museum suck, and that should be talked about. i'm not going to act like i'm oppressed because people online make fun of a country i just happened to be born in. but it so often slips over into classism. you lot make fun of poor brits way more than the people in power. funny British accents? working class accents. gross British food? poverty meals. it's punching down.

admittedly, i have no clue what Sarah Underwood's finances were or are like, before or after she sold her book. but my point is that i'm not entertaining this idea that her being English inherently makes her worse, because i don't trust this scorn to be warranted anymore. from white Greek people especially. sorry, but the BM having a few of your statues does not make you an oppressed minority any more than me being from the north of england makes me one, and it's frankly embarrassing for you to keep acting like a non-Greek writing a story set in Ancient Greece is at all equivalent to actual cultural appropriation.

it's not her fault she got a publishing deal and you didn't. be honest for a second, that is what you're mad about, isn't it? that she has a bigger megaphone than you right now. there's no shame in it, all of social media is about trying to grab attention, and drama is good at that, but let's not get too aggressive towards those who don't need to get mad on the internet to get that attention.

as for the not reading the Odyssey thing... first of all i read that whole interview and i can say right away that that interviewer did a shit job. she misspells the name of Jessie Burton, another Greek myth reteller, for christs sake! if the interviewer seemed to Underwood as thick as she seems to me, i don't blame her for fumbling a bit. talking to idiots is hard, and we have no idea how accurately she was portrayed, considering the people publishing the interview clearly did no research or spell checking.

and as someone who has read the Odyssey... no, you really don't need to have read it all to write a story set hundreds of years later, with only one character in common, a character who is given barely any characterisation in the original text. there is one chapter in this book that retells a part of the Odyssey, and i think it did it excellently. you don't need to read about Polyphemus or Circe or Nausicaa to write about the lives of those inside the palace. we don't know how much the author actually did or didn't read, but to me reading the book, it seems like she read enough.

the people who are acting like you have to know the Odyssey inside and out to write anything remotely related to it are snobs, plain and simple. not everybody was lucky enough to get an education in classics. it circles back around to this issue of classism in the UK, only private schools and i believe seven public schools teach ancient languages or classics. picking up The Odyssey from a random bookshelf and reading it with no prior knowledge of the time and place it was set in can be hard! the customs were completely different than they are today! with nobody to explain xenia or nostos or epithets to you, it can be daunting! some translations have great forewords that can help with that, but not all.

is the book a masterpiece? no, it's a bloody YA book! have you seen the absolute deluge that market pushes out? there are plenty of mid books padding out the genre, and this is just one of them. i can name half a dozen better greek myth retellings or YA romance-adventures, and i do always recommend you read the actual classics if you think they'll interest you. all i'm saying is that the book doesn't deserve the absolute slating it's getting, and that Sarah Underwood certainly doesn't deserve this harassment or review bombing. does anybody deserve that, just for writing a silly YA book? sometimes we need to take a step back from the bachannal and really think about who or what we're ripping to pieces in our frenzy.

i'm not gonna sit here and insist you read Lies We Sing to The Sea or praise Sarah Underwood. for all i talk, i can't reach through the screen and touch you, you can do what you like with your time and energy. but if you do share your thoughts or leave a review, then yeah, i think you should have at least read a couple of chapters, at the very least to avoid showing your ass by parroting blatantly false statements. and if you make up your mind on how you feel on it after only a few chapters... well i don't think you have much of a leg to stand on when you complain that she drew conclusions without reading all of the Odyssey.

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

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[vimbry]

making fun of northern accents isn’t the epic own you think it is can you focus on the legitimate reasons england is terrible and not “the working class sound funny”

[nb-goblin]

a collection of random rants and takes I've been thinking about over the last few days, I've got no plan but just feel like making a long post sooo uwu:

1) being able to drive is a privilege. not only is having a car itself a massive expense learning to drive is expensive as fuck. when people say you can make it cheaper by having a family member teach you ignores the fact that that itself is a privilege. not everyone has access to the extra time and effort needed to learn or teach someone. the idea that it's a simple task itself is also not true, the amount of barriers in place for many people to even have the ability to learn is so ignored

2) yes being able to joke and make light of mental illness (specifically as this is all I feel comftable having an opinion on) is a normal coping mechanism and allows people to open up about things and that's great. but there's become this culture of watering down the effects/symptoms of illness to be relatable. again making fun of mental illness is great in the destigmatisation of such, but it does has an effect of people taking them less seriously. yes for some soemthing like their depression is available to joke about say everyone thinking they're fine or seeing their cognition as irrational, but that's not possible for everyone. making the impression that illness is only this sanitised relatable joke ignores those that can't and perpetrates the stigmatisation of people that can't be "relatable". people fucking die or become dehumanised or experiance horrible things that I don't want to casually list here. the idea that all mental illness is a relatable joke sometimes seems to me as taking away the problem that it is infact serious illnesses

3) peeps please get some further retrospective and understanding of things outside tumblr (or social media but ya know) posts. learning about an issue on social media is not bad at all, it allows so many people to discover issues and injustices that they may have never thought of or known about, but please do further reading if you wish to preach about such problems. there's nuance to issues, there's stories and experiences and sometimes even academic research that is so very important to take into mind when creating your opinion. yes you don't need to know everything about every issue in the world- that's an impossible task- but the world exists off line, thinking you're an expert on lgbt, race, gender, political, ect, issues cos you've read someones post or scrolled few a hashtag is so problematic (in the literal sence)

4) some peeps seem to loose the distinction between medical perfessionals giving nutritional advise, and unwarranted food shaming and fat phobia. there can be an overlap of the two ofcourse, and sadly it can happen quite a lot, but talk about nutritional health is not inherently bad. peeps need certain things to survive and stay healthy that's just obvious, being advised by perfessionals to balance this is completely acceptable cos ya know could literly be life or death. I fucking hate diet culture as someone in recovery from an ed that ruined my life (not gonna go into details here cos that's not my point) food freedoms shouldn't be shamed if the person is individually healthy and well. nutritional information isn't the enemy its a necessity. I'm not going to go into how classism can limit this, as my point isn't to shame people who aren't able to reach such standards just that nutritional standards themselves shouldn't be as villianised as they seem to be by some.

5) idk that's the end of my random words time to return to sdv:)

[qqueenofhades]

I was hoping you would be able to help me form a response when my family says they're sick of hearing of systemic racism and white privilege because THEY have had to work for everything and believe nothing got handed to them (true in the way they're thinking, but you know what I mean).

Welp. First, I applaud you for taking the initiative to engage in difficult conversations with your family, since the only way embedded racist ideas are going to get confronted in white society is if racist white people hear it from their friends and family. They are going to cheerily ignore protestors, academics, newsreaders, popular culture, and certainly politicians who say anything to the contrary, but it’s harder to ignore and brush aside when it’s coming from people who are directly within your own family group. They can still then ignore it, but at least you’re trying to do something that is not at all fun but which is deeply necessary, and good for you.

First, there are a few things for you to consider. Is this a case where they actually don’t know the difference, but are willing to learn, or is this essentially sealioning (where they act like they don’t know the difference, but they absolutely do, and put the emotional labor on you to extensively define and explain and educate while never intending to change their stances on anything). If it’s the former, then there is some point in engaging in dialogue with them. If it’s the latter, it’s a giant emotional trap that you are within your rights not to engage with until they signal that they’re willing to engage productively. You don’t have to educate someone who is categorically unwilling to be educated (especially when it’s often deliberate ignorance). As people like to say, Google is free, and it’s their responsibility to take the first steps to change. You can continue to talk with them, but yes, that is contingent on them actually standing a chance of listening to you and not just you wearing yourself out on something that they don’t want to actually hear (because it threatens them and makes them feel Personally Wrong, and white people don’t like that).

There have been various books written on why it’s so hard to talk to white people about racism, which you may be interested in checking out, not least the book "Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race” by Renni Eddo-Lodge. Ibram X. Kendi has also written “How to Be An Antiracist,” one of the bestselling books of this summer, either of which would be useful either in shaping your own arguments or (if they’re receptive) giving to your family. Once again, this is contingent on them signalling that they’re actually willing to listen, and not just to make you do pointless emotional labor. These books are probably available from your public library (though there’s probably a waitlist) or in other easily available formats.

Next, it’s a basic tenet of an anti-racist education that white people have never had to do this kind of reckoning, and thus get whiny, defensive, guilt-tripping, and “it’s not about ME I’m a GOOD PERSON” when it comes up. This also rests on the damaging and deeply intertwined effects of racism and classism, which has to be understood if you’re going to talk about it. One of the greatest tricks that racist capitalism ever pulled is convincing poor white people that they had more in common with their filthy rich white masters (people whose way of life will never in a thousand years be anything like each other’s) simply because they shared the inherent racial “purity” of being white. There have been political studies written on how poor/undereducated/working class white people have become such a reliably Republican constituency, because they have been successfully manipulated to believe that the white overlords are their “people” and they will constantly vote against their own economic, social, and cultural interests in favor of enriching amoral white demagogues who beat the populist xenophobic drum. Then they blame black and brown people for society’s ills and for the reason that they stay poor, rather than the rampaging oligarchs awarding themselves massive tax breaks and billion-dollar bailouts and refusing to extend unemployment benefits in case people “make too much money” from not working, just to name the most recent example. They are so poisoned on populist politics and white supremacy, which assures them that they’re better than anyone else by virtue of being white, that they actively attack politicians and policy platforms and other social welfare initiatives that would materially improve their own lives as “un-American.” This is maddening and sometimes baffling, but it’s how it works. Whiteness trumps all, currently literally thanks to the Orange Fuhrer. Problems in life are the fault of the Other.

This isn’t to say that poor white people are “dumb” and just unable to realize it, because they’re caught in a system that has done this literally from the start of America. In the early 17th century, indentured laborers and slaves in the American colonies were in fact more likely to be white. (The word “slave” comes from “Slav,” since that was the predominant ethnicity of slaves in medieval Europe; i.e. white eastern Europeans.) But even despite the fact that they were unpaid laborers, they were still white and thus recognized as human by their white masters, and thus when slave ships began arriving, it was easier for everybody to simply outright demonize and dehumanize the black African slaves. The poor white indentured servants got to feel better than the black slaves simply for the fact of their whiteness. Their lives obviously sucked, but their whiteness was in fact a mitigating factor in the suckiness that it involved once it was easier to use “animalistic” black people. And we wonder why America can’t ever confront its racist history properly. As Kendi calls it in his other book, it is stamped from the beginning.

As it has been put before, white people can and often do have difficult lives, because late-stage capitalism devours its workers no matter what color they are, but their whiteness isn’t a factor in why their lives are difficult. They will never encounter racial prejudice, race-based hate crime, discrimination for housing, education, employment, bank loans, daily microaggressions and identity erasure, constantly racist tropes in the media, politicians fingering them as everything wrong with America/the world, casual prejudices or assumptions even from close friends, assumed criminality based just on their race -- etc etc. The list goes on and on. Just because you have a hardscrabble economic background does not mean that your life has been made harder by your race -- because if you’re white, it hasn’t. (And as noted, poor white people have consistently voted for megalomaniac white men who don’t give a shit about them but promise them that everything is fine or should be better for them because of their whiteness, and then blame minorities for being the source of their problems.)

I honestly wonder if racism would still be such a problem in America if we had a remotely more equitable economic system, because when you’re well off and have your basic needs consistently met and don’t need to worry that you’re one paycheck away from disaster, it’s harder to constantly be paranoid that your differently colored neighbors are stealing everything from you and the cause of all society’s ills. The historian Patrick Hyder Patterson wrote a very interesting book on material culture in Yugoslavia in the 20th century, where he basically argued that despite the spectacular collapse of the federation into the Yugoslavian wars of the 90s, things didn’t really go to hell until after the economy crashed following Josip Broz Tito’s death in 1980. While there were obviously ethnic fault lines and conflicts between Serbs, Croats, Montenegrins, Bosniaks, Albanians, etc, when there wasn’t any money and any jobs and everyone thought everyone else was to blame, THAT is when the whole thing blew up into a genocidal civil war clusterfuck. Food for thought.

This is why people talk about economic justice and racial justice as going hand in hand. When there is a scarcity of resources and no social safety net, people are obviously more inclined to look for scapegoats and to blame someone for taking their entitlement (while still somehow refusing to blame the billionaires and corporate oligarch who are ACTUALLY stealing from them). They indeed actively resist any attempts to make their own lives better as being “socialist” or “un-American” and take pride in the fact that there’s absolutely jacksquat nothing (until of course, something like the coronavirus pandemic hits and it’s revealed just how many of us were always one missed paycheck away from disaster). Then when they need government assistance (while disdaining the government as tyrannical the rest of the time, unless it’s Trump’s actively tyrannical lot, but hey, we don’t have time to unpack all that) it’s still shameful and something they shouldn’t be using, instead of their basic entitlement to a decent life.

This country is poisoned on a lot of toxic beliefs, but this is one of the deepest-running one, and which will always get in the way of poor white people dealing with racism: their lives suck, but they have ALWAYS been told that despite that, they’re still better just for being white, which is their consolation prize for supporting white populists who actively rob them, and they haven’t even always consciously registered that. They just feel that if they’re “fine,” even if they’re not fine, then black people are just malcontents and criminals who can’t hack it. In 2016, there was a lot of ink spilled over how poor white people felt a sense of economic grievance and being left behind, which was why they voted for Trump, but... Trump was never going to do a damn thing about that??? He doesn’t actually do anything for his supporters except feed them his jingoistic Orange Nazi stump speeches. They voted for Trump to feel vindicated, not to actually improve their lives, and it’s damn clear by now that not only has he NOT improved their lives, he has no desire to do so. He just wants them to cheer for him and feed his ego, not fix any problems.

Basically, racism and capitalism and the American political system intersect in multiple deeply toxic ways to do precisely what you’re talking about; producing poor white people who feel that they shouldn’t be included in the reckoning with racism because if THEY worked hard and they don’t live in a mansion, somehow racism is fake and black people should just shut up and get a job etc etc. This is because poor white people have been systematically conditioned to support white supremacy at the direct expense of their own economic and social interests; it’s terrible, but that’s how it functions. They will never in a million years have anything in common with the (white) ruling class, but they still instinctively identify with them rather than people in their own deprived economic class who are different races or colors or religions. That is how white supremacy has supported the hyper-inequality of the industrial age, and vice verse, and it is one of capitalism’s best functions for survival, so it’s in the interests of the overlords to maintain it. Stop the workers from recognizing pan-racial solidarity based on economic grievance, and compete with each other and blame each other rather than the overarching system, easy!

Anyway. Once again, this is long. But in short, the attitudes your family are exemplifying are a direct result of both racism and classism as they have been deliberately cultivated in the American social and political system, and the interlocking causes and symptoms of both have to be recognized (and acknowledged) before they can get to dealing with that. I don’t know how that will go, and I don’t have an easy shortcut. But I’m glad you’re trying. Good luck.

[lovelylogans]

love light gleams

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part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen 

words: 57,686

for the second time in as many days, patton wakes up on his own, not because of logan crying.

it’s weirdly disorienting.

patton sits up, rubbing his eyes. even without his glasses, he can see that the bedroom door’s ajar, and the soft murmur of talking.

“—interesting take, interesting take. you ever thought about telling your dad all this?”

a rush of baby noises before virgil even finishes his sentence, and patton smiles, reaching for his glasses.

after ensuring he’s rolled up virgil’s hilariously massive sweatpants, to make sure he won’t trip, he shuffles to the door, poking out his head, enough to see virgil cradling logan with one arm and putting dough in a pan with another.

logan made another few sounds that might have been passable syllables.

“yeah, i figured,” virgil says. “seriously, though, i get your critiques of capitalism, trust me, i follow you, but i think the capitalism’s part of the fun of it. i mean, granted, you aren’t really old enough to appreciate presents yet, it’s part of the whole object permanence thing, you’ll love it, it’s a kick.” 

more babbling.

“huh, impressive,” virgil comments. “i’m surprised by the well-researched views you’ve got on this whole thing. you might wanna write a thesis on that part about material exchange and consumption having adverse effects on the moral character of society, i think you’re really onto somethin’ there.”

“how much of me not understanding what you’re saying is because i need caffeine?” patton says, lifting his glasses up so he can rub at his eyes with his fist. “please say all of it.”

“sure, all of it,” virgil says. “plus, i’m pretty sure the baby’s outsmarting me.”

“yeah, he has a habit of doing that, being nearly two months old and all,” patton says. “logan okay? was he crying?”

“nah, just, y’know,” virgil says. “woke up and heard him getting a little chatty, so i figured i’d keep the little guy company while i was prepping the cinnamon rolls, so he wouldn’t cry and wake you up. that okay?”

“yeah, that’s fine,” patton says. “i should take him before he drools on the dough, though.”

“probably a good idea,” virgil says, and he hands over logan. patton quickly scoops him up in his arms as logan makes a noise of protest. 

“aw, s’okay,” patton murmurs, shifting him, and logan settles. “can’t believe that you let me wake up on my own again.”

“christmas miracle?” virgil suggests, and patton blinks.

“what?” virgil says.

“it’s christmas,” patton realizes. “oh, my gosh, it’s christmas.”

“yeah?”

“it’s christmas morning,” patton realizes, looking down at logan’s face. “oh, my goodness, logan! it’s your first christmas!”

logan considers this, before he offers a few choice noises, and patton laughs, feeling giddy.

“christmas, logan! christmas! oh, you’re gonna love christmas, there’s the presents and the food and spending time with—” patton falters, before he forces himself to plow on, “ everyone! it’s christmas !”

logan’s apparently worn out verbally, so patton just goes for a kiss on the cheek and shifts his stance, giving virgil his best, winning grin.

“you know what would be a great present to kick off christmas morning?”

“your caffeine dependency is horrible,” virgil informs him.

“c’mon, please?” patton pleads, and tilts logan toward virgil for optimal visibility. “look at that faaaace.”

“one day, showing off logan’s little baby face isn’t going to work for getting things,” virgil says.

“which is why i’m maximizing it now,” patton says. “look at this face, that relies on me to care for him, and—”

“shameful,” virgil teases.

“have i said please yet?” patton says. “‘cause i could definitely say it again.”

virgil wars with himself, before he slumps, sighing. “ fine. i’ll put this in the oven and get a pot started.”

patton cheers, before he settles at the kitchen table. 

“you aren’t having all of it,” virgil says.

“uh-huh, sure, ‘course,” patton says happily. “what time’s everyone coming over?”

“pretty soon, actually, i was gonna come in and wake you if you didn’t, y’know, wake up,” virgil says. “my parents are gonna be here first, i think.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before logan starts fussing much more audibly and patton’s distracted enough to get back on his feet and walk, bouncing logan in hopes of calming him; it’s the most fail-safe option, he’s discovered, to keep walking and moving with logan. for whatever reason, logan doesn’t really like being still. he guesses if he couldn’t really move himself around he probably wouldn’t like being stuck in the same place staring at the same things either, so he can’t really blame him. 

patton paces around the kitchen, murmuring soothingly to logan and patting his back. the coffee machine is running and the scent of cocoa and coffee is starting to permeate the air; virgil is making sure all the cinnamon rolls are in place before he sticks them in the oven; the sun is shining weakly through the window, and it’s christmas.

patton almost can’t believe it. christmas. on one hand, it was christmas already, but on the other—it was finally christmas. this year had been the longest of his life. he has a feeling seventeen’s going to be a lot less chaotic than sixteen.

but then, he is walking a crying baby around someone who had been a stranger’s kitchen, and emancipation papers to file, and a job at the inn, and a town full of some of the kindest and weirdest people he’s ever met. and if the past year has taught him anything, it’s that all of his life plans are pitched out the window, so maybe he shouldn’t really theorize.

instead, he focuses on logan. who seems to be quieting down with the circles patton is walking around the kitchen, patting logan lightly on the back all the time and bouncing slightly every couple steps. so instead he focuses on the sensory things; the smells of coffee and chocolate and cinnamon, the light of the sun, virgil poking around his fridge and checking timers and, at long last, pouring him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee.

he holds out the mug for patton to snatch on his way by, and he says a cheery “thank you!” and downs the biggest mouthful he can manage as quickly as he can, murmuring soothing words to logan the whole way.

not long after that, patton can distantly hear the jangling bell of the diner, and virgil glances toward the door, taking a few steps automatically, before he glances at patton.

“um. d’you wanna—?”

“i’m not really dressed,” patton says awkwardly, sticking out his leg to show off how virgil’s sweatpants are already unrolling. “besides, i gotta, y’know. baby. plus i’ll keep an eye on the food.”

virgil gives him a wary glance.

patton grins a little sheepishly, before he promises, “i’ll give a shout if any timers go off or things start smoking, how about that?”

virgil accepts that with a nod, before continuing to plod his way out of his apartment, down the stairs, to, presumably, see his parents, and patton then rushes over to the coffee pot and pours himself the biggest refill he can get away with.

what? he’s sleep-deprived! he has a newborn! it’s christmas! 

he gulps quite a bit down, too, before logan starts fussing—”don’t tattle on me to virgil!” patton whispers to him—and patton has to resume walking in circles.

he only takes a couple more turns around the kitchen by the time he hears footsteps on the stairs, and greets mr. and mrs. danes with a sunny smile—he hopes it says please forget the breakdown i had last night, i’m fine now.

“merry christmas!” he says instead.

“merry christmas, patton!” meredith says, equally bright and cheerful, mark echoing her. “i brought your sweater.”

“oh, thank you!” he says, and steps forward to take it automatically, before remembering he’s supporting a baby over his shoulder with one arm and using the other hand to hold caffeine. “um—”

“i can take him,” virgil volunteers. “you should go get dressed.”

“oh!” patton says, “uh, sure.”

and, holding his breath, hoping that logan won’t cry, he sets the mug on the table and slowly initiates the passing of the baby, and—

nope, logan immediately starts wailing louder. patton automatically reaches to take him back.

“i can keep walking with him,” virgil volunteers, “you can go get dressed.”

he isn’t really sure how to phrase walking away from my baby while he is crying for me is violating every instinct i have, but logan’s tiny arms seem to reach for him and that pretty much immediately seals the deal, so patton goes ahead and takes him back. logan quiets, just a bit, sniffling in patton’s ear, and patton grimaces apologetically at virgil.

“sorry, i just—”

“he’s a baby,” virgil says with a slightly awkward shrug. “he wants his dad, it’s fine. we can try again when he’s calmed down a bit.”

patton nods, and meredith smiles at him, just a bit, before setting his sweater on the kitchen table.

“right here, when you want it,” she says, before she turns to virgil. “how are things going?”

“ingredients are mostly downstairs,” virgil says. “i’m making the cinnamon rolls now, though.”

“i can smell them,” mark says, punctuating his statement with a big sniff. “anything we can do to help?”

“i’ll just,” patton says, “um,” and steps back into the living room, far away from the kitchen and anything he could possibly do to ruin the food.

and also to have more room to walk with logan. that too.

it takes that batch of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven and another batch going in and being nearly done for logan to quiet completely, and patton slowly inches his way back into the kitchen.

“ready?” virgil asks, turning.

“yeah, thank you,” patton says gratefully, and initiates the passing process again, and this time, logan takes it much better, settling in virgil’s arms with something like a coo.

“hey there,” virgil murmurs, grinning at the baby. “there we go, i know, i need some time to calm down too, sometimes,” and then he redirects his stare at patton, the smile still clinging to the corners of his mouth. “go ahead, take all the time you need. there are clean towels under the sink if you wanna shower or anything.”

patton hesitates. that does sound really tempting. there’s a clawfoot bathtub that had been dumped in the poolhouse, and that’s what he usually uses to bathe, even though the temperature can barely get past lukewarm no matter how high he turns the “warm” faucet. he usually just takes the quickest bath he can manage, usually finishing it off before the bathtub can even fill halfway. maria’s offered him the use of one of the showers in the inn, the same way she’s been offering him a room, but he just kind of feels weird about bathing at work. a hot shower sounds like heaven.

“you’ll shout if he needs me?”

“i’ll shout if he needs you,” virgil promises.

patton grins, before he reaches for his abandoned mug and chugs down the rest of his cold hot cocoa/coffee, saying “thanks!” before he snatches the sweater off the table and heads straight for virgil’s room, practically giddy.

funny how much things he’d taken for granted back at his parents’ are such a huge deal to him now; sleeping in a bed, taking a shower, an afternoon watching tv or taking a nap, having money to burn with no worries about budgeting. he’d never had to think about those things as luxuries before.

weird. strange.

patton would think more about it if he wasn’t excitedly turning the water in virgil’s shower as hot as it’ll go.

it nearly burns his fingers, so he, reluctantly, turns the heat down just enough so that it would be on the side of scalding that he could actually stand, and he gets in the shower with a smile on his face that’s probably a bit too enthusiastic for something as basic as a hot shower.

patton uses the washcloth he’d taken from virgil’s stash of clean towels and scrubs himself until he’s pink, a combination of the heat and the non-scented body wash that virgil has in his shower; he rubs shampoo into his hair, scratching and digging his fingers into his scalp; at one point, he just stands with his eyes closed in the shower, savoring the water pressure and the heat and the clean scent of the steam and the way his muscles relax and loosen.

he eventually shuts off the shower, reminded of his son and the cinnamon rolls and caffeine and general christmas cheer that are probably waiting for him, and steps out of the shower to get dressed. he towels his curls dry and combs his fingers through them (he should know by now that they’re basically uncontrollable.) he brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush he’d used the night before, getting all minty-mouthed and fresh. he even uses a bit of the lotion virgil has, rubbing it on his hands and the dry spots on his elbows and ankles.

he gets dressed. he polishes his glasses on his t-shirt before he pushes them onto his nose, getting rid of the last of the steam that clings to them, and wipes clear a little path in the mirror, too, taking away the last of the fuzziness that was obscuring him before.

he stares at himself in the mirror; bags under his eyes decreased a little bit, hair a bit of a mess but when wasn’t it, really, sweater big enough that it obscures his chest but doesn’t drown him in the fabric. worn-in, comfortable jeans.

he feels brand-new.

⁂

virgil squints at the coffee pot. it’s lower. he knows it’s lower. and yet—

“what do you mean?” patton says, blinking at him all fake-innocent, holding logan in one arm and using the other to hold his third cinnamon roll in one hand.

“you snuck a refill.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” patton says, widening his eyes to make them seem doe-like and innocent.

“you’re going to get an ulcer one day,” virgil decides, pouring a mug for his mom, which she accepts with a poorly-hidden smile at this exchange.

“if you say so,” patton demurs, and looks down at logan. “don’t you think virgil is being silly, lo? isn’t he so silly?”

“—and you won’t be able to say anything as i stand over your hospital bed and say i told you so.”

“if you say so,” patton repeats, except this time is distinctly more sing-songy, and virgil narrows his eyes at him even as patton pops the rest of the cinnamon roll into his mouth.

“hark!” mark quips, from where he’s stationed at the kitchen window. “our children approach.”

“that’s our cue!” meredith says cheerfully, standing up. “gotta make sure none of you take a peek to see if santa’s come yet.”

“mom,” virgil begins, trying not to sigh, because seriously, it’s been at least a decade and a half since any of them have believed in santa.

but patton’s making a dramatically excited face at logan, saying, “santa, logan! yay santa! can you say santa?” despite the fact that virgil knows that patton knows that logan probably won’t be talking for another year, give or take.

and so virgil’s parents depart, to guard the presents and make sure that “santa” has brought things from the north pole, despite the fact that the only one of them who could probably be young enough to believe in santa is still working on important things like object permanence, and rolling onto his stomach on his own, and, like, laughing.

patton looks up at him, smiling. “do you think you’re gonna get what you want for christmas?”

“i barely have any idea what i wanted for christmas,” virgil says honestly. “books, probably. cooking stuff. maybe some stuff for my apartment, since it’s pretty, y’know.”

“bachelor pad-y,” patton suggests, and virgil snorts.

“stuff-inherited-from-family-mostly, yeah,” he admits. it’s probably obvious with the mismatched furniture, the old couch and bed and coffee table. “thrift store, too.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before he says, “oh, shoot!”

“what?” virgil asks, but patton’s brow is already creased in concern, worrying his lip.

“i forgot to ask your mom to get your christmas present from my room!”

you got me a present? virgil nearly asks, barely noticing the jangling of the bell downstairs and the beginnings of conversation between his parents and his siblings, before he realizes they’d probably be repeating the conversation they had on his birthday, before he catches on and says, “oh, hey, patton, it’s okay, you can give it to me later.”

“i just— shoot,” patton repeats, frowning harder. “i mean, it-it’s not much, but—”

“it’s great,” virgil says. “i’m sure it is, but, really. you can get it to me later, i’m not gonna be mad or anything.”

“you’ve been so nice to me and i just forgot,” patton says.

“it happens,” virgil says. “i mean—think about it this way. you’ve already given me a gift within the past week, and you’re gonna give me another one… whenever you come by the diner next. you’re good, you’re covered.”

patton hesitates.

“we can blame logan, if you want,” virgil offers, mostly joking, and leans so he can stare logan in the face. “i can’t believe you haven’t gotten a job yet just to get me presents, you two-month-old baby.”

patton laughs, probably just to be nice, before he stares even more sheepishly at virgil. “i—still. sorry.”

“it’s okay,” virgil says. “accidents happen.”

“virgil!” he hears freddie shout. “bring me the cinnamon rolls, i want a billion of them!”

virgil rolls his eyes, before he gets to his feet. “duty calls.”

“i’m not far behind her,” patton says, leaning to snatch another cinnamon roll before virgil picks up the plate and gestures.

“shall we?”

patton goes to grab logan’s diaper bag, before he falls into step behind him and they both plod down the stairs.

freddie nets virgil in a hug, which, virgil notes, and seemingly patton does too with a poorly-stifled snort, is a blatant excuse to snatch the entire pan of cinnamon rolls away from virgil, immediately shoving one into her mouth whole.

“winifred jane danes!” mark scolds, even in the midst of a laugh himself. “stop that, you’ll choke!”

freddie says something—probably some kind of quip or comeback—but it’s stifled by the food, and virgil takes the opportunity to snatch the cinnamon rolls back, dropping them on a table, about to start lecturing her, before—

“oh, let’s not,” meredith says merrily. “go on, kids, go on, dig in, grab some rolls! the faster you eat, the faster we can open presents!”

“i can’t believe you’re undermining my parenting like this,” mark says, jokingly pious, over the sound of the four other danes siblings (and patton, doubling back for even more) and virgil shuffles out of the way—the benefit of being the sibling who makes the meals means he gets first pick—which means he’s perfectly situated to watch everyone else get their fill.

it also means he’s perfectly situated to watch patton turn, maybe to talk to him or his parents, before he falters at the sight of the christmas tree, the color wheel of presents.

including the two new slivers of bags and boxes, wrapped prettily in sky blue and indigo.

patton stares for a few seconds. his brow furrows, confused. and then, almost like he doesn’t mean to, he reaches his hand to touch the sky blue material of his sweater, bunching it in his hand, even as his brow furrows more and more.

virgil, sensing another crying session in making, feels his stomach plummet and quickly takes a few steps closer; his mom mirrors him, crowding in on his other side.

“i,” patton says. his voice quavers, and he takes in a shaky, gulping breath. “did you…?”

“it’s christmas,” virgil says gruffly. “you didn’t really think we wouldn’t get you anything for christmas, would you?”

“but i,” patton says, and his face crumples as he looks to virgil’s mom. “but i didn’t get you anything.”

his mother looks startled at this, just for a moment, before she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“you’ve given us your presence,” she says, voice quiet, so that virgil’s breakfasting siblings won’t overhear. “and time with a relatively newborn baby.”

patton makes an alarmingly creaky noise, which means that logan makes an alarmingly creaky noise, sensing that something’s wrong, and virgil panics, just a bit, because hearing logan scream and knowing he can’t do anything about it is possibly one of the worst feelings in the world.

“you’re sixteen,” virgil says roughly. “you’re sixteen. okay? you’ve had a rough year. you’re a good kid. you deserve christmas presents without any strings attached.”

patton inhales deeply and presses his fingers under his eyes, like the pressure will be enough to stop the tears. 

“but i—i couldn’t even remember to bring your present—”

“and that’s okay,” virgil says firmly. “you’ll bring it next time you come to the diner, that’s fine.”

“—i didn’t even get you anything,” patton says to his mom, watery. “and you’ve been so kind to me, i—”

“that’s okay,” meredith says. “hey, that’s okay. your presence is enough, just like i said.”

“but—”

“it is enough,” meredith says quietly. “look. giving presents makes you feel good, right?”

patton nods, curly hair still damp around the edges flopping into his eyes.

“ so,” meredith says. “you’re letting us get that feeling. that’s a nice present, wouldn’t you say?”

patton hesitates, clearly warring with himself, but then—

“and you’ll let us hold the baby, as long as he doesn’t cry? we’re all vaccinated and i want my children to practice for—”

“ no grandkid talk,” virgil grumbles, which makes patton sniffle and smile.

“well…. okay,” he says, before he says, “i’m going to send you something for your birthday, though.”

“well, i’ll have to do that too!” meredith says cheerfully. “when’s yours?”

“january 15.”

“no way,” meredith says.

“what?”

“mine’s january 16!”

and, almost as suddenly as it started, patton’s closeness to tears has abated as he and meredith discuss the various merits and drawbacks of a january birthday, patton’s well-trained ability to small talk and his genuine, enthusiastic interest in getting to know people shining through, distracting him, and virgil breathes a soft sigh of relief. 

no more crying on christmas. patton shouldn’t have to feel like crying on christmas. it’s christmas.

so virgil turns, and moves to get another cinnamon roll, before—

“what was all that?”

virgil scowls at silas, almost out of habit, before he takes his chosen cinnamon roll off the tray.

maybe it was the cinnamon roll that silas’ hand was closest to, and maybe silas scowls right back, but hey, virgil made it, he gets first dibs.

“patton was a bit emotional about christmas presents when he didn’t get anyone but me anything,” virgil says curtly.

silas hums.

“silas, i swear—”

“hey, if you don’t get snappy with me, i won’t be snappy with you,” silas says, putting up his free hand. “christmas is the time of truces and all that.”

virgil stares at him for a few more seconds, evaluating the validity of this, before he allows a jerky nod and turns away from him.

just in time to see patton unearth logan from his chest carrier, and to see his mother coo down at his sleepy face.

“give him a couple seconds, he just needs to wake up a little so he doesn’t panic when we pass him over,” patton murmurs, and his mother laughs, staring down at the baby with soft eyes.

god. his mom really wants grandbabies.

virgil thinks, as he stares at patton and his mom, smiling together down at logan, that patton and his son are probably a pretty good interim patch for that particular desire.

thank god, he thinks. it’s not like he’s about to have a kid anytime soon.

  “okay, who’s santa this year?”

“it was us last year, i think,” essie says, patting annabelle’s knee. “so that means…?”

“i gave up my turn,” silas says, because silas can kind of be a grinch, “so—”

“me!” freddie sings, launching herself from the booth. “okay, light blue patton, dark blue for the baby?”

“that’s the one,” mark says cheerfully, who is now taking his turn holding the baby, and he looks absolutely delighted that logan was comfortable enough to fall back asleep in his arms.

“and everyone else’s is normal,” freddie says, before gathering an armful of purple boxes and bags and cheerfully dumping them at virgil’s feet.

“thanks, fred,” he says dryly. “sure hope there wasn’t anything breakable in there.”

freddie ignores him. virgil has the feeling that she’d be flipping him off behind her back if their mother wasn’t sitting right next to him.

“so, um,” patton says uncertainly, from where he’s hovering right next to virgil’s dad in case of Random Baby Meltdown Time, “how do you guys usually do this?”

“pass them out in order, tear them open in chaos,” annabelle informs him. 

“there is no order,” essie says at the same time, and patton nods, absorbing this.

“right,” he says, “okay,” and accepts a load of indigo presents with a thank you to freddie and a glance at logan, just to check that he’s still okay; virgil’s dad transfers logan to his carrier, so he doesn’t get jostled during the whole gift-opening session.

freddie continues passing out presents as quickly (and carelessly) as she can—gold for mom, silver for dad, green for wyatt, red for essie, pink for annabelle, black for silas, yellow for freddie, purple for virgil—and as soon as the last present is placed in the pile by patton’s feet, freddie immediately tears into her nearest present with a vicious, vociferous glee.

and the rest of them are off.

with five kids (and, now, five kids, a fiancée, and a friend with a baby) it had always taken way too long to go in order, one-by-one, and so it became the norm that as soon as whoever was santa that year opened their first present, the rest of them had free reign to open their presents as quickly or as slowly as they would like.

it would probably shock no one that most danes’ favored quickly.

soon, the diner was overrun with the sound of ripping wrapping paper and crumpling tissue paper and exclamations of “thanks!” whenever they saw what they got, and who they got it from, and leaning around people to offer hugs or more specific comments.

virgil looks up in the midst of ripping some shiny purple wrapping paper off a box, to see patton, frozen, with his hands on the first box he’d gingerly picked up, staring at the chaos.

for a second, virgil thinks he might be overwhelmed; they can be noisy when they’re all jammed in together like this, with an occasion as exciting as christmas presents, and patton hasn’t exactly had an easy past couple of days. or an easy past year, for that matter.

but patton’s eyes dart over to look at virgil’s parents: his mom, in the middle of squeezing freddie into a hug and then giving her a soft, joking punch for the gag gift that freddie must have gotten at some kind of godawful tourist trap, virgil isn’t even really sure what it is but whatever it’s supposed to be probably shouldn’t be sequined and glow-in-the-dark; his dad, pulling free a cookbook from the bag he’d been hurling tissue paper from just seconds earlier.

and then patton beams, and tears the wrapping paper off the nearest sky-blue box with a satisfying rrrrrrrriiiiip!!!

virgil grins down at his own box, and resumes opening his own gifts, that warm, sentimental feeling blooming in his chest that he only really gets around christmas.

⁂

later, patton remembers logan’s first christmas mostly in snapshots; golden, precious memories that he’ll cling to for years, the kind of memories he knows will be cherished even before he’s finished living through them.

he eats his weight in cinnamon rolls, and then doubles it in ginger snaps. 

he helps virgil and silas and wyatt cart up virgil’s new furniture; virgil’s particularly protective of the framed nightmare before christmas cross-stitch, moving it over seven times (silas counts) before he carts it off to his room to decide where it’ll go later, when all of them are out of the room (“it’s not like any of you are interior designers,” virgil grumbles after this, probably annoyed by their constant recommendations, but really, moving it seven times?!)

he remembers the danes’ immediately clearing the easiest path for him to step into virgil’s room as soon as logan starts crying, and they all seem eager to lend a helping hand if he needs one; especially virgil and his parents, but the other siblings too. which patton appreciates, he really does! it’s just that he doesn’t think logan’s quite ready to learn how to do a baby cartwheel yet, like freddie’s offering.

virgil’s mother gets a new camera that morning from virgil’s father, and spends the rest of the day breaking it in; a lot of those are of logan (“baby’s first christmas!” she says, “you’ll want these for later!” which patton certainly is not contesting) but everyone gets their photo taken a lot, too. patton’s already gotten a promise from mrs. danes that she’ll send him a copy of virgil, so heavily dusted with flour that it makes him look like a ghost, after freddie got it in her head to storm into the kitchen and start a food fight when the culinarily-inclined danes siblings were tucked away for far too long, shouting about family time!

he teaches essie how to finger-knit a braided row that might become a blanket, later, sitting side-by-side on the couch, as freddie and annabelle both try to teach logan how to roll over on virgil’s new, fluffy, gray rug, as logan sits in his carrier and gnaws, slobbering, on his new jupiter teething toy. he’s about two months away from all that, but hey, if they’re dedicated to teaching him, maybe logan’s a quick learner.

virgil teaches him how to know when to flip a pancake, and sure, sometimes his pancakes are very pale, and sure, sometimes they’re very dark, but hey, at least patton knows how to keep an eye out for the popping air bubbles at the edge of the batter now!

meredith sits with him on the couch, a hand on his shoulder, watching fondly as all of her children bicker over the latest results of their card game and patton’s sitting with a snoozing logan in his arms, and says, “it’ll all go by a lot faster than you could ever guess, you know. cherish it.”

but mostly, patton remembers a lot of laughing, and the fighting being mostly joking in nature and never very serious, and no stilted small talk or muffled gossip or terrible catered food or itchy tulle dresses or ill-fitting suits or the desperate urge to steal a bottle of merlot and sneak out onto the balcony with christopher. he remembers the warmth of his sweater, and the look on each of the danes’ faces when logan seems to consent to being passed around with minimal complaining (except for screaming when silas holds him, but he’s easily enough calmed when patton picks him back up.)

and patton remembers this too.

they’re all sitting in the living room, waiting for the last of their christmas breakfast-for-dinner to cook, and he and the danes’ are all gathered in the living room; patton’s just finished a session of tummy-time with logan, so logan’s cuddled in his arm, eyes hazily lidded, like he’s about to drop off for another nap, but not quite sleeping yet.

the danes’ are all talking about family stories in the past, and patton is hopelessly trying to map out their extensive family tree in his head; virgil’s mom is the youngest of four girls, and virgil’s dad is the youngest of nine, so patton has absolutely no chance of keeping uncle marco or great-aunt maud straight in his head, he really doesn’t, unless someone wants to hand him a visual aid or something.

currently, the conversation’s centering around a great-aunt winnie; freddie’s namesake, apparently.

“—never got an ounce of common sense in all her life, but god, the woman was funny,” meredith finishes.

“aw, it passes down to winifreds through the generations,” silas says, and freddie reaches over to smack the back of his head, grinning despite herself.

“shut up, silas.”

“yeah, shut up, silas,” virgil echoes, grinning. “it’s not freddie’s fault that our parents cursed her with that name, it’s not like they have a very good track record with naming.”

“virgil!” meredith gasps, jokingly offended, which would probably be more effective if all five danes siblings hadn’t sounded off in noisy agreement. patton directs his smile down at logan, lest meredith try to net him to her side, because, well. the names they’d given all their children were nice names, of course, it was just… they were certainly all choices.

“he’s right, mom,” essie agrees, smiling up at her mom apologetically. “i mean, he has the most cause to complain, so—”

except virgil hisses at her, and patton looks over at them curiously.

“you do?”

“he doesn’t know?” silas says gleefully.

“i mean, well—” virgil says, fumbling.

“—’cause, i mean, virgil thomas isn’t so bad,” patton says, glancing out at the rest of them. “that’s the pattern, right, an, um… unusual name first and a real normal one in the middle? uh, like winifred jane, right?”

“okay, see, what i said was,” virgil says, clearly scrambling. “i like that yours and logan’s middle names are thomas, i wish mine was too, that’s why it was my confirmation name, so—”

“your middle name isn’t thomas?”

“absolutely not,” freddie says, absolutely mirthful. “it’s, like, one billion times worse.”

“— but,” virgil says, “thomas is my confirmation name, which is what i told you, and also what i prefer, because what they gave me—”

“they’re noble names!” mark says, which would probably be more convincing if he wasn’t fighting his own smile.

“ names?” patton repeats. “you’ve got two middle names?”

virgil grumbles into his glass, something like look at what you’ve all done, and patton looks at him quizzically.

virgil lets out a long, slow sigh. “you have to promise not to laugh, and that you won’t tell anyone.”

“i won’t,” patton vows loyally.

“my name,” virgil says, sighs again, and continues, “is virgil tringad luigi danes.”

patton blinks. and then he presses his lips together for a moment, but he can’t help the way the corners of his lips twitch up.

“you said you wouldn’t laugh,” virgil says, offended.

“it’s a hilarious name,” freddie says.

essie, pitying, pats virgil on the shoulder. “it is a pretty funny name, virge.”

“luigi,” patton manages to say, when he’s pretty sure he won’t burst into giggles just from opening his mouth. “like. like from—”

“ don’t,” virgil groans.

“like from mario?!” he says, and presses a hand over his mouth before he really starts laughing at virgil.

this very obvious ploy doesn’t work, because virgil turns his disgruntled gaze back to him, before—

“like luigi, my grandfather,” mark corrects, before he smiles, too. “and, yes, also like mario.”

“you hate me,” virgil grumbles to mark and meredith. “i mean, seriously. tringad?”

“it means fair town!” meredith protests. “you couldn’t exactly be virgil sideshire luigi, could you?”

“you hate me.”

“oh, bunny, of course we do,” meredith says. “that’s why we fed, clothed, and housed you for eighteen years, before eventually passing the family business down to you. i mean, clearly, it sounds like your father and i loathe you.”

“oh, yeah,” virgil continues to mutter, “there’s wyatt james and esther marie and silas matthew and winifred jane, and then i, virgil tringad luigi—”

and that’s what tips patton over the edge, the laughter bursting out of him before he can even try to stop it. virgil’s betrayed face almost makes it funnier; it’s the kind of laughter patton couldn’t stop even if he’d been trying (and he had been trying!) but once it explodes forth, it feels so good and so right that he wouldn’t even try to stop, and it’s the best kind of laughter, belly-aching and breathless and making his cheeks hurt, he hasn’t laughed like this since god knows when and that makes it all the better, all the more that he wants to laugh, and then—

and then, the most beautiful sound that patton’s ever heard.

logan’s laughing. a beautiful, bubbly, precious little baby laugh, eyes crinkling up, smiling up at patton, laughing with him, and it shocks patton into laughing right along with him, sure that his smile is splitting his face, because his baby is laughing.

“he’s laughing,” patton says in disbelief, and lets out a breathless exhalation, looking up at the rest of the danes’. “logan’s laughing!”

“logan’s laughing!” virgil cheers, any betrayal over patton laughing at his name forgotten, and meredith says, “his first laugh?” as mark says “congratulations!” and patton looks down at logan in his arms, reaching a hand to tickle a little bit at logan’s belly, so blinded by his smile and maybe happy tears that he can only see logan’s smiling, perfect face.

“laugh for your papa, honey!” patton urges, gently tickling his belly. “go on, baby, laugh!”

and logan does, and it’s so beautiful, so precious, and patton is euphoric, letting out a laugh with him that might be a sob, disbelieving and overjoyed as the rest of the danes’ provide a delighted cacophony in the background that logan seems to turn to to listen, before looking up at patton and laughing again. his son’s first laugh, happening in his arms, surrounded by people who support him, and one of his best friends, and—

and it’s the best christmas present he’s ever gotten.

⁂

logan’s tuckered out from his first laugh and his second laugh and the third and fourth and on and on until patton lost count, because each and every danes made their very best attempt to make him laugh, with none as successful as virgil, and patton treasures every single one, because his baby. laughing.

the first outward expression of joy, other than laughing. a huge step toward his own expression as a person. 

it’s perfect. logan’s perfect.

patton rubs at his aching cheeks, still smiling, as he slowly steps back from logan napping away in his carrier.  

logan sleeps on, and so eventually patton turns his back on him, approaching the diner’s kitchen.

“anything i can help with?” he asks, even though it doesn’t seem necessary; the danes’ are all a well-oiled machine, all seemingly used to their jobs preparing their massive breakfast-for-dinner.

meredith glances out at the kitchen; virgil flipping pancakes, jostling elbows with silas frying bacon at the same stove; essie checking biscuits set out to cool; freddie and annabelle laughing as they cut fresh fruit; wyatt scrambling eggs; mark flipping waffles out of the iron with professional efficiency.

“how about,” meredith says, clearly struggling to come up with a job that didn’t really require cooking that hadn’t already been taken.

“i could set the table?” patton offers, and she smiles at him in relief, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“yes! set the table. um, plates are there, silverware should be—”

“over in the basket,” virgil says, “we moved ‘em,” and meredith nods.

“ma’am, yes ma’am,” patton says, and goes over to gather an armful of plates, a handful of already-napkin-wrapped silverware.

his parents would probably be aghast that he was eating off plastic plates, with durable forks, for christmas dinner. patton pushes the thought of his mind, like he has been for the nearly two months he’s been gone, but strangely, it hurts less.

like a bruise that’s starting to heal.

patton can only hope that pattern continues, but he decides to focus on setting down plates and silverware, instead.

he ends up filling pitchers with juice and hot cocoa/coffee and regular coffee and water, too, before the danes’ all come to finish their own jobs and cart out platters and platters of food; hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, fruit, pancakes and waffles—it’s a veritable feast, and patton’s mouth is watering just looking at it.

virgil pushes a mug in his hands, and patton’s about to thank him until the smell hits his nose.

“this is decaf,” he says, holding it back out for him.

“ how,” virgil says disbelievingly. “i poured it when you weren’t looking!”

patton grins at him. he could tell him it’s the smell—decaf always smells different than fully caffeinated—but he’s having too much fun showing off that he knows it’s decaf before it even touches his lips to consider that, yet.

“i know all,” patton says, making his tone aloof and mystical, so that virgil snorts at him.

“okay, well, you should still drink it.”

“it’s christmas!” patton says, aghast. 

“it’s dinnertime,” virgil says.

“i’m not seeing your point,” patton says, and virgil sighs.

“look,” he says. “just… drink the decaf, as a christmas present to me. just the reassurance that i’m trying to keep you from tossing and turning all night.”

patton hesitates, staring at him, before he sighs.

“i’m not going to like it,” patton grumbles.

“i’d never expect you to,” virgil says, a laugh in his voice. 

all the rest of the danes’ have started filtering in from the kitchen, carting the last of the plates; virgil sees them, and ducks into the kitchen to help. patton deliberates going, too, except annabelle starts chatting with him about logan, his favorite topic of conversation, so he’s a bit distracted.

the scent of fresh-baked pastry and apples and cinnamon brings him to a pause, staring at the plate that a familiar pale hand sets down in front of him.

they’re not apple tarts. the ones at his parents’ party are twisted to resemble little roses with perfectly spiced, perfectly baked, perfectly cubed apples in the center, overlaid with an elaborate, perfect lattice. perfect, perfect, perfect; just like everything else is supposed to be, at a sanders party.

these are more like mini apple pies. unassuming and simple—a crust rolled over the top with an x cut into the center, the edges clearly pressed down against with a fork. not at all uniform, or particularly picturesque. not perfect.

patton finds himself getting choked up anyway.

  “i couldn’t, um,” virgil says, and coughs. “i couldn’t find a recipe for apple tarts, this is the closest i could get, but i hope—”

“i love them,” patton says, cutting him off, and if his voice a bit more watery than usual virgil doesn’t comment on it. “i-i love them. i just— thank you.”

it still doesn’t feel like enough, thank you, he means, it doesn’t feel like enough to tell virgil for everything he’s done for patton, for logan. it’s so thoughtful, and such a sweet gesture, to bring the part of christmas that patton’s been audible about missing that virgil could conceivably bring to patton. and he did.

he gave patton presents, and comfort, and the opportunity to get to know his family, and the closest thing he could get to apple tarts. apple tarts, patton’s favorite christmas tradition. right here. in addition to a welcoming, kind family, and presents, and providing the impetus for his son’s first laugh—

it’s not enough. it feels like it might never be enough.

virgil settles in beside him, the rest of the family all sitting down, still laughing and chatting, reaching for platters and starting to pass them up and down the table.

“what are friends for, right?” he says quietly. 

patton tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, and tries to smile at virgil. virgil smiles back at him, soft, and understanding, and patton thinks that maybe he doesn’t really have to say anything at all.

he plucks one of the apple pies. it’s still hot enough that it feels like it’s burning the tips of his fingers as he drops it on his plate. he cuts it, and the scent of apple and cinnamon comes through even clearer. he lifts a heaping forkful to his mouth, blowing out a breath in a futile attempt to cool it, before he eats it, savoring the flavors dancing on his tongue.

it tastes like christmas.

⁂

virgil’s stretched out on the rug, lying on the ground with a hand on his stomach. everyone else has claimed most of the furniture, similarly food-stunned and lazy.

“so i guess people don’t want to make dessert or anything, then?” his mother teases the whole room, only to be met by a chorus of groans that virgil only ever really hears on thanksgiving, or christmas, or the random weekends where they’d all decided to try out a variety of new recipes for the diner and gorged themselves on it and all of its subsequent, experimental variations.

everyone is sleepy, and quiet, and content. virgil’s content.

essie and annabelle slumped against each other, legs tangled together as their feet are propped up on the same (new) ottoman; silas is on the other cushion of the loveseat next to them, close to nodding off; wyatt and freddie are sitting together on the couch with their parents, deep in a game of go fish; patton’s flopped out on his belly, not far from virgil, along with logan, who’s having some tummy time. some classic christmas music is playing in the background.

it’s been a good christmas, a great christmas, even; he’s gotten presents to help make the apartment look a little less barren and a little more homey, patton and logan had a good day, he got to spend a lot of time with his siblings and his parents and his future sister-in-law. and, considering that his dad’s nodding off on the couch right now, it means that christmas is winding down.

there’s always this strange feeling that virgil gets, right before he goes to sleep on a holiday, or after a really good day. sometimes, he feels like he’s so hyperaware of everything that could go wrong, that when days turned out as close to perfect as they could—like today—it felt bittersweet, that such a good day had come to such a satisfying closing, but at the same time, thinking about how quickly things were changing, everything that could happen, and he’s almost a little afraid, every birthday or christmas or thanksgiving or family weekend, that it’ll be the last one like this, the last one where he and silas won’t fight, the last one where they’ll all be together like this, the last time it’ll go well.

he knows how unlikely he is that that feeling is right, but, well. anxiety. it tries to convince him that it’s right all the time. and it is, in a way; logan’s never going to be this little again, for a holiday like this. essie and annabelle will get married, and grow out of their honeymoon phase. freddie might be whisked off to paris or cairo or london or tokyo with her intention on running away to the circus. wyatt might drown himself in work and not escape from the operating room. silas might get bitterer, and bitterer, and his parents’ constant reassurances that they’d grow out of whatever rivalry they’ve got going would be wrong.

his parents are getting older, too. there are more gray hairs at his father’s temples than there were when they moved away. and that’s going to keep happening, and soon, it won’t just be gray hairs.

virgil shakes himself, and rolls over, enough to come face-to-face with logan. logan’s enough to jolt him out of that particular line of thought; it’s hard to think about aging and all the scary things that comes with that when he’s staring a baby dead in the face.

“oh, hey,” he says. “‘sup, buddy, you kinda zoomed on over here, or did i just roll real far?”

“you rolled real far,” patton says, amused. “logan’s not due to start crawling until about may or june.”

virgil makes a noise of understanding, before he says, “yeah, probably too much to expect to get two major milestones on one day, huh?”

logan babbles at him in agreement, and virgil smiles, offering him a finger to grasp and slobber on.

“yeah, it would,” he murmurs to him. “one’s just fine, though. good job on that. laughing’s awesome, you’ll love it.”

“yeah, he will,” patton says, beaming at logan, lightly rubbing his back before propping his chin on his hand. he had a look on his face; he wasn’t smiling as widely as he had been, when he was talking to logan, and, weirdly, it strikes virgil that he might not be the only one with a case of holiday melancholy.

of course he wasn’t, virgil scolds himself a moment later. jesus, if anyone was afforded a case of holiday moodiness, it was patton, who had just gone through his first christmas without his parents, knowing full well that he was going to take steps to face a lot more than just christmases without them. 

virgil’s so entrenched in this line of thought that it’s almost jolting when his mother says, “well, it’s probably time to head back to the inn.”

“oh!” patton says, surprised, and virgil carefully takes his finger back from logan, who seems to pout at him, but doesn’t start crying, which is really the best he can hope for. he manages to push himself onto his feet.

the goodbye hugs pass by in a rush; it’s not their last goodbye hugs—they’re all coming to the diner tomorrow for a goodbye breakfast—so they’re quick, everyone eager to drop into bed and sleep off their food comas. 

“patton, do you want to walk back with us?” his mother asks. “since we’re all walking the same direction.”

“oh, no, that’s okay,” patton says. “i thought i might, um. help virgil pick up a little.”

virgil looks at him a little strangely; they’d washed all the dishes, and really, the only picking up that needed to be done was putting pillows back on their proper couches, and throwing away the last of the plastic cups people had been sipping wine and beer out of. nothing really intensive, and, honestly, nothing that couldn’t wait until morning.

“plus, um, i figured i’d make sure logan’s all good before the walk back,” patton says, adjusting logan a little so that virgil’s mom could coo at him—it’s a grade-a diversion tactic, virgil has to admit, just showing off the baby.

fine, it’s worked on him before, he isn’t heartless, it’s a baby, and more than that, it’s logan.

“all right, well,” she says, floundering.

“it won’t take very long,” patton says, “i just don’t want you to wait very long, or anything.”

“oh, that’s not a problem,” she says briskly. “i can just make sure—here, i’ll pick up in here, you two take the kitchen, we’ll be done. before you know it.”

“okay,” patton says. 

they go into the kitchen. it really is just throwing away crumpled napkins and dumping discarded drinks into the sink before sorting it into trash and recycling, but patton seems strangely fidgety, changing the way he’s holding logan about five times.

“you okay?” virgil asks, once that they’ve cleared up everything.

patton clears his throat, adjusting his grip.

“i just,” patton says, and takes a deep breath. “i think i want to call my parents.”

virgil stops in his tracks. “oh,” he says, and he’s sure he sounds a little strangled.

“not, like,” patton says, and lets out the breath. “not the house, i don’t think i could handle—um, i think i might leave a message on my dad’s machine at work. no chance of anyone answering, but… but i can still say merry christmas, and tell them about meeting up after the new year.”

“meet up?” virgil repeats, striving to keep his voice neutral.

“i should at least,” he says, and swallows. “i think i should at least tell them about the emancipation thing to their face. right? i’d want someone to tell me about that, so i just—i don’t want to blindside them, that’s all. i think i’ve done enough of that.”

“you didn’t,” virgil starts, before he stops, and says, “are you sure about this?”

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i’m sure.”

“okay,” virgil says. “do you want—i mean. should i go in the other room, or—?”

“no,” patton says, then, “i just—i want you there. we could step onto the balcony maybe?”

virgil nods. 

“it’s just,” patton says. “i—i dunno. it feels… wrong, i guess. to not at least try to talk to them. it’s christmas.”

virgil lets out a sigh. because, well. he may hate emily and richard sanders, but if it’ll make this kid feel better about the christmas he’s had…

well, who is he to stop his friend from feeling better?

[flaming-mindsplosion]

Did... Did we forget we’re talking about McDonalds here? Did we all just look at a handful of trending clickbait GIFs of cherry picked uncredited randos at a public food convention and lose all common sense because we’re that opposed to wealth and... food criticism? Did I miss the meme that made food criticism the new Scarlet Johnson? Where the hell did food critic resentment spawn out of?

Look, it’s fine to eat cheap fast food and plenty of bougie food is just an overpriced edible status symbol and the public shaming of affordable fast food is definitely gross classism... but can we talk about these things without playing into youtube clickbait sensationalism and the manipulative editing of implied information in a video clearly designed to con you? Can we do that? Because I’d rather we not all start pretending that the Dutch prank channel behind classic content, like the 189 second video “Gay for a Day”, blew the lid right off that classist food critic conspiracy in a grand Marxist victory against Anton Ego using only Big Macs, toothpicks, a total refusal to credit anyone involved

Video

[capybelarps]

⭐ I had something else planned for this prompt, but yesterday as I wrote six Penny tags in a 12 hour period, something I never do with chars unless I'm rfing, I realized something. Somewhere along the way, Penélope became my most relevant character.

⭐ I don't know how it happened. I don't know why it happened. It just did. When I made her, I was convinced people would think she's boring, and I went in with the mindset that I shouldn't get too attached because maybe I'd have no plots in a few months. But now? Now, I get to write with her some things that I didn't even realize how much I wanted to write - needed to write.

⭐ Penny has so many stories that are relevant, maybe not to everyone, but they're relevant to me. She's the representation I needed, and I think I'm allowed to be a little selfish in my own prompt ahahahah. Penny's past is scarred by racism, classism, deportation trauma, physical abuse, homophobia, and soon, divorce - but I wanted to make sure these things weren't her. Not in an unrealistic 'sunshine person who can't be brought down' trope, but because I needed her to be more than the things other people did to her. I needed her to be her own person.

⭐ Then we (I saw we because Elle, Haley and Kae gave me the courage to do it) also gave her body diversity, and I also like that it came after I made her, because now we have a big girl who isn't defined by being a big girl. She likes to cook, and she likes to eat, and she isn't ashamed of it because why do only skinny people get to enjoy food without being shamed for it?

⭐ She's all of those things, but she also loves playing soccer and could probably beat your ass at it. She isn't afraid to look silly when she dances. She likes rainbows and plants and enamel pins and philosophy books. And she's incredibly smart, but also incredibly dumb because she's a child, and she's gotta make a whole lot of mistakes to find her own footing, and that's fine. You'll mess things up when you're seventeen, and you'll mess them up again when you're eighteen. You'll take one step forward and two steps backward, and you just hope there isn't a cliff right behind you.

[anecessaryconscience]

The Price of Help.

Right now, I am a newly 26 year old full-time Master’s student, that is 5 months pregnant with my first child. It’s a really exciting time. I’m on the verge of accomplishing some of my greatest goals in life: earning a Master’s degree, creating a family, and with a lot of optimism and luck, hopefully starting a great career as well. Yet no one has it all. As a pregnant, full-time student, I have had to make difficult decisions and compromises, mainly not being able to work. Spending my time studying instead of working has enabled me to do really well this past semester, as well as to have a perfectly healthy pregnancy so far; but it has also left me without the health benefits that my job was providing. As an expectant mother, to not have provided healthcare is obviously scary, but there are options for me and others like me. In my home state of California the government can provide medical assistance, unemployment insurance, supplemental nutrition and education towards pregnant women, and monthly benefits for food, among other programs. Otherwise, or formerly known as welfare. Our state has shied away from the term “welfare,” and has changed the names of programs like Food Stamps, to CalFresh, in an attempt to re-establish government benefits as friendly instead of disconcerting. The change to do so says a lot about how many of us feel about these programs. Before I even began the process of applying for medical assistance, something I need and contribute to as a tax paying citizen, I felt a hesitancy and guilt towards doing so. When visiting websites like https://www.benefits.gov/, certain words become marked and repetitive: low-income, poverty, needy. When seeking advice on the process of applying for benefits, I was told to beware of dressing “classy,” during trips to Social Services. Case workers are apparently known to deny certain applicants depending on their appearance and approach. If a person seems like they can afford healthcare, than an application may be thrown out. It is advised to condescend to workers, who hold the state of their health and wellness within their power. Not surprisingly, I found this objectionable - and true. During trips to the Social Services offices, I remember being addressed as a “good girl,” for properly filling out my paperwork. Even though I’m an educated adult and soon-to-be mother, because I needed government assistance I was seen as simple and pitiful. I’m sure that pity is what finally resulted in the acceptance of my application after three different tries. On my third visit I came in with puffy eyes because I was stressed and crying, not in an attempt to conjure sympathy, but because I was truly frustrated and concerned with the fate of my health coverage. I also conceded to the advice that I exaggerate the woes of my personal life to my case worker, so that I would be a more likely candidate for government assistance. During my not-so-sob-story I told the case worker of the day, that I was currently in between residences, which led to the magic word of approval: homeless. Which, I guess I am in a way (I’m somewhere in between living with my boyfriend at his apartment, moving out of my own home, and us finding a new one to live in together, without roommates or parents), which is fine. But having to grovel for charity affirmed all of my negative opinions. Any attempts to make government assistance normalized and acceptable suddenly became moot. Instead of feeling responsible for taking the steps to simultaneously progress my education, my future, and my personal life, I was left with an aftertaste. It’s funny, everyone loves free things, but no one likes to feel like things have been handed to them- especially out of pity. Earning a scholarship, or not alerting the cashier or waitress that they left something off of my bill, seems like a win, but receiving assistance from my government, for programs I pay for with my income, made me feel needy. And yes, I do need help, as does everyone; so where does the shame come from?

Considering all the complaining that I, and anyone else I have ever known to pay taxes, has done about paying taxes; it’s nice to knowingly be on the receiving end of them every once in a while. So often we give up portions of our hard earned incomes and don’t know what happens to all of that money, which is supposedly meant to enhance the quality of life for ourselves, our neighbors, and our communities. I’m from the San Francisco Bay Area, which according to TIME magazine, has 3 out of the top 5 most expensive cities in the U.S to live in: 1. San Francisco, 4. Oakland, 5. San Jose. In these cities we pay a fortune towards government spending, while homelessness becomes abundant, our public schools go underfunded, and our transportation systems lag. The discrepancy between costs of living and the quality of life for everyone that lives here, makes me think twice about my opinions on government assistance. Instead of focusing on justifications for why I would have to associate with welfare, I should be more concerned with how the welfare of our state can and should be expanded and improved. To me this begins with the divisions between citizens and government, and “haves” and “have-nots.” In reality, there are no such divisions. Those in government are citizens like the rest of us, and it is their sole job to be representative of that and us. Everyone “has,” and there are times and aspects where everyone “has not.” If our state wanted to be more progressive, and inclusive it would be best to abstain from such classifications, and to just offer help because its beneficial not just to those who are looking for it, but for all of us who give it. If there was a way to improve the education of our young people, to eradicate the housing crisis and homelessness, to create a smarter, more confident, and able-bodied populace, wouldn’t you be supportive of it? Especially if the programs and the funding were already in place? To do so would put the pride and authenticity back into the term local, instead of making it a quaint or marketable slogan. When immigration, outsourcing, gentrification, and overcrowding are at a high, everything local -people, places, and products- should be an obvious endorsement. That can be just as easily done, as said.

There’s no need to be scared of helping others, especially if it means that the place you love and live in will be all the better for it. Caring for our community and those within in it, isn’t a strain or a handout, but a part of being civilized. I care about others, and I care about myself and the life of my future son, so I take pride in lending, receiving, and being vocal about the support that is required of me. People should not have to degrade themselves for compassion, but should be able to receive aid as advertised, and not under false or intimidating circumstances. There should be no hesitancy to ask our government for assistance, because that is what it is in place for. For some reason, social wellness and inclusion are just not top priorities or attractions in our country. Americans take pleasure in a “can do” attitude, where anyone can strike it rich, become successful, or work their way to the top. But that is just not a reality for everyone, at least not currently. Sexism, racism, classism, and a whole bunch of other “isms” are still issues, as we are witness to every day when we scroll through our various timelines and news sources. The same opportunities are not available to all of us. In order to make that “can do” spirit possible for people born of every sex, color, creed, or background, there needs to be less stigma surrounding their struggle to approach it. Fighting, growing, and learning, is not easy. If we chose to do so, we should do so without shame, reproach, or loneliness. It should not be so hard, to be a part of one’s own country.

[candiewitch]

#MorningAnnouncement like CAN YALL STOP THIS SHIT?? It’s fine that you want to eat healthy. It’s even fine that you have a genuine concern for someone else’s health. HOWEVER, it ain’t okay to shame & scare them into making the same choices you do, food wise. And it’s always folx who are following a trend that make this the most annoying. You can afford to shop at a health food store on a daily basis so that gives you the authority to preach about health to someone who can’t? Y’all can keep that classism away from me & mine please. Thanks!

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

previous chapter / chapter seven / next chapter

start from the beginning!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, deadnaming, misgendering, see more specific warning below

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 13,664

note: this chapter contains purposeful deadnaming, misgendering, transphobia, homophobia, someone hitting someone else (neither of them are sides) and slut-shaming language, as well as the portrayal of a fairly heated argument. that section begins with "i've gotta see my parents," christopher says, anxious. and it is safe to continue reading at the section that begins with logan's in the backseat of the car. a summary can be found here. please take care of yourselves.

the sanders men walk out of virgil's diner, patton ducking his head into his elbow to cough, logan almost bouncing a little with victory.

see, that whole you need to at least paint the diner idea had not subsided. fallen to the wayside a little with the approach of logan's birthday, sure. but now his birthday was over, he was still insisting on it, more and more. it had started up in full during breakfast, the following monday.

and today—thursday, dinner, nearly two weeks since logan's birthday—virgil had finally, grudgingly, agreed.

"we'll have to bring over paint swatches tomorrow during breakfast, or something," patton tells logan, because the way virgil had finally actually agreed was because patton promised to stop over and help, and they could make a whole night of it, sometime this weekend. "i think we could just do pretty similar colors to what he's got now, you know how virgil gets about change."

he does not like it, to put it delicately.

"how long do you think it's been, since he's done anything to the diner?"

"before we got here, probably," patton says. "it's been that color for forever. just fading slowly."

"how much time do you think it'll take me to get him to get the furniture reupholstered?" logan says thoughtfully, already plotting.

"maybe by the time you graduate college," patton teases, nudging logan (carefully soft, so he didn't bump his son off the sidewalk and into the road.)

"maybe i can sneak one at a time," logan says. "introduce change slowly."

"that might work," patton begins, but he's cut off by a distant rumbling of an engine.

a distant, familiar rumbling of an engine. that's getting closer by the minute.

no, patton thinks. no, it can't be. my ears aren't that good. it's probably another motorcycle, not that old indian.

"it would probably be most effective if i begin with the barstools, they have the most obvious wear and tear," logan says, and patton tries to focus again, taking away the urge to look back over his shoulder at the motorcycle that's surely approaching. they stop at one of the four crosswalks in town. that motorcycle keeps getting closer.

"hey," the motorcyclist grunts, when they pull up to the stop.

"hi," patton says cautiously, trying to remember if he's seen a motorcycle parking at the inn the past couple days, if it's someone new to town.

"nice shirt," the motorcyclist says to him. "take it off."

huh. okay, so patton's ears really are that good.

patton's smiling despite himself as he tugs off his helmet, and patton bursts out with "christopher!" when he sees that face, those familiar whiskey-colored eyes and that tousled hair and that messy five o'clock shadow and suddenly he's sixteen again.

"hey!" he says, and patton's moving forward before he could have even considered stopping, hugging him tight and inhaling—same cologne, same old leather riding jacket, same solid chest. same christopher.

patton steps back, grinning at him—it still strikes him as strange, now, that with the addition of t and the growth spurt it'd given him, they're practically the same height. patton's always going to think of him as tall.

"what are you doing here?"

"here to see the birthday boy, of course," he says, and patton turns to see where logan's still standing at the crosswalk, staring at them both. "and you."

"logan—"

"my birthday was two weeks ago," logan says tightly, arms crossed.

"well, i know," christopher says, a little uncomfortably. "i texted you. i wasn't sure if you got it, because i didn't get a response, but—"

"why are you here?" logan says.

"well, my folks are back in town, so i'm here to see them," he says. "and on the way i thought i'd drop by and surprise the sanders guys. are you surprised?"

"the teeniest feather could knock me right over," patton says, because—christopher. here. in sideshire. 

"so, where would someone find a place to stay around here?"

"if you don't mind a couch, we can keep you for a couple days," patton says.

"there's the inn," logan adds. away from us, he doesn't say, like you've been for years and years and only come back when it's convenient for you.

"thanks, pat," christopher says. "you two won't even know i'm there. logan, you wanna hop on?"

"i'd rather not sustain a serious head injury," logan says coldly. "and anyway, i was going to drop by the courant."

"logan—" patton starts, but logan's already moving.

"see you later!" christopher hollers after him, then turns to patton. "god, he's turned into a teenager, huh?"

"you thought a kid of ours wouldn't have his moments?" patton says.

christopher concedes the point with a self-deprecating laugh, before he pats the motorcycle seat.

"what do you say, lor—uh, love?—old time's sake?"

patton bites his lip, trying to unhear the little slip-up he made—it’s okay, it’s okay, he caught himself, he didn’t actually deadname patton, mistakes happen and chris knew him by his deadname for longer than he did his name now—before he grins, shoving all those worries behind him. or trying to. 

"yeah," he says, "all right," and he slings his leg over and slides close behind christopher and clings to his waist, and it's all coming back to him, so old and so familiar and yet like he hasn't been away from him for even a day, let alone sixteen years.

 patton's busy making up the couch and christopher's in the shower when logan walks in.

"hey, how was rudy?"

"fine," logan says tersely. "i managed to correct several errors before tomorrow's paper went to print."

"that's great!" patton says encouragingly, fluffing a pillow. "can i get any sneak previews?"

"why is he here?" logan says, and patton sets aside the pillow.

"your dad? like he said, i guess, his folks are back in town so—"

"dad," logan says. "i mean why is he here. you could have sent him to the inn."

"he's never been to sideshire before," patton says. "it'd do him well to have some familiar faces around."

"he'd have familiar faces at the inn," logan says. "it's your inn."

patton frowns and straightens up. "are you really uncomfortable with him staying here? he's your dad, and—"

"you're my dad, and do you remember what he did last time?"

"that was a slip-up, it happens sometimes," patton says, trying his hardest not to wince.

"with him it happens every time," logan says. 

"logan, he's trying, and he wants to be here for you," patton says. 

"i don't need him here, nor do i want him here," logan snaps back. "i have you. he's just an—an interloper."

"logan!"

the shower shuts off, and patton quiets himself so he can lecture his son.

"look," patton says in an undertone. "i know he hasn't been here a lot, but he's here. in sideshire. that's gotta mean something different, right?"

"he's going to come and go as he pleases, you know that," logan hisses. "i'm not particularly interested in his attempts of playing happy family and his insistence that he's really got his life together this time before it all comes out that he's here because he needs money, or something else from you, and you're going to give it to him, because you can never see him clearly."

"that is enough," patton says, but there's thunking on the stairs before they can get into it.

"your water pressure," christopher says, toweling off his hair, "is divine."

patton puffs himself up, pleased. "i repaired that showerhead."

"you did not," christopher says, with a laugh.

"i did!"

"okay, you nearly flunked shop class, forgive me if i can't exactly believe that you suddenly know your way around the tool box," christopher says.

"are you hungry?" logan asks mechanically. 

"starving," christopher says.

"we could order some food in," patton says. "we just ate. logan, could you get some of the take-out menus from the drawer?"

logan does as he says, and ends up excusing himself for homework early. 

"tomorrow's friday, nearly the weekend," christopher says.

"i have school on fridays," logan says witheringly. "excuse me."

patton sees right through him, but, well—he can only really sigh after him, and then cough into his elbow again. christopher, somehow, doesn't notice their son's mood. never been too observational, though, christopher, especially with emotion stuff.

"he's a great kid," he says warmly, and any frustration melts away. patton smiles.

"i wish i could say i see more of myself in him than straight hair instead of curls," he adds, fondly tugging at the same curl he used to tug all those years ago—it had been longer, then, but it's in the same place, still just as stubborn about hanging in patton's eyes. 

"i just can't believe you're here," patton says. "here, i mean. in sideshire. why didn't you call?"

"it really was a spur of the moment thing," christopher says. "so much has been changing for me, macaron."

patton's smile widens, and—

"you haven't called me that in years, biscuit."

see, for years and years and years at christopher and his parents' joint gatherings, the most tolerable and most smuggle-able dessert was macarons. patton would swipe handfuls and handfuls into any spare pocket he had, dumping them into christopher's suit pockets, and they'd escape out onto patton's balcony, to eat and drink and giggle in private.

it had been a game they'd played, when they were young. a competition, really, of who could manage to smuggle away the most food. patton's choice had been macarons. christopher's had been biscuits—they'd steal a little honey bear from the fridge, too, little pre-packaged pats of butter, and feast gloriously on their sweet stolen goods.

"i think i finally have all my ducks lined up in a row," christopher continues, smoothing his fingers over patton's curls. "i don't know how much your parents have told you, but i'm on the verge of a big success. for real, this time. i've got a company with actual cash flow, i've got employees, I've got an accountant, for god's sake. i mean, it's for real this time, mac."

patton reaches across to squeeze his wrist. "i'm really happy for you, chris," he says, genuine. "i always knew we'd turn out okay."

"there's some things i need to do. take care of, i mean."

"like what?" patton asks, soft. 

"i haven't been enough a part of logan's life," christopher says, just as soft, just as genuine, and patton can't help but smile, because—because now logan would see, know him the way patton had known him, and they wouldn't be the big happy family that patton had daydreamed about in his weaker moments, years ago, but logan would have both his dads there.

"so i wanna be around more," christopher says, and patton hopes it's because he's bolstered by patton's smile. "to be a pal he can depend on. i mean, i'm not crazy, i know you've got a life going on here, roonie, and god knows he doesn't need anyone besides you, but if you give me a chance—"

"hey," patton murmurs, reaches up to squeeze christopher's wrist, remove his hand from patton's hair and twine their fingers together. "i've always had the door to logan open to you, you know that."

"i do," christopher says. "and thank you for that. i know i haven't used it much, but i wanna use it now. is that okay?"

"of course it is."

christopher huffs out a soft breath of relief. "good," he says. "that's—that's really good."

"yeah," patton says, and smiles wider. "yeah, it really is."

(logan, sitting at the top of the stairs, closes his eyes and tries not to grind his teeth. he consults the segment of his notepad he'd begun working on at the courant. he doesn't get to do this to his dad. to them. not again.)

⁂

"been a while since we've done this, huh?"

"hmph. hope it doesn't go like it did before i went to chilton."

"yeah, i'll try my best not to. oh, thanks—can i snag your—? oh, you beat me to it."

"it just seems more fruitful to offer it to you before i drink any, considering you always steal my cherry."

"i could make so many inappropriate jokes about that, but i am a gentleman, so i won’t."

"...i don't think i understand. considering you do, that's just fact."

"it's a slang thing."

"ah, i see."

"you're kinda stalling."

"i suppose i am. blanket?"

"yeah, it's freezing. budge up, we're cuddling."

"body heat is effective."

"mm. why the crisis gazebo meeting?"

"my other father's in town."

"...oh."

"yes."

"you, um. you don't like him much, right? you don't really talk about him."

"that's an accurate assessment of the situation at hand. yes."

"...can i ask about it? him, i mean."

"i just... i don't like how my dad gets around him."

"is he... mean? your other dad, i mean."

"not intentionally, i don't think. no. it's just that when they see each other, all they can think about is how things used to be. they know all of each other's secrets. they grew up together. they used to make all of their bad decisions together—apparently, dad is still saving some stories about his misspent youth. my other father was the first person dad told about transitioning. they always thought they'd be together."

"i'm not seeing how this is a bad thing yet."

"he gets the idea, every couple of years, that he wants to spend more time with us. be there for me, watch me grow up, so on."

"...still not getting it."

"he gets the idea, he spends at most a week attempting to play at it, but as soon as reality comes knocking he rides off into the sunset to chase another unattainable dream and leaves my dad behind again, and dad is crushed because my father managed to convince him that this was it this time, really, and dad believes him over and over and over. is that clear enough for you?"

"..."

"i shouldn't have been so harsh to you."

"no. uh, no, that's, um. that's okay. it sounds pretty rough."

"he comes knocking back for money, or we get together for another holiday, and dad forgets all about what happened last time and all he can remember are the good times. so to answer your question in a very roundabout way—no, i don't believe my other father is being intentionally mean."

"but he breaks patton's heart every time anyway."

"yes."

"because he's..."

"thoughtless, immature, irresponsible, should i go on?"

"yikes, l."

"yes. and the cycle's already begun again. i overheard them. i found—something. and i don't want him doing that to my dad again."

"what about you? you don't want it to do that to you again, right?"

"i would say yes, except i never really got my hopes back up after he promised me over and over that he'd make it for my sixth birthday and he showed up a week late, clearly having been on some variation of booze cruise, i believe the term i overheard was, during the actual time of my birthday. apparently he believed that he was actually on time."

"god, logan."

"i shouldn't be complaining to you."

"hey, having a deadbeat dad and having a dead dad are probably in equally sucky categories. they just both suck in different ways."

"hm. if you say so."

"yeah, i do. at least mine's not about to disappoint me in new and surprising ways. not until the zombie apocalypse, anyway."

"roman."

"it could happen!"

"i have lectured you at length on why it would not possibly happen, on multiple occasions."

"that's what people said about flying across the atlantic!"

"that is a remarkably different circumstance."

"that sounds like you can't think of a more convincing argument."

"you infuriate me."

"yeah, i know, you too."

“...”

"done?"

"yes, i am."

"yeah, me too."

"i'll get the next one."

"i know you will... logan?"

"yes?"

"are you going to do something? about your other dad, i mean."

"oh."

"you don't have to—"

"no. no, i am. i didn't think i would be so... transparent."

"that's patton."

"what?"

"trans-parent—hey!"

"you deserve to get kicked off the step for that one. that was terrible."

"patton would laugh."

"dad has a horrible sense of humor."

"i mean, but, um. seriously. are you?"

"i am. yes. i've already begun."

"...you know you can count me in. right?"

"of course i do."

"because sometimes—lately... no. nevermind."

"what?"

"it's nothing."

"it's clearly not."

"i just—fine. lately, sometimes it feels like with—with everything that's happened lately. jess and chilton and your grandparents and all of it. it feels like we haven't been..."

"i know."

"you do?"

"yes. i thought—i thought, maybe, we could... we could do this a bit more. if that would be all right."

"oh. yeah. i'd like that."

"it wouldn't interfere with... anything?"

"you're my best friend, okay? you come first for me."

"oh. yes. me too."

"so what's this plan?"

"it's really less of a plan, and more of a... of a necessary trade. i think. but it requires research, first."

"oh. so your wheelhouse, then."

"yes."

"if you need my expertise—"

"yes, roman, if i need someone to monologue at him, you'll be the first one i call—hey!"

"that was payback for the response to the pun!"

⁂

"so, why are we going here, again?"

"this is virgil's," patton says, a little droopy with the absence of caffeine. "virgil's my best friend. he keeps me in caffeine. he also keeps us at a proper ratio of vegetable-and-fruit to unhealthy things. plus, i promised i'd bring by paint swatches today, logan's been working to get him to try some attempt at remodeling for weeks, haven't you, honey?"

logan grunts. patton hopes to chalk it up to absence of caffeine instead of logan still being upset that his dad's in town. 

there's the cheerful, discordant jangling of the bell above the door, and patton waves at virgil, pointing over to a booth. 

virgil lifts a hand to wave at him, but then he falters and stares, unnoticed by patton, who's sliding into the seat beside christopher, logan across from them. 

"so, what do you have going on at school today?" patton asks him. 

logan starts talking, then, about a lab he's doing in his science class, and virgil swings by, dropping off two mugs of hot cocoa/coffee.

"virgil!" patton says. "this is christopher, he's logan's other dad."

"hey," christopher says, sticking out a hand, but virgil's already sweeping back to the kitchen, ignoring him.

"he wants coffee!" patton calls after him, and turns to christopher, who looks thrown-off, lowering his hand.

"virgil's shy," patton says. "he's not really a people-person."

which is true, except virgil had made one of his virgil-faces, jaw set stubbornly and eyebrows lowered, absolutely sulky. so either virgil was in a Mood, which just happened sometimes, no helping it, or...

"logan, why don't you tell your dad about the franklin?" patton suggests.

"i haven't actually done any work on it yet," he says. "there isn't much to tell."

"ah, i remember the franklin," christopher says. "do they still have the jefferson?"

logan scowls. "yes."

patton scowls, too.

"that old gossip rag," christopher says. "i mean, it was brutal, back in our day, do you remember—"

christopher breaks off at the look on patton's face. of course he remembers one of the main tools utilized to terrorize him at school. 

virgil swings back by, and drops an unordered omelet in front of logan, along with a cup of coffee for christopher.

"there's vegetables in it," virgil tells logan. "eat them or i stalk you until you do."

"i'm hardly the one you need to lecture," logan says, digging his fork into it.

"so, do you think i could get—" christopher begins, but bam, virgil's off again.

christopher huffs out a breath. "it's not even that busy in here."

"i'm going to take a look at what breakfast pastries virgil's got today," patton says decisively, as if he hasn't had the pastry rotation memorized since logan was six months old. "logan, why don't you tell your dad about mel?"

logan shoves a heaping forkful of omelette into his mouth. patton moves before he can lecture him about it.

"heyo," patton says, leaning over the counter.

"hi," virgil mutters. "what's up?"

"i should probably be asking you that," patton says. "i know you're not usually mr. congeniality, but what's with the whole situation with chris?"

"what situation?" virgil mutters, sorting scones into the display case. "there's not a situation."

"virgil," patton says, in his best Dad Voice. he's pretty good at it, if he says so himself.

virgil scowls. 

"he's logan's dad, v."

"you're logan's dad," virgil says sharply. 

"have you and logan been exchanging notes behind my back?" patton says wearily.

"well, you are," virgil says. "in all the ways that matter. you're the one who taught him how to walk and talk, you're the one who helped him through colic, you're the one who—"

"he wasn't in a place to be a parent," patton says, "he was sixteen."

"so were you," virgil hisses sharply. 

"look, i—" patton looks around, coughs, and lowers his voice. "if you have to know, chris actually offered to do the 'decent' thing and marry me. i was the one who said no. i was the one who decided to do it on my own. don't punish him for my choice."

virgil grinds his teeth.

"at least, just—just try to play nice," patton says. "okay? he was my best friend once too. you kind of usurped his title. he's probably still licking his wounds."

suddenly, virgil looks a lot less sulky, and a lot more like he's trying to hide his smile. 

"fine," virgil sighs at last. "fine, but—"

"and i brought paint swatches," patton adds. "bring him a menu, and we can talk about them?"

"i'm not pretending to like either of these things."

"i wouldn't expect it to go any other way," patton says. "can i have a chocolate croissant?"

virgil looks like he's wrestling with it, before he sighs, and says, "you're having the healthiest thing i can wrangle up and no ditching any vegetables, okay?"

"you're a saint," patton says happily, and takes his croissant and floats back to the table.

when he gets back to the table, chris is on his phone, smiling.

"i've been great, emily," he says, and patton slides into the booth.

it's your mom, he mouths, and patton nods. logan's tapping away on his phone.

(behind the counter, virgil digs out his phone when it buzzes to read the second message from this particular number this morning. the first had been My other father is in town for the first time. I dislike him and I suspect something abnormal is going on that will adversely affect my dad. Kindly ensure his breakfast is unpleasant as a form of pre-emptive strike. now, it was I'll tell you more about why later, but the general basis of your understanding should include how my dad gives people too many second chances.)

"well, i'm actually sitting here with your boys," he says, and there's a pause. "sure." he holds out the phone to patton. "she wants to talk to you."

"got it," patton says, and plucks his phone from his hand. "hi, mom."

"patton, christopher is in town!" emily says excitedly.

"yep, mom, i know," he says. "he's staying over at my place. i'm sitting right next to him."

"well, i had this wonderful idea," she continues. "christopher's parents are in town too. you remember straub and francine?"

patton feels slightly lightheaded. he licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. "i—yes. the haydens."

"well, i called them up and invited them to dinner tonight," she says. "they said they're free to join us all."

"us all?" patton says blankly.

"yes," emily says. "you, logan, christopher, your father."

"that's, um," patton says, and tries to clear his throat but it erupts into coughing. "that's quite the gathering, mom."

"well, i should say so," she says. "we haven't all been together since before logan was in the picture, and straub and francine haven't seen logan since he was a baby."

"well, yes, i know, but mom—"

"it'll be like a wonderful reunion," she says blissfully. "all of us together again. i never thought it would happen."

"mom," patton says in a tiny voice, but very suddenly, she's telling him to hand the phone back to christopher, and he does, and then they talk to patton’s dad (it has not escaped richard's notice that planning this little dinner is the most his wife has smiled since whatever revelation she'd had at their grandson's birthday party. it makes him even gladder for christopher's appearance than normal) and patton sleepwalks through helping virgil choose paint swatches and deciding that virgil will get the paint at the hardware store and they'll paint tonight after dinner with his parents and seeing logan off to school and going to the inn for work and—

the haydens.

the dread's like a living thing in patton's stomach.

⁂

"i've gotta see my parents," christopher says, anxious.

"i've gotta see your parents," patton rejoins. 

christopher looks at him strangely. "what, no complaints about yours?"

"we've been getting along, lately," patton says.

"because of my assault," logan adds helpfully. 

"your what?!"

but someone's swinging open the door, and emily is beaming at them.

"you're here!" she says, delighted. "christopher, look at you!"

christopher steps forward to hug her. "emily," he says fondly. "as always, perfect."

"i am so glad to see you," she says fervently.

"hello, grandma," logan says, stepping in, and patton trails after. 

"richard's in the living room, he's dying to see you," emily says, beginning to lead them there. 

"can we go back to logan's story?" christopher mutters to patton. "since when is he getting into fights?"

"he got into a debate," patton corrects. "and this terrible boy kept goading this girl and she punched him."

"well, here they are!"

"hi, grandpa," logan says, filtering into the room.

"hello logan, patton," he says, and then he beams at christopher. not for the first time, patton wonders why they're so much blatantly fonder of him than they are of patton. "christopher, old boy, how are you? my gosh, it's good to see you!"

"how are you, richard?" christopher asks, enthusiastically pumping richard's hand.

"well, i'm better than most, not as good as some."

"and annoyed with all," christopher finishes.

richard laughs heartily. "ah, you speak the truth, young man!"

"martinis," patton murmurs, and takes one from the tray. logan shoots him a look, and patton tries to smile at him reassuringly. logan is seated between his fathers on the couch. it's so strange that logan feels the urge to just... squirm until patton's the one between them both.

"so, christopher," richard says, ignoring him, "tell me all about your business."

"oh, let the poor boy relax," emily scolds.

"well, i simply want to know how it's going!"

"it's, uh," christopher says. "it's going great, richard, i'm almost afraid to jinx it by telling you how good it's going."

liar, logan thinks viciously, and his plan is the only reason he doesn't snarl it.

"oh, that is wonderful," richard gushes. "i always knew you had it in you. you have a splash of greatness, as my mother would say. you always had that splash of greatness."

"oh, richard," emily continues soppily, and logan thinks he might throw up from all the coddling. "isn't logan just the spitting image of christopher?"

logan looks at his other father in confusion. just about the only thing he's inherited from him is his straight hair.

"i just hope you inherit your father's business sense also, my boy," richard says.

i'd be so much better off inheriting your son's business sense, and it's so close to all spilling out of his mouth and he has to take a long gulp of soda to keep it from just emerging.

there's the ring of a bell.

"that would be straub and francine!" emily says, and leaves the room.

"i haven't seen your parents in quite some time," richard says. "we were practically inseparable, for a while."

he follows after his wife, and logan turns to patton, suddenly a little panicked.

"what do i call them?" logan asks him. he's never really met these people.

"call 'em what i call 'em," christopher grumbles from his other side. "ass—"

"chris," patton says sternly, and coughs a couple times.

"just, um," chris says. "call them straub and francine. mr. and mrs. hayden? you know what, just avoid calling them anything."

very suddenly, it strikes logan why patton must have been so nervous.

in terms of grandparents, and, in roman's terms, rich white people nonsense? the haydens must be even worse than the sanders'. 

with that revelation, his grandparents lead in a set of two people, and if he hadn't thought it before, he certainly would have thought it upon seeing them for the first time. the woman's wearing the kind of sleek skirtsuit that he's seen before, with a string of pearls, and the man is wearing an officious suit. they look like snobs. they even walk like snobs, noses in the air, sniffing disapprovingly at the world around them.

patton swallows at the sight of the haydens, smooths his sweaty hands over his slacks as chris greets them with a "mother, pop," and patton stands to shake hands.

"mr. and mrs. hayden," he says. "long time, no see."

"you look..." mr. hayden says, and sends an inquisitive, disdainful eye over him. "well." a pause, and then, like a taunt, “now, lorelai lucy, are you still going by... what was it again?”

logan's bristling beside him like a cat. 

" i am doing well, thanks, and yep, my name’s still patton,” patton says tightly. “it’s patton thomas, actually, not lorelai lucy. it hasn’t been lorelai lucy since before logan came into the picture, and i don’t think you forgot that like you’re trying to pretend you did to be polite, but that’s not why we’re here, is it? you remember logan? you haven't seen him in quite a while."

"no, we haven't," straub says, turning his attention off of patton.

"i think he was just starting to speak in complete sentences," francine adds, as if logan is not standing directly in front of her. "logan, hello."

"hello," logan says stiffly, accepting her hand to shake, and then his other grandfather's. he wants to drop them. he wants to sneer in their faces. he wants to kick out any sign of his other father and his terrible parents who have thrown his dad off so greatly. who deadnamed him on first introduction. logan hates them.

"straub, francine, how about a martini?" richard says.

"please," straub says.

"how is retirement treating you?" richard says, and emily continues, "yes, do tell us about the bahamas."

they all sit back down. logan arranges it specifically so patton is between christopher and himself—his dad a familiar line of defense, a known quantity.

"you can get an entire island there for the cost of a decent house here," straub says.

it's small talk. it's boring, but it's small talk, tempered and even and predictable, even if it is so dull and patton's so clearly nervous between them that logan kind of wants to tear his hair out.

"really?"

"how about you, richard, any thoughts of retirement crossing your mind?"

"oh, straub, if only you could talk him into it," emily says wearily. "i've given up."

"we're very pleased about christopher's business success out in california," richard says.

fake, fake, fake, logan wants to shout.

"yes," straub says, angling a similarly disdainful look at his son that he leveled at patton. "it's taken a while but it seems to be finally coming together. seems to be."

"so," logan says. "straub and francine. are you enjoying your time here?"

"how old are you, young man?" straub says, entirely disregarding his question.

"sixteen," logan says tightly.

"dangerous age, for girls especially," he says, and patton stiffens.

right, logan thinks. i have to kill him.

"logan's a very special boy," emily intercedes quickly, panic in her tone. "excellent student, very bright."

"is that so?" straub says.

"you should have a talk with him," richard says. "he could give you a run for your money."

"well," logan says, disregarding that attempt to misdirect entirely. "sixteen being a dangerous age in the way you've so clearly been implying shouldn't be a problem the way you seem to perceive it has been for my fathers."

"oh?" straub says. "we thought christopher was a bright boy, too. much like everyone thinks of you now. why are you different?"

"well," logan says, and then, as if it's a declaration of war, "i'm gay."

straub turns an interesting shade of near-purple. francine looks faint and actually fans herself.

"oh, here we go," christopher says, under his breath. patton and christopher exchange a look over logan’s head, and both patton and christopher down the rest of their martinis like a shot. just like old times.

"though of course," logan says, tilting his head, "that isn't the most effective argument, considering that the relationship between my fathers was between two men, as well, but considering your rampant transphobia, you wouldn't consider it as such. you would be incorrect, but considering your attitude toward my dad, i'd wager it's hardly your first time being an absolute blithering idiot."

patton chokes on air, and then he starts coughing. straub doesn't wait for his coughing to die down.

"i see your grandson is just as out of control as his mother," straub says, and logan surges to his feet, only stopped by patton's fingers closing around his wrist, getting to his feet too.

"logan—"

"pop, keep it civil," christopher says.

"dinner's ready," emily adds hastily, looking wide-eyed between logan and straub.

"we should have known that leaving him with that harlot would turn him to a deviant," and now patton's the one about to surge forward, eyes bright.

"don't you dare talk about my son like that," he says, cold and furious.

"what have you been doing with your life, anyway?" straub sneers. "besides deluding yourself into thinking this phase is real, or perhaps just carrying on and on for attention, lorelai, i'm just curious."

"richard, lead us into the dining room," emily insists, but she goes unheard yet again.

"i run an inn," patton says stiffly, tone still a little off from his coughing fit, and a little off from being called that name again.

"really?"

"yes, really."

now emily is staring between patton and straub, eyes even wider.

"dad, come on," christopher says urgently.

"oh, and your life is everything you hoped it would be?"

"even better," he says, and it's not as sentimental and happy as it might be in normal circumstances, because he's so—

"because it seems to me you might not want to take such a haughty tone when you announce to the world that you work in a hotel."

"there is nothing wrong with where i work," patton says hotly. “and there’s nothing wrong with who i am.”

"straub, please, i'm getting a headache," francine says wearily.

"nice to see you found your calling," straub says snidely. "if you had stopped pitching a fit to get attention, which i see you’re continuing with your histrionics,” he says, flicking a scornful gesture toward patton’s suit, “if you had attended a university as your parents had planned and as we planned in vain for christopher, you might have aspired for more than a blue collared position, though frankly i'm shocked you aren't living off food stamps, begging for handouts you don't deserve."

"don't do this," christopher tries again.

"and i wouldn't give a damn about you derailing your life if you hadn't seduced my son into being swept along with you!"

"chris," patton says sharply, because logan's actually shaking in rage right now, "take logan into the next room."

"dad" and "l—patton" at the same time, and patton says "now" in a voice so strongly commanding that it shocks even him, and chris takes over grabbing logan's wrist to tug him along, out of the room.

"i'm going to have to echo christopher's call for civility here," richard says, as soon as the door closes. "a mutual mistake was made many years ago, but they've both come a long way since."

"a mutual mistake, richard?!" straub shouts. "this whole evening is ridiculous! we're supposed to sit here like one big happy family and pretend that the damage that was done is over, gone? i don't care about how good a student you say that shirtlifter is—"

"HEY!" patton and emily both shout, in the exact same tone of voice.

"our son was bound for princeton," straub seethes. "every hayden male, including myself, attended, but it all stopped with christopher. it's a humiliation we've had to live with every day, because that little slut couldn't keep her legs—!"

logan isn't even the one to burst back into the room to hit him. it isn't chris, it isn't emily.

it's richard.

"you recant that, straub!" richard shouts, from where he's towering over where straub has fallen to the ground.

"you hit me," he says in disbelief.

"you owe my grandson and my son an apology—"

"an apology, that's rich—"

"how dare you?!" richard demands, leaning down to seize straub by the lapels and haul him to his feet. "how dare you?!"

"richard, what are you doing?!" emily shrieks.

"how dare you come into my house and insult my family!" richard shouts. 

"let go of me!"

"whoa, whoa, whoa," patton says, getting over his shock just a little, trying to get between them and break it up, but his father has an iron grip on straub's jacket and starts shaking him.

"shame on you, straub!" richard bellows. "shame on you for your small-minded, hateful language toward your own flesh and blood, for opening all this up again—"

"get your purse, francine—"

"my son is VERY successful at what he does," richard shouts, "and ten times the man you could ever dream of being!"

"we're leaving!"

"you aren't leaving, i'm kicking you out!" 

straub and francine storm out in a huff, richard following closely on his heels to ensure that they leave and patton tries to just breathe, but his inhale is so shaky that it's almost like he can't and—

"patton?"

"could you please check on logan and chris?" patton says, voice odd and faraway even to him. "please. i don't want him to—i want to be sure logan didn't hear any of that."

"patton—" she begins, approaching, but he curls into his jacket, away from her, because it’s so similar to her tone when she said lorelai— when he was fifteen and hurting and close to drowning and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

"mom, please," he says, strangled. "please. i just need a—a couple minutes alone."

she lowers her hand, and her usually haughty expression has changed into—into something else, but she turns before he can really identify it, and he tries to get control of his breathing, to calm down, but he just—

patton sits hard on the ground, vibrations reverberating up his spine, and he buries his face in his hands, breathing shaky breaths in and out over and over, willing the angry tears in his eyes not to escape, burying the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 when he's managed to calm himself down, just enough that he doesn't think he'll cry if someone looks at him wrong, he gets to his feet and goes to look for his dad.

of course, he's right where patton expects. but he's not alone, like patton had expected. emily turns to face the door, too, and it's so clear he's interrupted something that he can't help but freeze.

"oh," patton says, and hesitates at the door of the study. he feels little again—like he's walked into their bedroom after having a nightmare, like he's waiting to be lectured after yet another less-than-stellar report card.

"um, hey, mom. i was just going to—to ask if dad wanted something to eat."

"i'm not hungry."

it strikes patton, very suddenly, how tired both his parents look. how haggard. how old. patton coughs, swallows, and forges onward.

"okay. well, i just—i just wanted to thank you."

"thank me," richard repeats. "for what?"

"well," patton says, uncertainly. "for what you did in there. i'm just—" he darts a look to his mother, meets his father's eyes again. "i'm really grateful for what you said to him. for defending us like that—for defending logan like that, and me. i know i've made it hard for you, but—"

"do you?" richard says, and patton blinks.

"what?"

"do you know?" richard says, voice purposefully even. "how hard you've made it for us."

patton swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. "i know i put you both through a lot, but i just—thank you."

"why do you think i did it?"

patton blinks, utterly thrown off. "um. i don't know. out of, um. out of protectiveness, i guess. because he was being homophobic and transphobic."

"it’s hardly about all that,” richard says wearily. 

“um,” patton says again, torn between patching up and bursting out with yes it is very much about all that, that is about who i am and who i’ve always been and i don’t like your tone, what do you mean, all that, does it matter so little to you?! but richard goes on before he can.

“you don't need to be protected," richard says, and emily's looking between them now, the way she looked between patton and straub—except patton's on the flipped side of the stare now. "you've made it exceedingly clear that you can look after yourself and that you need nothing from no one."

"wait, that's not—" patton begins desperately, because he was trying to be nice, he was trying to salvage the wreckage of an already terrible evening—

"my family was being attacked," richard says sharply. "the very sanders name was being attacked and i will not stand for that under any circumstances."

"okay, well, it doesn't matter why—"

"yes, it does matter why i did it!" he yells, and slams his hand down on the desk, and patton jumps at the suddenness of it. "it matters greatly! what are you going to take away from this?! that everything you've done in the past is suddenly fine because i defended you?"

"i—no," patton says, in a helplessly small voice.

"that the hell you put your mother and i through for the past sixteen years is suddenly washed away?"

a distant part of patton wonders if all that is part of the hell he put them through, to his dad.

"i—no, dad, i just—"

"well, it's not!"

patton can't help but shrink under the sheer size of his dad's noise, his dad's wrath. his dad was never the one who yelled at him. looked at him disapprovingly, yes. sighed and tsked, yes. but his mom was the one who yelled. never, ever his dad.

"i had to tell my friends, my colleagues, that my only child was pregnant and leaving school."

"i—"

"and then you run away and treat us like lepers," richard says, and this has been an argument sixteen years in the making, and it's been put into motion and patton's too late to notice, to stop it, and—

"your mother couldn't get out of bed for a month, did you know that?"

patton's eyes swivel to his mother, who's still looking at him like—like he's a stranger, like he's an intruder—

"did you?!" richard screams, and patton flinches.

"no," he says, and his voice breaks. "i—no, i—"

"we did NOTHING to deserve that," he howls, "nothing to earn that!"

patton tries to defend himself, he tries, but he can't find any words, he can't—

"do you know how terrifying it was to come home one night to find your only child and grandchild gone?!" he yells. "do you know what that was like?!"

patton bites his lip hard to keep himself from breaking down into tears and can only shake his head.

"you hated us that much?"

patton blinks, hard, looks to his mom, and—

"what?"

"you had to take that little boy away," emily says. "that was bad enough. but to keep shutting us out?"

"but i'm—i'm not anymore," patton says desperately. "i'm here, that was the deal, we agreed and we've been—we've been getting along lately, haven't we?"

"we could have," she says, "if you'd stayed," and patton has to suck in a breath.

"mom," he says, strangled. "we've talked about this before. we wouldn't have, i would have—i would have drowned here. i needed to go somewhere else. i was young, and i was so unhappy, and i just needed somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here—"

but his mother's making this a soft, tremulous little gasping noise he's never, ever heard her make before, and it hits him with the force of a falling star that she's close to crying.

i'm sorry, he's about to say, except—except he's not. he can't be sorry for leaving here when he was so close to losing himself. he can't be sorry for meeting everyone he's met in sideshire. he can't be sorry for working at the inn. he can’t be sorry for going to a place where all that is celebrated and a part of life and just the way things are. he can't be sorry for raising logan in the pool house and then an apartment, and finally, finally a house. he can't be sorry for bringing logan to the place he'd meet his best friend of all time. he can't be sorry for meeting virgil.

he can't be.

"you hated us that much?" richard repeats his wife, and his face is gaunt and haggard, and patton—

patton can't say a word.

and that's when it gets ugly.

⁂

logan's in the backseat of the car.

this is not exactly typical. granted, it hasn't been a particularly typical dinner, but he's so used to seeing his dad out of the corner of his eyes, and not the tiny little sliver of a reflection he can see in the darkened windshield.

his dad's pale-faced. red-eyed. entirely, completely silent, the way he'd been since he descended the stairs from the study, where there had been shouting and then silence and then screaming, and christopher had ushered him deeper and deeper into the house so he wouldn't hear it.

and now his father is curled up in the passenger's seat of his own car, head resting against the window, staring ahead of the road and clearly not seeing any of it.

logan isn't inclined toward metaphor, but his father looks like a ghost. he looks so completely and utterly drained of anything of substance—fight, or indignance, or defensiveness, or protectiveness, or happiness—and he's just staring mutely out of the window, not really responding to any of logan or christopher's clumsy attempts at conversation. he just coughed a few times, and that was an involuntary response.

he thinks about how he'd felt when patton was so hopeful about him and his parents getting along now more, that it would continue—"it was a fluke."

logan isn't happy that he's right.

and then he abruptly remembers who he was talking with, and virgil, and his plan, and—

and logan needs to institute this plan. now. if this is the result of his other father coming to town and bringing up the past, he wants him gone, he wants him out, and so he needs to execute the plan. any lingering doubt is gone. there is only certainty.

"virgil," logan announces abruptly, in the midst of the car.

christopher blinks at him, through the rearview mirror. "what?"

"virgil," logan says. "dad, you had plans to paint with virgil tonight. we need to drop dad off at virgil's."

"uh, logan," christopher says, darting a glance toward patton hasn't picked up his head from leaning against the door.

"you had plans with him, dad," logan says, a little forceful. "you promised him. he already picked up the paint. he's probably waiting for you. dad, you promised."

"maybe now isn't the—"

"no," patton mumbles, and it's the first word he's said since logan was pushed out of the living room, and it shocks him, a little, how scratchy and terrible his dad's voice is. "no. logan's right. drop me off. a promise is a promise."

(does he feel bad for guilting his dad? a little. but virgil will help. virgil will make it better.)

christopher looks between them and seems to realize that it's a lost battle, and turns to drop patton off at the diner.

"you hungry?" christopher asks logan, once they see patton get into the diner safely.

"we have food at home," logan says, and looks at him through the rearview mirror. "i'd like to have a chat. just you and i."

(when patton walks into virgil's dinner, virgil starts a story about the various trials of trying to buy paint, and half-turns and trails off when he sees the look on his face, and patton tries for a smile that falls flat before he can even pretend to be okay.

patton keeps trying to tell virgil that he's fine, except virgil wordlessly tugs him into a hug and patton can't, patton can't, and he's sobbing into virgil's chest before he can even try to hold them back, and virgil doesn't even say a word, chest aching as he tries to stroke through patton's hair as patton just bawls.)

when they get home, immediately logan gets to work making a carafe of coffee.

"pretty late for caffeine, isn't it?" christopher says. 

pretty late to attempt to be a permanent figure in my life, isn't it? logan bites back. instead, he says, "it'll be fine. we have frozen pizza, or macaroni and cheese, or supplies for sandwiches. i don't have much of a preference."

they end up loading the pizza into the oven in relative silence, christopher continually shifting awkwardly across the kitchen, leaving logan to be the one who digs out the pizza pan and the cutter and setting up the oven to preheat and then the timer, and eventually taking out two mugs.

"you're pretty quiet," christopher notes, as logan's pouring the coffee.

"i tend to be."

"you mentioned that you'd like to have a chat."

"i was going to wait until we had food," logan says, "but if you insist, we could do it now."

"oh. um—"

"i just need to get some things," logan says, and goes to retrieve the manila folder full of research and a notebook. when he enters the kitchen again, his other father is still standing, just as awkwardly, where logan's left him.

"i didn't really think a father-son chat needed a file folder," christopher says. 

“you'll see,” logan says coolly, and sits down at the kitchen table. “let’s talk.”

he gestures to the seat opposite him. “sit.”

“i feel like i’m in trouble with the principal,” his other father tries to joke.

logan takes a sip of his coffee, sets down his mug, his folder of research, his notebook, and at last clicks his pen. he feels like he’s conducting an interview. the routine sets him at ease. obviously he would never interview his father, bias, but...

"so. you’re planning on proposing to my dad.”

his other father chokes on his coffee. “how did you—?”

“don’t ask how i know things, it gets tedious,” logan commands. “or at least, it will. why do you want to marry him?”

(he knows because he snooped through his father's bag that first night, when he was asleep on the couch, and he'd found a ringbox and immediately decided that he needed to get out of the house Right Then, for milkshakes with roman, and knew that he did not want this and that patton could not know.)

christopher blinks at him. “isn’t it obvious?”

“indulge me.”

“well,” christopher says. “for starters... did you know that your grandparents wanted us to get married? when you first came into the picture.”

“i do.”

“i was all for it. patton wasn’t.”

“i know that too,” logan says. “that can’t be your only reason.”

“well,” christopher said, “we’re already a family, we could make it official.”

“who?” logan says.

“what?”

“who’s already a family.”

“us! you, patton, me.”

“oh,” logan says tonelessly. “well. isn’t that nice to know?”

christopher flinches as if logan’s struck him.

"i don't think you particularly know what a family is," logan continues. 

"it's people living together."

"no," logan says. "being a father especially, it's a big commitment, it's responsibility, it's hard work. those are three things you don't particularly seem to excel at, stating it delicately."

"hey," christopher says, sharp. "i know i'm not here a lot, but that doesn't mean you can talk to me like that."

"i can speak to you as i like, you want to propose to my father. traditionally there's someone to..." his nose wrinkles. "it's an archaic term, but defend his honor. traditionally it would be his father, but considering grandpa would likely be delighted, it seems it falls to me. so. try again. why do you want to marry him?"

"fine," christopher says. "fine. i can be responsible—"

logan sets down his coffee mug to give him the most disbelieving look he can possibly execute.

"i can," christopher says. "look, i told your dad, but my business is actually managing this time—"

"it really would be in your best interests not to lie," logan says.

"what makes you think i'm lying?"

"i was hoping you'd ask," logan says, and flips open his folder of research, laying out his first sheet of paper.

"real estate transaction, when you were first setting out. you used an llc, but that's easily enough tracked."

another sheet of paper.

"only for it to be sold about a week before you came here. no new bids on anything that i could find, under the name of the previous llc, the law firm you used last time, or under your legal name. what i did find under record of your name, however," he says, and lays out another sheet of paper, "is your previous record of bankruptcy, which i don't suppose is very surprising, considering what i remember from then, i don't suppose dad knows the money he gave you went to trying to dig yourself out of a hole of your own creation—"

"logan—"

logan ignores him, lays out another sheet of paper.

"—but then dad's always been the trusting type. though, i did also find your charges, mostly speeding tickets and the like, but i think dad doesn't know that you got charged with a dui a year and a half ago, did he?"

christopher's gone ashen.

"misdemeanor, though i suppose that's small enough considering some of the other charges that could escalate from there. i will say though that it might make dad a bit more hesitant to hop back on your indian knowing this, though."

logan lays out the last sheet, and adds, "your previous accountant was very willing to do an interview, by the way, so don't attempt to lie to me again."

“how did you find all this out?” his father says, staring at the paperwork, sorting through it disbelievingly, flipping the pages of the transcript of the interview logan had with the accountant.

“it’s all public domain,” logan says, secretly pleased that his research was correct—of course it is, but just... the confirmation. “anyone could find it if they were looking.”

“and you were looking,” christopher says, and shakes his head, sitting back with a scoff. “jesus, you’d make a good cop.”

logan’s nose wrinkles without his meaning to, and he taps his pen against his notebook. “journalist, actually.”

christopher sighs. "i was going to tell your dad if it didn't pick up soon, i swear."

"if i recall correctly, you told him it was," and he flips through his notebook to note the exact words. "ah, yes. i don't know how much your parents have told you, but i'm on the verge of a big success. for real, this time. i've got a company with actual cash flow, i've got employees, I've got an accountant, for god's sake. i mean, it's for real this time, mac."

he taps his pen against the notebook again, and says, "that doesn't particularly sound like you were about to tell him anything."

"you were eavesdropping?!"

"don't be obtuse, of course i was," logan says. "and before you start in with any of the how dare you, we're your fathers nonsense, dad encourages my journalistic skills."

he probably wouldn't be thrilled that logan was eavesdropping on him, but it was for his own good, logan reasoned. and besides, christopher wouldn't tell him that, he'd have to reveal the whole nature of this chat and thereby tell his dad everything. 

"so," logan says. "financially, you have nothing for him. romantically, you two haven't been involved since i was a baby and you've certainly had other people in the interim. i ask you again: why do you want to marry him?"

this is it. this is the fulcrum on which his plan has been resting. the scales will tilt depending on the answer: logan will be left to dissuade him or (more likely) offer him a deal. 

christopher takes a deep breath in, and says, "you might be my only child."

ah. deal it is, then.

"you have no conceivable way of knowing that," logan says.

"no," christopher says. "i don't know how much i miss you until i see you again, even if you infuriate me."

"i've been told being a father does that."

christopher snorts, and looks a little brighter, as if he's taken logan's words as some kind of peace offering. 

"so," logan says, and puts his pen down. "i have a solution. one that wouldn't require you to settle somewhere you know no one, one that wouldn’t have my father go through tonight again with the addition of who would be his in-laws, one that wouldn’t have someone nearly misgendering him on a daily basis, one that wouldn't require me to bring all of this forward to my dad, and one that wouldn't require my dad to deal with a proposal when he's in love with someone else."

christopher looks as if logan has hit him over the head with the pizza pan. "what?!"

"virgil," logan says. "he's in love with virgil."

"the diner man?"

"watch it," logan says sharply, "that diner man has been far more present in our lives than you've ever been."

"it's just," christopher says, and frowns. "him?"

"yes, him," logan says, "they're both hopeless and clueless about it and i certainly won't have you interfering."

"isn't it, um. is it kinda weird for you knowing that?" christopher says. "your dad's romantic life, i mean."

logan huffs out an aggrieved sigh—honestly, he's been used to patton and virgil obliviously flirting over meals for as long as he can remember, but it is a little weird, he can't deny that—and says, "do you want to hear the solution or not?"

"fine, yes," christopher says. 

"a deal," logan says. "from my understanding, this marriage is so you can get closer to my dad and myself. is that correct?"

christopher nods.

"fine," logan says. "then for dad, you work on educating yourself about lgbtqa issues. you work on never, ever having a name stumble with him ever again. if you contact dad regularly, he’ll be happy to respond, you know.” 

christopher looks a little cowed, at that. he says, “and you?”

“for me,” logan repeats. “i’m not as trusting as dad, as it happens. but. if you put in the effort to get to know me, i'll put in an equal amount of effort in getting to know you. you text me, i'll text you back. you call me, i'll pick up. you send me an email, i'll respond."

he holds up his hand before his father can speak.

"you haven't been here," logan says simply. "what did you think would happen when you proposed to dad? did you think he'd say yes? did you think i'd be so swept up with delight that oh, my parents are getting married that the past sixteen years wouldn't matter?" 

christopher looks down at his hands.

"so," logan says. "you become a better ally. you don't mention marriage to my dad. we work up to you being another dad to me. slowly. and i don't tell dad about all of this. do we have a deal?"

christopher takes a deep breath in. 

"deal," he says. "yes. deal."

logan sits back, and allows himself the smile of someone who's won.

"but seriously," christopher says, "the diner man?!"

⁂

patton tries to creep back into his house as silently as he can—he'd fallen asleep in a booth after his crying-and-painting session at virgil's, which he hadn't done since logan was little-little, and he can feel the difference in his back— virgil had shaken him awake right before opening to see if he wanted to take over virgil's room in the apartment or go home to get more sleep. patton had picked his own house. but now, the pale light of dawn is beginning to suffuse through his curtains and he's trying not to cough.

he comes to a stop in his living room.

there's a mostly-eaten pizza sitting on his coffee table, with an empty coffee carafe sitting between two mugs. sitting on the ground, on his bright orange rug, leaning against the wall and against each other, are his son and his son's other dad.

logan's glasses are askew and in danger of falling off his face. christopher's cheek is resting against logan's hair, mouth agape, snoring softly. they're sharing a blanket. in christopher's lap, if patton squints and tilts his head, he can see a photo album open, and patton—

patton has to bite his lip to keep from crying, but in the happy way, this time. because whatever happened last night while he was gone, it led to this—to logan giving his dad a chance, to chris maybe actually stepping up a little and humbling himself and apologizing, because there's no way that logan would have done all of that otherwise—and it actually seems like chris is going to step through that door now. for real.

however, he's pretty sure that none of them have actually spent the night sleeping where they should, so patton goes over, crouches down, and uses both hands to shake some shoulders.

"hey there, sleepyheads," he whispers, fond. 

"dad?" logan asks, and nearly punches his glasses off of his face when he reaches up to rub his eyes.

"ugh," chris mutters, and cracks his neck. "how did we fall asleep?"

"told you it wasn't too late for coffee," logan mumbles back.

"maybe we could go out for coffee now?" patton offers. "or spend some time sleeping in our own beds."

chris' eyes widen. "did you spend the night with the diner man?!"

"i fell asleep in a booth after we painted," patton says, truthful, but chris is already swiveling to logan.

"i thought you said they were clueless!"

"they are," logan sighs, "virgil probably just draped his hoodie over dad and tutted after him and they were all—" he waves a hand dismissively. "sentimental. also, gross, that's my dad."

patton turns wide, betrayed eyes to logan. "you told him?!"

"it's not like it's a secret," logan says pointedly.

"oh, are we playing this game, mister?" patton says, and coughs into his shoulder.

logan blinks. "i'm unaware that we initiated an activity that we're meant to engage in for amusement."

"as in," patton says, "oh, we're playing the game where we're talking about hopeless crushes on someone in town, mister?!"

christopher swivels his head to logan. "a crush?!"

logan's gone very red. "take that back."

"it's a crush," patton teases. "romantic attachment. puppy love. infatua—"

a pillow hits patton square in the face. he supposes he should have expected that.

"you have a crush on someone?" christopher says.

"it's a non-object considering he has a boyfriend," logan grumbles.

"yeah, but," patton says. "you still like-like him."

"i'm going to brush my teeth."

"this is what happens when you have two dads!" christopher calls after him.

"i'm regretting this already!" logan shouts down the stairs.

"he has a crush?" christopher asks, when logan's door has safely slammed.

"he has a roman," patton corrects. "who, again, has a boyfriend. it's a whole situation, i could tell you about it later."

christopher shakes his head, and says, "we made a pretty good kid, huh?"

"yeah," patton says, smiling. "yeah, we made a good kid."

"he's really smart. like, terrifyingly smart."

"i know," patton says, smiling even wider. 

"god, i really need that coffee," christopher says, and patton laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.

"welcome to the sanders household," he teases. "you're fitting right in."

christopher's smiling, and the good moment swells up inside patton like a bubble, bright and shiny and happy and—

"about last night."

—easily popped.

patton doesn't say anything.

"are you, um. are you okay?" christopher asks. 

patton shrugs and tries for a smile. the steps on the stairs save him.

"right," logan says. "virgil's, then?"

"before that," patton says. "we didn't really get a chance to talk about last night. are you okay?"

logan blinks at him. "shouldn't i be asking you that?"

"i asked you first," patton says, because he's a Mature Dad. "you know they were pushing all those horrible things at us and not at you, right?"

"they were directing them at you because you had me," logan says, and then looks slightly furious with himself for letting that slip.

"no," patton says. "they were directing them at me because i ruined everyone's 'citizen kane' plans, that's all."

logan chews at the inside of his cheek for a few seconds.

"um," christopher begins, hesitant. "they're just... look. none of that means anything, right? my dad's actually a pretty good lawyer, and they're both really active in their community, and wow i can't believe i actually kept this up with a straight face."

patton lets out a giggle that's a bit too high-pitched and hysterical to really pass as normal, and a few coughs to boot.

"they're both assholes," christopher says bluntly. "look, i know you heard a lot about disappointments last night, but i want to make it super clear that you—who you are, your existence—have not and never have been, even for a second, been included in that. okay?"

"they're full of anger and stupid pride," patton continues. "it's their loss and a huge one."

"okay," logan says. 

"no regrets," patton says.

"from either of us," christopher says.

logan looks between them and says, "is this what parenting is like?"

patton laughs and reaches over to squeeze logan's shoulder, before he claps his hands.

"okay, everyone, grab your jackets for breakfast at virgil's!" patton declares brightly, before anyone can ask him if he's okay. 

it actually works. on the way, he bears teasing from christopher about his cru-ush, which is so familiar it aches in a good kind of way, and logan complains like ugh, dads, which makes both christopher and patton smile so wide it aches in the good way, and patton nearly forgets the sore throat he's woken up with and the whole disaster of last night, which both ache in the not-good way.

the bell jangles familiarly, and patton gestures to the now-dry walls.

"so, what do you think?" patton asks logan.

"acceptable," logan says, but he's smiling, so patton counts it as a job well done.

they sit (in a different booth than the one patton fell asleep in, because, you know, yikes) and virgil swings by, dropping off three mugs.

patton looks up at virgil in utter betrayal.

"what's that?" logan asks, peering at patton's drink, which is a different shade of brown than his usual.

"tea?!" patton says in disgust, as if being served tea is akin to some benedict arnold-esque level of backstabbing. 

"with honey," virgil says. "you have a cough."

"tea," he repeats, wide-eyed. "virgil. you're giving me tea. today of all days."

"i would bet ten million dollars that you have a sore throat," virgil says, steadfast in his decision, "and you are definitely going to sleep when you get back to your house."

"but," patton says, and screws up his nose. "tea."

"for the love of god, just—drink it," virgil scowls. "it's not like i managed to sneak brussels sprouts in there, it's just tea. it'll make you feel better."

patton and virgil have a stare-down for a few seconds. patton then slumps in defeat and sighs, tugging the mug closer.

"i'll drink it but i don't have to like it," patton mutters.

"that's the spirit," virgil says dryly. 

"you know," christopher says thoughtfully, grinning openly at virgil, "you aren't half-bad."

"uh," virgil says, and flees any potential conversational awkwardness to the safety of behind the counter.

patton kicks christopher under the table. "if you try to wing-man me," he hisses, "i will—i'll—!"

"i'm a great wing-man," christopher says, offended. 

"i have two words for you," patton says, and ticks them off on his fingers. "kieran. wagner."

"that was ONE time," christopher starts, "i'm great with romance."

patton starts coughing, but he tries his best to make it sound fake by throwing in a "MITZIE" in there.

"that was one time!" he splutters.

"for three months!" patton protests.

they're interrupted by the jangling of the bell, and logan, who's facing the door, perks up, and then glowers at patton when patton grins at him for perking him up.

"budge," roman tells logan, and logan rolls his eyes, but moves, and roman's about to start talking when he stops and frowns.

"hey, i'm christopher," he says. "logan's other dad."

"oh," roman says, and glances at logan, who gives him a surreptitious nod, like, it's okay. roman reaches across to shake his hand "i'm roman prince."

christopher looks delighted, and then he says "ow!" when someone stomps on his foot under the table.

virgil swings by to drop off a drink for roman, and tells patton, "drink your tea."

patton takes the sulkiest sip he can, and pulls an over-exaggerated face at the flavor of it.

"french toast," roman tells virgil imperiously.

"you're a trial upon my patience," virgil responds, and heads back to the kitchen.

"she wasn't that bad," christopher says to patton.

"roman, you met mitzie," patton begins.

"she was that bad," roman says immediately, and patton gestures at him like there, you see!

"god, when'd you see mitzie again?" christopher says.

"my birthday," logan says, nose wrinkling. "she was the overly personal one who kept insisting she wasn't trying to be rude, wasn't she?"

christopher sighs. "that... sounds like mitz."

patton snorts, and the breakfast is lost in 1, patton and christopher reminiscing about The Old Days, 2, christopher trying to subtly probe both patton and logan about their crushes, 3, virgil continuously heckling patton into finishing his tea.

by the time they're done, christopher shakes hands with virgil with a "good job taking care of our guys, yeah?" and patton...

patton stares at the pair of them.

there's christopher, all leather jacket and broad-chested and tousled hair, tan and easy smiles and a face that holds so many of the good memories of his childhood. and then there's virgil, pale and with deep under-eye bags and hunched into his too-big hoodie and hair that flops into his eyes, sulky, and a face that holds so many of the good memories of his adulthood.

like the past and the future are all lined up together. it's enough to give patton whiplash.

"well," virgil says, in the gruff voice that means he's flattered, "i try."

"you succeed," patton says, and his voice comes out softer than he means to be, and virgil ducks his head in the way he does when he's flustered.

"well," virgil says, "um," and then he goes back behind the counter again, to hide from squishy emotions.

patton grins and waves at him when they all walk out together, him and christopher and logan and roman, and virgil looks a combination of relieved, and something else, something in his eyes that he can't really name.

"well," christopher says, when the road divulges between the prince studio and the sanders house, "it was nice to meet you, young man."

christopher looks kind of tickled to be referring to anyone as a "young man," like a teenager gets when they do something Adult™ like deposit a check or run a grocery errand.

"it was nice to meet you too," roman says, and accepts christopher's hand to shake.

"i mean," christopher says, with a glint of a mischievous smile that patton loved once (and loves now in a different way) "i've heard so much about you."

logan looks mortified, which he covers up swiftly when roman swivels to look at him.

"thanks," roman says, and jerks his thumb. "i should. um."

"bye, roman," patton says, trying not to laugh.

as soon as roman's turned his back, logan drives his elbow hard into christopher's side as christopher cackles to himself.

(roman notices, a few paces away from christopher and the sanders', that jess is staring at them, and then at him, and roman realizes last second what it must have looked like, him eating breakfast with logan and his dads, and his other dad shaking roman's hand, and roman thinks about a lot of things, like trading his jam cookies for logan's strawberries the first day they met even though jam cookies are his favorites, he thinks about the day that logan came back from the optometrist with an eyeglass prescription and a request for roman to come along to pick out his first pair of frames and that logan still wears the square ones that roman had declared he liked best to this day, and logan volunteering for backstage crew for roman's shows even though he always talks about them as professional make-believe, and how logan's never missed one of his shows ever, and the countless milkshakes at lucy's they've had over the years, and the time that roman had given logan a ring pop when they were seven and had gotten down on one knee to do it, and he thinks about all the old copies of the sideshire courant that he's got in a box with logan's clips, and the way logan's face lights up every time roman gives him his birthday present that he stays up for countless nights to complete and all that exhaustion and writer's block is so worth it, and their late-night talks at the gazebo, and birthday kisses and how he kept wondering and wondering and wondering if he'd ever be brave enough to plant one on logan's lips, and at logan's birthday party, what had flashed through his head, the way i feel about logan is as unchangeable as my blood—

—and he knows it's long past time for him and jess to have a Talk.)

when they get to the sanders house, instead of going inside and immediately crashing, like patton expects, christopher stops both him and logan in the living room.

"patton," christopher says. "you okay?"

patton takes a breath. and another. he shrugs.

"not the best," patton says. "you might be going alone to friday night dinners for a while, logan, sorry."

"i don't want to go," logan says, immediate. "not if they fought with you."

"they were right, a little," patton says, and logan's about to argue.

"i know you'll say i'm being too nice," patton adds wearily. "and i’m not saying they were right about everything, not by a long shot, but at the center of that argument—of every argument we’ve had for a long time, really—at the center of it, they were right. with the perspective of being a parent now, the way i ran away, with just a note and refusing to call for a week and not telling them where i was living for months, it was—"

he chokes up, and forces himself to cough a few times to clear it.

"i think it's the worst thing i ever did to them," patton says, and he tries so hard not to let his voice break. 

"but it was what was best for you," logan says.

"it was," patton agrees. "but things can be good for one person and bad for another, you know. and that wasn't the only thing between us. we have a lot of history, right? and so much of it isn't good."

patton lays a hand on his son's shoulder.

"it was really hard for them, the distance i made between you three," patton says, and he makes his voice gentle. "you have at least one decent set of grandparents, you know. even if their idea of happiness is a lot different from mine. just because i'm fighting with them doesn't mean you have to be fighting with them."

"i don't like the way they speak to you."

"to be perfectly honest, i don't, either," patton says. "but we don't all have to be fighting. don't make up your mind right now," he adds. "think about it. you have time before you have to see them next, almost a whole week."

(oh, patton. he doesn't. not really. he has less than two days, really, since this is a saturday morning. but that's for next chapter.)

"okay," logan says. internally, he knows that when it comes down to it, he's always going to be on his dad's side and not his grandparents'. but if he said that right now, it would probably make him more upset, and more prone to defending his parents, even though his parents had definitely made him cry, and logan very much does want to fight with anyone who makes his dad cry, even if they're his grandparents.

but he doesn't say any of that.

"with that closing note," christopher says, and patton swivels, frowning.

"what?"

"i think i'm gonna," he says, and jerks his thumb toward where his indian is visible in the window. 

"oh," patton says, and he frowns. "so soon?"

"i did mostly come to town to visit my folks," christopher says gently, and reaches out to tug at patton's curl. "i don't want to make things any more stressful than they have to be for you, right now, roonie."

"you can stay if you want," patton starts.

"i know," christopher says. "but you know me, can't stay in one place for too long."

patton sighs, and slumps, because he knows when christopher's mind is made up. christopher grabs his bag, and the two sanders men follow him out to the curb.

"don't be a stranger, yeah?" he says, and steps forward to hug christopher.

christopher wraps his arms around patton tight, and patton rests his chin on christopher's shoulder. 

no one in patton's life knew him quite like christopher did. the pair of them, born just a month apart, with matching silver spoons in their mouths (christopher’s perhaps a touch shinier than patton’s) and playdates scheduled as soon as playdates were a thing both of them were capable of. christopher was there for all his demure moments in his childhood, and his attempts to throw all of those off. he was there for patton's rebellions, and patton's sobbing dysphoric days, and for the whole coming out process. he was the first person patton ever told that he thought he was maybe a boy. he was there to burn patton's skirts and dresses in a massive bonfire to make a statement, even though christopher had mostly thought it was an act of rebellion rather than a loud refusal to act like someone he wasn't. christopher was there when patton needed comfort, and christopher was there when he was euphorically happy, and christopher offered to be there when it was right and proper for him to do so, even though neither of them really wanted it.

patton's always going to love him, in some kind of way. patton doesn't think anyone can know someone in the way he knows christopher and not love them in some kind of way. but he doesn't love him like he did when he was sixteen. it's different. but there's that remembrance, there. that history. christopher knows patton isn't perfect, and patton knows that christopher isn't perfect. god, he’s far from it. but patton's relationship with him gave him logan.

and logan's the most precious thing anyone's ever given him.

"all right," christopher says, and he sounds a little choked up, too, like he was thinking about a lot of the same things. he gives patton several Manly pats on the back, to absolutely Bro Up such a hug, and patton can't help a laugh that sounds a bit like a sob, because they had a kid together, shouldn't they be past that kind of thing?

and then, to patton's ultimate surprise, logan steps forward, and holds out his hand to shake.

christopher stares at it, and then he smiles, wide, and takes his hand.

"remember what we said," logan says cryptically, and patton looks back and forth between them, but neither of their faces give it away.

"i know," christopher says. "i will."

logan nods, a sharp, jerky thing, and steps back onto the sidewalk beside patton.

christopher slings his leg over the motorbike, and pulls on his helmet, and with that familiar rumbling, he rides off into the morning sunlight, getting stronger and stronger with every passing minute.

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

previous chapter / chapter four / next chapter

start from the beginning!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, off-screen physical altercation (someone gets punched)

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 4,557

notes: i’m back in the country now and hoo boy jet lag does NOT mess around

logan's reviewing study materials on the bus monday morning. it's fine. the weekend has been fine. he's fine. he should focus on getting into an ivy. that's the priority. he doesn't care about roman getting kissed, roman getting asked out on a date, roman spending the night with—

logan forcibly relaxes his hand before he snaps a highlighter in half.

anyway. he's fine. he has to focus on school. he has to focus on the consultation with the faculty supervisor of the franklin that all journalistically-inclined sophomores are having today. he has to focus on his midterms. 

he's focusing on that plan until he walks into the franklin meeting, sits down, and they're in the midst of talking about some journalism Hot Topics when dee starts loudly proclaiming about how lack of attribution isn't a bad thing.

(your friendly neighborhood journalism student here! as according to the lawyer for the publication i worked for: lack of attribution can often be the sticking point for a libel suit or not. plus, it's just generally good rule of thumb to show readers where i got that information—like how i told you just now i heard it from the lawyer for a publication. that's attribution, though of course in a published article i would include that lawyer's name/title/why they have the professionalism to say that. it's often answering the well why should i believe THAT?! question before it can ever get asked, or at least showing where i got the information, like citing a source in a paper.)

logan, as you know, hasn't had the best week. a nice, bloodless debate about journalism is exactly what he needs.

(when he says bloodless—)

cut to logan sitting in the nurse's office, pinching the bridge of his nose, as dee's getting chewed out in charleston's office. technically, louise punched him, but everyone saw dee goading her into it, so. louise has already been sent packing for suspension, which is apparently a rarity at chilton, and brings him right back into the frame of gossip. just when he'd shaken the matthew nickname.

"well," the advisor for the franklin ("god, please, it's mel or doc or kram, don't say dr. kramschissel, you're wasting time you could be using to tell me about a new story idea") comments. "can't say that i've ever seen someone get hit for saying lack of attribution was comparable to plagiarism before."

"i hope this doesn't sour your opinion of me," logan says, but with all the blood it sounds more like bi hob dis doesn' dour your obinion o be.

"honestly," mel admits, "i've had my eye on you since charleston brought up that you wrote your first byline at seven, sanders."

"oh," logan says, then, "good."

"i don't think this will be a blip on the radar when it comes to admitting you," she says. "honestly, it's points in your favor."

"good," logan repeats, and removes the handful of tissues he's been holding to his nose for the past five minutes, sniffing experimentally. 

"shame about grant," she tuts. "journalists are facing a rough enough time without in-fighting going into it."

logan nods, and she continues.

"your opinion didn't endear you to grant, i'll have you know, but keep it quiet. she got in trouble for plagiarism last year and it's a near thing that she wasn't expelled."

"ah," logan says. 

"not going to ask how i know that?"

"you're a teacher, and a journalism one, at that," logan says. "i'd think you'd want to stay informed."

she smiles. "good guesses are the basis of interesting journalism," she says.

"basis, not journalism in full," logan says. 

"of course, research and interviews and so on, but a good guess can set you down the path," she says, and logan nods.

"so," she says, "you want to be an investigative journalist?"

"yes," logan says simply. he hopes she won't come back with the why? question most adults tend to ask. how does he explain the adrenaline high of a hard deadline, the way he floats after a good interview, the inherent justice of it all, the way that when journalism, done well, changes lives? how does he explain the deeply understood ethics, the sharply defended principles, the roles each journalist is preached to hold—of watchdog, to call on things gone wrong, of marketplace, for people to discuss ideas, of mirror, to reflect society back at itself? how does he explain how do no harm is something he follows not only in journalism but in life? how does he explain the way he felt the first time he published a story that mattered? how can he explain the admiration he feels when he reads the work of others? how can he explain the duty of keeping everyone informed, of reporting on the stories that would otherwise go unheard? how can explain that responsibility? how can he explain that?

but mel smiles at him, and oh, logan realizes. she knows. she has a doctorate in journalism and a pulitzer nomination under her belt and three books to boot. of course she knows.

his phone buzzes. logan glances at it, and then at mel, who says, "oh, go on," and logan picks up.

"logan!" his dad gasps, and logan tucks the phone up under his ear. "the headmaster just called—"

"i'm fine, dad," logan says. "it's just a bloody nose."

"just," his father huffs. "there is no just about my son getting punched in the face! i have half a mind to send your grandmother in there, see if i don't."

"maybe you should," logan says.

"what?"

"i mean, she's closer," logan says. "plus, i mean. what's the use of grandma being grandma if we can't use it once in a while?"

"fair," patton says. "but i'm coming right up, i'm on my way now. should you call her or should i?"

"oh, dad," logan says. "obviously headmaster charleston should call her."

"i have no idea where you got this evil gene from," patton says admiringly, as if logan has not seen patton play innocent to get the upper hand a million times at the diner alone. "all right, i'll call back. how huffy should i get?"

"maximum levels of huffy. your son did get assaulted, after all."

"i can't believe you've been confronted by more delinquents there than you have at sideshire, i'm totally bragging about that at brunch slash our next dinner slash for the rest of time," patton says. "all right. i'll be there soon. i love you so much."

"you too," logan says, and then realizes that mel was listening, and god, that was hardly the language of a proper upstanding journalist—

she laughs like she's heard his thoughts, and she says, "we're journalists, not robots. honestly, seeing you act a bit like a normal teenager doesn't discredit your work."

logan offers a tentative smile, and then, "i thought your pulitzer article was riveting."

"aw, shucks."

"can i ask about—?"

"go for it."

"how did you get the correctional officer to talk to you? korinth, i mean," logan asks, fascinated, leaning forward. 

"well," she begins, and begins weaving a tale about how she'd unveiled a story about suspicious prison deaths across the county, and then across the nation, and logan listens and does not bother resisting the urge to take notes in his notepad, juggling another handful of tissues for his still-bleeding nose with a pen (which she nods at approvingly.)

he doesn't notice the aggravated clacking of heels down the marble hallway getting increasingly noisy until the voice comes with it.

"—incredibly displeased that my grandson got punched by some hooligan, hanlin!"

logan scowls—mel was just getting to the part where she'd finally gotten into the office of a prison superintendent. 

"is that someone of yours?"

"my grandmother, yes."

mel nods, and stands, wiping her hands off on her slacks, and the door flies open.

"logan," emily frets, and logan blinks accusingly at charleston. 

"hi, grandma," he says, possibly overemphasizing the way the bloody nose transfigured his speech. 

"is it broken?" she asks, and snaps at the nurse when she doesn't answer in 0.05 seconds, "well?!"

"it's not broken," the nurse says. "it might hurt for a couple days, but it's not broken."

"small mercies," emily huffs. "what even happened?"

"sanders and a couple other students got into a spirited discussion about attribution in journalism," mel says. "slange was urging grant on—"

"not dee slange?"

"—but grant got rather heated when sanders said that a lack of attribution was close to plagiarism—a view i share, i might add—and her temper rather got the better of her," mel finishes. "and yes, the same." 

"emily, i assure you, the student in question has been suspended," charleston says.

"oh i should hope so!" she hisses. "someone hit my grandson, i will ensure those consequences are enforced!"

logan, internally, is kicking back to watch the show, seeing how charleston shrinks and shrinks in front of his grandmother that reminds him a little of his dad, but in a much less blood-boiling way because charleston actually deserves it. externally, he is sure to look as mournful and as much like a kicked puppy as he possibly can.

"here, here, here!" a much more familiar voice pants, and patton stumbles into the nurse's office, wheezing, clutching a stitch in his side.

"dad," logan starts.

"logan," patton says, "my son," and he sounds upset, immediately crossing over to frame logan's face in his hands.

"how is it still bleeding?! it's not broken, is it?!" he asks the nurse frantically.

"no, it's not broken," the nurse says. 

patton swivels to stare at charleston, and he's genuinely teary-eyed. "you said you'd take care of my son."

"well, now—"

"you did," emily confirms. "you said you'd do your best to take care of my grandson."

"how on earth is this taking care of him?!" patton demands. 

"emily—mr. sanders—"

"how could this possibly be the best school in the state if he gets punched during a scholarly debate?!" patton nearly shrieks. 

"mr. sanders, if you would calm—"

"no, i will not calm down!" he shouts. "how can i possibly trust this school to take care of him if he gets beaten up within its walls?!"

"emily, surely you can—"

"my son's making a valid point," emily says coolly. "i sent one child here, and did you see what happened to him? you said that children would be children. you said you were trying your best to control the bullying. i found my son crying in his bed and hiding any possible sign and refusing to talk to me because it had gotten so bad. my son. when i brought up concerns about my grandson, you said that it had gotten better, and he's been attending for barely two months when i get a call that he's been assaulted?"

oh shit, logan thinks, they're pissed. they're pissed and they're teaming up.

"we should sue," emily says, and patton jabs a finger at her in agreement. "i should have sued when patton was here!"

"well, now, a lawsuit is—" charleston says, sweating very nervously indeed.

"my son's nose is still bleeding," patton says, "and you're telling me that a lawsuit would be overreacting?!"

"dad, grandma," logan says, finally cutting in, because patton might start angry-crying at any second. "maybe not a lawsuit, though i am going to have to protest to dee slange just getting a stern talking-to and nothing else."

"he's not even getting detention?!" patton snarls. "i got detention for politely telling people to respect my name and pronouns, and someone who prodded someone into hitting my son is getting nothing but a talking to?!"

"i agree with sanders," mel says. "the role of instigator is not a small one, and from where i was standing, grant may not have been so incensed without slange's commentary. mr. sanders—patton, isn't it?—i'll personally ensure that slange gets some form of detention, which i'm sure headmaster charleston will agree with, won't you?"

"i do!" charleston says hastily. "or, he will get detention. yes."

"oh, he'd better," emily says. "hanlin, why don't we continue this in your office, and you can outline exactly what your plans for discipline are moving forward. i won't be making the same mistake twice."

"yes," he says hastily. "yes, of course, and an excused absence for mr. sanders, if you'd like to take him home—"

"i will," patton says hotly. 

"emily, if you'd—?"

and they make their retreat.

mel lets out a low whistle. "god, sanders, i hope you can grill a source like that."

"i have good examples," logan admits.

"sorry," mel adds hastily. "dr. melissa kramschissel, but i insist on mel or kram. i'm the faculty advisor for the franklin."

"oh!" patton says, and tries for his best meeting-new-people smile, shaking her hand. "of course, logan's told me all about you. he's very excited to work on the franklin."

"oh, we'll have a place for him, but if you'll excuse me, i think the bell's about to ring," mel says, and nods to him. "sanders."

"mel," he says with a nod, trying not to outwardly celebrate too much at we'll have a place for him. 

"okay, give me your face," patton demands, digging wet wipes out of his pocket. "does it still hurt?"

"a little," logan admits. "i'll probably ice it later."

"i'll be gentle," patton promises, and begins swiping the dried blood off his face. 

"so," logan says, "you and grandma might have terrified charleston into giving me preferential treatment until i graduate."

patton snorts, but his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he attempts to scrub off a stubborn bit of blood without pressing down too hard. "yeah, well. one of us should have it."

"i didn't realize grandma wanted to sue. when you were here."

"that makes two of us," patton says. "dinner this week is gonna be interesting."

"i suppose it will," logan agrees, and patton sets aside the wet wipe. he frowns, tilting logan's face side to side.

"you're going to bruise up something terrible."

"i'll ice it," logan repeats. "louise grant apparently has a hell of a right hook."

"that she does," a voice drawls, and logan instinctively stiffens as both sanders look toward the door.

"she's a black belt, you know," dee continues. 

"i didn't, but you certainly did," logan grits out. 

"hm, innocent until proven guilty," dee says, with a little bow. "good job on getting your grandmother to solve your problems, logan."

"are you upset i marred your otherwise perfect record, or something?" logan sneers. 

"or something," dee says lightly. "now if you'll excuse me, i have an appointment with charleston to attend. and this," he says, face breaking out into a grin, "why, this has only just ended."

he sweeps off.

"jesus, i've never seen a high schooler so clearly destined to become a marvel supervillain," patton says with a shudder. "that's him?"

"that's him," logan confirms dryly. 

patton pats him on the shoulder, and says, "well, on that slightly unnerving note, you wanna come home?"

logan hops to his feet, and follows patton out of chilton, to the car. they're on the highway by the time patton talks again.

"this has been a rough week, huh?"

"i can't say i've ever been punched at school, no," logan says, sidestepping the other part of his week.

patton scowls, briefly, before he says, "not just that."

logan jerks up a shoulder in a shrug, looking out of a window. "i should be focusing on school anyway. getting into an ivy. they start really focusing on how i'm doing now, so—"

"it's okay to feel sad."

"i'm not sad."

"it would be okay if you were, though," patton says.

"right," logan says. "anyway. we really need to get a new soap dish for the upstairs bathroom, it's been broken for months."

"and i'm here to listen if you wanna talk about it, okay?"

"...we're going to need to call the heating company, too, you remember how it got so odd last year. we might need to replace the unit."

"okay, okay," patton says, and they talk about the house and nothing but the house until they get to sideshire. the length of the drive makes it so that—logan checks—both chilton and sideshire high will have just gotten out of classes.

"you wanna jam tart, or something?" patton offers. "my treat."

"i was," logan says, and licks his lips. "i was actually thinking of going to lucy's and dropping by the studio."

"oh!" patton says, startled. "oh, i mean, of course, but i thought you might be—"

"why should i have opinions on the situation?" logan says. "he's just my friend. it's not like it's my place to say anything about it."

"logan," patton begins, but sighs and puts up his hands. "okay, okay, fine. let me at least drive you to lucy's, i want a double-chocolate shake."

logan gets their regulars, withstands some fussing from patton and lucy, and walks down the street to the studio.

ms. prince has taken over that class, but roman's sitting in the furthest corner from the door, head bent, working on homework. he looks up when the bell rings.

logan holds up the milkshakes in answer, and roman beams at him, waving him eagerly down the hall.

as soon as logan gets close, though, the smile slides right off, immediately replaced by a look of concern.

"oh, my god, what happened to your face?!" roman hisses.

"journalism gets heated at chilton," logan says, and hands over the chocolate-covered cherry shake. 

"someone hit you?!" roman demands, setting aside the shake immediately and taking hold of logan's face (logan's growth spurt means that he's a little bit taller than roman, now. no telling if it'll stay that way, but for now, logan has to get used to the new angle.)

"grandma and dad both came to yell at the headmaster," logan tells him. "now grandma knows that dee slange is... well, the way he is."

"he hit you?!"

"louise grant did, actually, but everyone knows dee goaded her into it."

roman shakes his head in disbelief, cracks open the top of logan's milkshake to steal his maraschino cherry. "you go to school without me for, what, two months? and you got punched. in the face."

"the nose, more precisely," logan says, starting to spoon through the whipped cream. "apparently, she's a black belt."

"your dad yelled?"

"a little, yeah," logan says. "i mean, he looked pretty close to angry-crying, but my grandma definitely yelled. apparently she nearly sued chilton for the way he got treated when he was there. hearing i got punched in the face has kickstarted that desire right back up again."

roman lets out a low whistle, and takes a long slurp of his shake, smiling at it. "um. thanks, by the way."

"i owed you for last time. and technically my dad bought—"

"no! um, not the shakes, but thanks for those too, i guess," roman says. "i just—i didn't know if things would be weird now. with jess and everything."

logan blinks at him. "why would it be weird?" he says, in a carefully normal tone. "we're friends. why should i care if you went on a date?"

roman freezes, lets out an absolutely false laugh, and looks down at his lap. "right," he says, quietly. "right, why should you care."

"how was it, anyway?" logan says, as if an odd and painful thing wasn't clenching in his chest.

"oh," roman says. "it was—nice."

"nice," logan repeats.

"yes. nice."

"roman. i once heard you describe yourself as talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before, and when it comes to your first date, you just say that it's nice?"

"okay, first of all, i can't believe you cannot recognize that i was referencing lady gaga," roman says, "second of all, i was just starting to describe it, calm down."

logan rolls his eyes, and keeps his face frozen in polite interest as he hears roman start to gush about jess, and thinks this hurts worse than his bloody nose.

meanwhile, patton walks into virgil's, shake in hand.

"no outside beverages," virgil says.

"you know what would go great with this one, though?" patton says. "a hot cocoa/coffee."

"you had three cups at breakfast."

"no, virgil, you don't understand, i need another one," patton says. "i actually was in agreement with my mom today—"

virgil opens his mouth.

"but patton, it's monday, you're about to say? well, i got called up to school because logan got passionate about journalism, like he always does, and some—some girl punched him in the nose!"

"wh—is he okay?!"

"he's fine," patton says, "he seemed to think that i was making too big a deal out of everything, he went to get shakes for him and roman. i'm hoping that's a good sign, but i'm just—he got hit, virgil!"

"he's okay, though?"

"bloody nose, nothing broken," patton says. "please can i get a hot cocoa/coffee?"

"i'm sending you home with a dozen jam tarts," virgil decides, and fishes out a mug. "oh, wait, you said your mom—?"

"my mom might have actually killed a man today, i don't know, she made him take her back to his office," patton says. "she was yelling for a solid fifteen minutes before i got there, i think."

"well, if your mom has to be who she is..."

"logan said the same thing," patton says. "he actually said that i should make charleston call, which." his lip twitches. "makes up a little for the time i got a month's worth of detention because i kept correcting teachers on my name and pronouns and ignoring them if they called out my deadname."

virgil high-fives him, face hardened. 

"also it turns out my mom wanted to sue when i was there," patton adds, distracted. "like she started yelling at him about me. i didn't know she was so..."

"loud?"

"upset," patton says softly. "i didn't know she was that upset about it."

"oh."

"i just—i dunno. i always felt so alone back then, and i can't help but wonder..." patton shakes himself, murmurs a thanks when virgil sets the mug in front of him. "it is what is now, i guess. can't change the past."

"i mean, if i could change the past," virgil says, an attempt at a joke, "i'd change the way we met."

patton smiles. "you weren't that bad."

virgil gives him a Look.

"okay, you were a little bad," patton amends, "but to be fair, i was on the verge of a breakdown for days and you fed me basically immediately after, that made up for it."

"well, i'd change it," virgil insists. 

"i wouldn't," patton says, smiling. "i wouldn't change a thing in the world about us."

except for one thing, they both think, except for one thing—

but they don't want to risk it, changing this silent, maybe-unrequited love into something said aloud. not yet.

⁂

logan keeps going to the studio after school. he did that a lot, really, did his homework in the pews, or read the courant, or compiled research for an article, but he'd stopped doing it as often after he transferred to chilton.

it makes sense that his date (boyfriend?) would come to visit him one day.

it's the wednesday after he brought roman a shake, and logan's busy perfecting his outline for his english essay that's due in two weeks when the door to the dance studio opens. logan blinks, looking up, and—oh.

the boy—jess, logan thinks snidely—hovers near the door.

"hell of a shiner," jess says, and he sounds impressed. "what happened?"

"journalism."

jess blinks at him in utter confusion, and roman bounces around the corner, beaming. the dancers (mostly around the age of ten) filter toward their bags. one of them is giving logan a pitying look. logan refuses the urge to bury his face back into his book.

"jess, what are you doing here?! my mom might kill you!"

"i brought you something," he says, bringing a bag out from behind his back, and logan barely suppresses his smirk.

roman hates al's pancake world. 

"oh, hey," roman says, rallying from the briefly disappointed look that flashes almost too quick to catch across his face. "thanks, jess, that's really sweet. oh, i didn't even—jess, this is logan. he's my best friend, he goes to chilton now."

"chilton?" jess echoes.

"it's thirty minutes away," logan says, and jess' eyes drop to the uniform.

"private school kid, then."

"fairly recent, but yes," logan says, trying not to get riled up. "i just transferred in this year."

"logan's going to be a journalist," roman says brightly, "and he—"

"yeah, he mentioned," jess says, cutting roman off. logan tries not to inflate too obviously, because sure, he might cut roman off, but roman always gives him that Look, the 'i'll-get-you-for-that-later' Look, not the way he's scuffing his ballet shoes over the carpeted floor of the hallway right now. but roman rallies, because roman always does.

"he's going to get a pulitzer one day," roman says. 

logan smiles at roman. just a little. "well, i'm not just focusing on journalism for that."

"yeah, but you're so good at it you're gonna get one," roman says. "maybe two. who's the record-holder for pulitzers?"

"carol guzy and david barstow are tied at four."

"amateurs!" roman declares, and logan laughs.

"as interesting as all that is," jess drawls. "should i...?"

"roman has class until six, then an hour's break, and classes again," logan says. "schedule varies depending on his mother, of course, but considering..."

"you could skip," jess offers, and roman actually laughs, before he blinks.

"oh. you're serious?"

"yeah, why not?"

because roman loves teaching the kids. you would have been better off asking if he could skip the sunrise yoga for the over-55s.

"because my mom might actually bludgeon you to death with a pointe shoe," roman says. 

that too.

"what else can she do?" jess says, with an eyeroll.

"oh, you're definitely new to town," logan murmurs, unable to help himself.

"what?" he scowls, swiveling to face logan. 

"you're definitely new to town, for two reasons," logan says, neatly shutting his book as roman slips back into the studio and a shadow looms behind an unsuspecting jess. "one, because ms. prince is rightfully the most feared person in town. and two, you haven't yet learned that she can be lurking around any corner."

jess rolls his eyes. "what, like she's the boogeyman? i think i'll take my chances."

"boo," ms. prince says coldly, and logan doesn't even try not to smile when jess jumps about a foot in the air.

"ms. prince," logan says, slipping his book into his bag and nodding at her respectfully. 

"logan," she says, without taking her eyes off her latest prey. "you have some nerve showing up here without so much as an apology."

logan steps out of the doorway, even as he's loathe to miss a ms. prince lecture directed at someone who's not him or roman, and quashes the urge to do something foolish, like skip his way to virgil's.