#this is essentially 'janus has an identity crisis: the fic'

[whenisitenoughtrees]

look me up and define me (please remind me) (part 1/2)

He is whatever puts Thomas first. But that changes so often that he doesn’t know what he is beyond that.

He is Janus when he is alone, but only when he is not someone else.

Janus has never minded the fact that his identity is fluid, ever-changing. He acts as whoever Thomas needs him to be in the moment, and if that means he doesn't know much about himself as an individual, well. It's never been a problem for him.

Until he gives away his name, and then it very much is.

Chapter Warnings: identity issues, non-graphic panic attack, references to self-harm

Chapter Word Count: 4,493

Pairings: platonic TDLAMPR, implied Moceit (though you don’t have to read into it)

Notes: This fic started as a oneshot but ended up being more than 10k, so I’m dividing it into two parts, the second of which will hopefully be posted Friday. Also, this fic as a whole was inspired by the awesome ‘The Record Player Song’ animatic by @turbovickii, which, 10/10 would recommend if you haven’t seen it

Chapter one podfic by @titheinironside

(part 2)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

Janus isn’t his name.

Or rather, it isn’t, and it is. He’s never had to think too hard about it before, has never had to struggle for the words to put it all into context. Janus is his name, yes, the name he chose for himself back when Thomas was young and they were all bright-eyed, foolish children, and his preferred moniker wasn’t Deceit but rather something entirely different.

Janus. Roman god of beginnings and of ends, of transitions, of doorways, of passages that lead on and on. God of time, and god of duality. He thought it a fitting descriptor for himself; he is sweet lies, lies that soothe and lies that heal, and he is bitter truths, truths that no one wants to hear, that he must keep to himself lest they do more harm than any lie could. If that is not duality, he doesn’t know what is.

But he is, at his core, whatever Thomas needs him to be. He is fluid in a way that the others are not, able to shift and change depending on the day, depending on what Thomas requires of him at any given moment. He is Thomas’ ability to lie, but only when it benefits him; when a truth would do the most good, he suggests that, instead. He wants Thomas to succeed, to do whatever it takes to better himself, to pursue his ambitions, but only until he pushes himself too far, works himself into exhaustion or questions himself too much. Then, he is the voice that tells him to relax, to take time for himself, to put his health above his goals.

He is whatever puts Thomas first. But that changes so often that he doesn’t know what he is beyond that.

He plays the part of the others, too, whenever it is necessary. They are used to it by now, so used to it that by the time he reveals himself to Thomas, they react with anger rather than surprise or alarm. But what they do not know is that for every time they catch him out, there are five more times he goes undetected, slipping in amongst them, a snake in the grass. He mediates arguments as Morality when the real Patton is nowhere to be found, uses Logic to pull them down to earth when Logan is too buried in his books and theories to realize there’s an emotional problem, uses Creativity’s bravado to advocate for Thomas’ dreams when Roman is busy dreaming himself.

He keeps the mindscape running smoothly. And when he is not one of them, when he wears his default skin, scales and all, he is known to them as Deceit. Nothing more, nothing less. A convenient villain, uniting them all in their distaste. It makes him sick, sometimes, their naivety, the knowledge that without him here, they would run Thomas into the ground all while professing their love for him. But he swallows it down, hides it within himself with all the other truths he hoards, and he carries on another day.

He is Janus when he is alone.

But even that is not true, not really. He is Janus in the snatched moments he has for himself, when there is no pressing crisis, nothing for Thomas to be doing or saying or making, when he can sit alone in his room with the jukebox crooning soft melodies. He is Janus, but only sometimes, because even alone, he draws on the traits of the others. Logan, when he needs a clearer perspective; Roman, when he needs an ego boost; Virgil, to indulge in his worries; Remus, to indulge in darker thoughts; Patton, when he is feeling weak and lonely and wanting, when he wraps his arms around himself and wants to pretend that he does not stand in solitude.

He is Janus when he is alone, but only when he is not someone else.

The Roman god Janus has two faces, one to look to the past and the other to the future. None to look to the present, and that is how he feels, most days, like there is none of him-as-Janus present at all, like every face that he wears is a false one, and his namesake has only two but he has far more than that.

He’s not sure he even knows who Janus is, besides the name, what he likes and what he dislikes, how he feels and how he acts when there is no pressure on him to keep Thomas well. He likes chess and philosophy, but he only ever plays as Logan, only uses that knowledge when he’s wearing the necktie and glasses, because otherwise he can’t get anyone else to listen. He dislikes surprises and stupidity and the ever-present knowledge that nothing in Thomas’ life is guaranteed, due to a society that actively works against most of its members, but are those his concerns or Virgil’s? He only indulges in stronger emotions when he takes Patton’s form, so who’s to say that the feelings are Janus’ at all?

And he almost never gets to act when there is no pressure on him to keep Thomas well. That pressure is always there, has always been there. Without it, who would he be?

In the end, Janus is just a name. Whether it’s his or not is difficult to say. And that has never been a problem for him; he exists to benefit Thomas, after all. He doesn’t feel the need for a solid identity beyond that, not like the others do. He only picks a name in the first place because everyone else does, because Creativity-that-is-Remus needs someone he can look up to, because Anxiety-that-becomes-Virgil needs to know that not everyone is out to get him. It’s a display of trust, in a way, but trust only leads to disaster, to angry two-toned words and pounding footsteps and a blank space in the wall where his best friend once lived, so really, what is the point?

Janus is his name. But he’s not particularly attached to it, and he’s content to leave it there.

But then, there is the callback, and the wedding. But then, he fights for Thomas’ desires harder than he has ever fought before, and when that turns sour, he returns to fight for Thomas’ failing mental health. He does so as Logan, and as Deceit when Logan’s form no longer suits the goal, and he’s not expecting them to listen but he still tries.

But then, everything changes.

But then, Thomas says, I don’t know that we are, and he believes for a moment that he is imagining all of this, that he has slipped into Roman’s face and has allowed a daydream to get just a bit out of hand, because to hear those words out of Thomas’ mouth is something he has fantasized about for so long.

But then, he has a chance at acceptance, a chance to change it all so that he no longer has to struggle to make his voice heard, a chance that all depends on using the right words at this exact moment, and in the split second before he begins to tug his glove from his hand, he panics. Because he is Deceit right now, and the amount of sincerity that he has allowed to spill from his lips has already been taxing. What else can he possibly say to earn their consideration, to earn a place among them?

And then he remembers the importance they place on names. From there, the decision is practically made for him.

He says the words as if on autopilot, an odd mixture of nervous and numb, and he has to check to make sure he has not accidentally shifted into Virgil’s hoodie rather than Deceit’s capelet as his fear thrums though him. Roman laughs, and he lashes out in return, though more due to offense at the idea that the name is stupid rather than because of a personal connection to it.

When Patton says it back to him, he can’t stop himself from flinching, just a bit, can’t stop the widening of his eyes, the stilling of every muscle. He should be glad, he thinks, because this shows that Patton, at least, is willing to give him a chance, is willing to let him in just a little. But all he can feel is a pervasive sense of wrongness, because he isn’t supposed to be Janus here. Here, he is Deceit, is acting as Deceit. Janus is for isolated, personal moments, and for the life of him, he cannot change that, cannot draw out what little he knows of Janus while there are others here, while Thomas is here.

It’s all wrong. And it only gets worse.

Patton wants to spend time with him, after that. Mostly, he’s glad to accept, is glad of the opportunity to endear himself, to cultivate a relationship that once would have been impossible. Patton invites him to bake, to watch movies, to play games, even to debate morality with him, and he does, and he finds himself enjoying both the activities and the company. But every so often, he catches himself, happiness curdling and souring, because these are all things he enjoys when he is Patton, when he is filling in the cracks that form in Morality’s absence. He has never done any of this as Janus, and every time Patton calls him by the name, he feels dirty, feels like the worst kind of imposter, because in these moments, he doesn’t feel as though he is acting as Janus so much as acting like a reflection of Patton himself, and if Patton knew that, knew that the person he thought he was befriending barely exists at all, he would be devastated.

For some reason, he thinks he would do just about anything to avoid that. For the sake of Thomas’ mental health, surely, and not because he cares about Patton as an individual. To do that would be to open a door that he wouldn’t know how to close. Better to leave it shut and locked, and to ignore the fact that the knob is already turning.

“You okay there, kiddo?” Patton asks him. “You seem a little distracted.”

He manages a smile, and he knows it comes off well, because that is what he is practiced in. “Perfectly fine,” he says. “Sorry about that.” He sniffs the air. “This batch definitely won’t burn if you leave it in any longer.”

And Patton gasps and bustles around, pulling the cookies from the oven, the redirection working perfectly.

Leave it shut and locked? Please. The door is open, he thinks. Perhaps it would be a disservice to both of them to pretend otherwise. Because he finds himself almost unbearably fond of Patton, these days, and guilty for feeling so. As soon as he has a moment alone, he has to shift into Patton’s form to get his emotions under control, to abate the itching tightness of his skin. Deceit isn’t made for these pleasant interactions, and Janus is about as tangible as mist, but he can hardly be Patton in front of Patton, so he wears a mask of scales and speaks past the acid burning in his throat.

The smart thing to do would be to stop. To retreat, to cut off these developing ties before they can do him any more harm. But for all the cognitive dissonance this is causing him, he doesn’t want to lose Patton’s friendship, his smiles and warmth. He’s not sure how he used to live without it.

The door is open so wide that it might as well be hanging off its hinges.

He can grin and bear it when it’s just Patton. For a while, it seems as though it will remain that way. Roman, at least, doesn’t want to see him, and when Virgil isn’t avoiding him, their interactions are far from cordial. And when he is tired, he can sink back into the dark side of the mindscape where Remus awaits him, and Remus, at least, has never expected him to be anything that he is not. He never calls him by his name, either, instead blurting out whatever obscene nickname pops into his head in the moment.

He has never been so glad of that.

But then, Logan invites him to play a game of chess, and for a full three minutes, he is overjoyed, because he loves to play chess, and Logan is the only one who could possibly give him a challenge, and the fact that Logan voluntarily wants to spend time with him is nothing short of amazing. The euphoria lasts until the board is set and they are facing each other, and he catches himself just before shapeshifting into Logan’s form. And he remembers: he has only ever played chess as Logan, learned to play in the first place so as to better imitate Logan. He has played against everyone in the mindscape but Logan at one point or another, providing a distraction and logical advice when Logan himself was unavailable, and none of them were any the wiser as to just who commanded the opposing set of pieces.

Except Remus, but he just thought it was funny.

It is all he can do to focus on the game. All he can do to put up a decent showing, though he loses. All he can do to prevent himself from mirroring Logan’s mannerisms by mistake, out of habit.

He doesn’t know how to do this as Janus. His face is frozen, but his hands are fidgeting, seeking release. Normally, he would copy Logan’s calm, his professionalism, but he can’t do that when Logan is sitting right across from him, sure to notice anything odd or out of place.

“It was a good game, Janus,” Logan says when they are done, and he wants to scream, because Janus doesn’t belong here either, doesn’t belong sitting by a chessboard. That has always been Logan’s place, and it disturbs him somewhere deep inside to be playing Logan’s game, wearing Deceit’s face, being called Janus. So much so that once the game is completed, he retreats to his room and stays there for a week, refusing to answer the door.

It should help. He is not Janus often, but when he is, it is here, in the sanctuary of his own room, his own bed.

It doesn’t help. If anything, it unsettles him even more, because the lines that hold his identities apart have been blurred so far that he spends the entire week uncomfortable in his skin, unsure of who he’s trying to be at any given moment. He shifts into the others, stares at their reflections in the mirror, but that doesn’t make things any better.

He needs help. He has to admit that, at this point. And there’s only one other he can think of to go to, only one other who might have experienced anything close to this tailspin.

He knocks on Virgil’s door.

Virgil opens it promptly enough, though his expression morphs from neutral to pissed off immediately upon seeing him. “Fuck off,” he snaps, and slams the door shut in his face.

He knocks again. And when he gets no reply, he keeps knocking, knocking and knocking and knocking.

“Don’t worry, I definitely couldn’t do this all day,” he calls airily, and Virgil jerks the door open again, face now firmly set in incandescent rage.

“What the fuck do you want?” he spits, all nerves and anger, all fight and no flight at all.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks.

Virgil stares at him, wordless, eyes narrow. And then, he holds the door open, allowing him to step inside.

“Make it quick,” he bites out, closing the door behind him. “What the hell do you think you and I have to discuss?”

He raises an eyebrow at that, because really? They have everything to discuss, and the longer they put it off, the more difficult it will be to start. Their relationship as it stands now is untenable; left to rot much longer, and it will begin to actively harm Thomas, which is something he absolutely cannot allow.

But that is not what he is here for.

“For both of our sakes, I won’t answer that,” he says. “I just have a question for you.”

Virgil glares. In his hoodie sleeves, his hands are balled into shaking fists. It hurts in an odd sort of way, to see how much he hates him. “Then ask it and leave,” he says, his voice threaded with trepidation. He already knows that he won’t like what he hears.

Well. That makes two of them. He knows he isn’t going to like asking this question.

“After you first told the others your name,” he says, “how long did it take for you to like hearing it?”

He has the dubious pleasure of seeing shock, pure and unfiltered, pass across Virgil’s face.

“How long--” Virgil starts. “What are you even--? I don’t know, I've never thought about it. I… I never disliked hearing it. I mean, I told them in the first place because I trusted them.” A barb, though not an undeserved one. “It was weird, but I wouldn't have told them if I didn’t want them to know it. Why are you asking me that?”

It’s exactly the answer he didn’t want. He knew that Virgil wouldn’t understand what he is going through, that Virgil, at his core, is exactly what and who he appears to be, unlike him. But he hoped that there would have been an adjustment period, at least, that there was a time when Virgil, so used to being called by his function, deemed the monster under the bed, would have found it disturbing or at least unnerving to be named so casually.

“Absolutely no reason at all,” he says, and turns back to the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Nuh-uh.” Virgil catches him by the arm, and he freezes. “You’re not leaving.”

He breathes out slowly, tries not to show his growing fear. The effects of Virgil’s room are beginning to take root, but in his heart of hearts, he knows that’s not the only reason for the erratic pounding of his pulse.

“Oh?” he says, and fights to keep the tremor from his voice. “I thought you wanted me to ask and leave? Do continue with the indecision, it never ceases to delight me.”

“No,” Virgil says, voice hard. “You don’t get to do that. Not until you tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

He should never have come here. He draws on Deceit like a cloak, like armor to protect him, armor woven of sarcasm and misdirection and misplaced confidence. Be what he expects, and he will never see anything different; that is a lesson he learned years ago. But the persona is shaky, muted by his confusion and by the bleed-through of every other guise he’s ever adopted. To give ground in front of Virgil is like diving into shark-infested waters with an open wound, but the smoothness he seeks to emulate slips through his grasp.

“It’s a question I need answered,” he says. “No more than that.”

“Bullshit.” Virgil tugs on his arm, and despite himself, he turns his head to face him. There is something odd flickering behind the irritation in Virgil’s eyes, something strange in the tilt of his head that he cannot place. It puts him ill at ease; to be unable to read Virgil is inviting danger, especially in Virgil’s own territory. “If you don’t like them saying your name, then why did you tell them?”

Caught.

He can feel all the blood draining from his face. His vision tunnels, focusing on Virgil’s face, on the expression that is anger and something that cannot possibly be concern, because they burned their bridges far too thoroughly for that. His head throbs, his breathing hitching, and he knows that he needs to leave, now, before he spirals further, because showing weakness in front of another is reprehensible but far, far worse if that someone is Virgil--

“Janus!” Virgil says, alarm threading through his voice, and that is absolutely the last straw. He rips his arm from Virgil’s grasp and sinks directly out, falling through the mindscape until he is in his own room, gasping for breath. His pulse races, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and when he turns to look in the mirror, he finds that he has wrapped himself in Virgil’s form as his fears threaten to overwhelm him, hoodie and eyeshadow and all.

He curls up on the floor and tries to remember how to breathe.

It takes a long time for him to calm himself, and when he manages to look up again, it is Patton staring back at him. He likes being Patton, likes it more than being any of the others, because Patton is warm and soft and for all his flaws, fundamentally good in a way that used to repulse him but no longer does. Being Patton feels like the closest thing to a hug that he will ever get.

He forces himself to shift again, forces himself into Deceit before stumbling from his room and into the commons. Remus is laying on the couch, half-naked, watching some gory anime and eating ice cream straight out of the carton. He pauses for a moment, watching him, taking comfort in the familiarity; everything changes, but Remus, at least, is a constant, like the north star if the north star showed its love by threatening violence at random intervals. For the briefest of seconds, he shifts into Remus and then back to Deceit again, and for once, feels steady.

Remus takes notice of him eventually, sitting up and baring his teeth in a grin.

“How’d it go with Virgey?” he asks.

He decides not to question how he knew where he was.

“Right, because I want to talk about it,” he grumbles. “Can’t you tell?” He strides over to the couch, keeping as much dignity intact as possible as he shoves at Remus’ legs until he moves them, providing room for him to sit. “What are we watching?”

“Parasyte,” Remus offers, but there is an odd tone in his voice. When he looks, he sees that Remus is watching him now, rather than the screen, and something in the strangely level gaze is discomfiting.

“What?” he snaps.

“Nothing,” Remus says, raising his hands. “Just, are you good? I mean, we can switch it to something you wanna watch, if you want. Like, uh, that one show where everyone’s dead? You like that one, right?”

“The Good Place,” he mutters. “No, that’s alright. You’d be bored to tears.”

Remus frowns, but doesn’t respond. It takes another full episode-- he thinks; they must be in the middle of the plot, because he has absolutely no idea what’s going on-- for him to speak again, which is strange in and of itself. A quiet Remus never bodes well, because a quiet Remus means that either he is hurting, or he is seriously contemplating hurting someone else. No jokes, no disgusting gags, just a desire to inflict pain for pain’s sake. It doesn’t happen often, but it is never pleasant when it does. All too often, it is Remus himself who becomes the victim of these tendencies, Remus who tears into his own flesh rather than harming another.

But then, the silence is broken, and he almost wishes that it weren’t.

“If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right, Dee?” Remus asks, and he swallows, hard.

“Of course,” he lies, and of course it is a lie, a lie hissed out between his teeth, because there is nothing that Remus can do about this, so what would be the point in telling him about it? Remus cares, even if he shows it in odd ways, and it would only hurt him to be presented with a problem that he can do nothing to solve.

“Good,” Remus says, settling back in. “‘Cause you know, if anybody was hurting you, I’d smash their skull in. Like a watermelon. Bits going everywhere. Hey, have you ever seen those videos of people crushing watermelons with their thighs? Do you think I could get someone to do that to my skull?” He shoves a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, speaking around it. “I bet it’d be real juicy.”

“I bet,” he murmurs. He doesn’t have the energy to respond further.

What is he supposed to say? He has no doubt that he could set Remus on any of the others easily; all it would take is a sentence, a white lie, and perhaps not even that. Oh, so-and-so was a dick to me, Remus, don’t you think they would like to be introduced to your mace? Remus would jump at the chance for a bit of sanctioned mayhem.

But no one is hurting him but himself. He wonders what Remus would do if he told him that. Could he get Remus to bash his head in, to hit him until whatever is broken in his brain comes loose? Or until he can’t feel anything at all anymore, and wouldn’t that just solve every one of his problems? No more confusion, no more angst, no more churning in his stomach whenever someone calls him by a name or a label that feels no more like his than any other.

The idea is more attractive than it should be.

He excuses himself not too much later, and Remus’ eyes bore into his back as he returns to his room, telling himself that it’s a strategic retreat, that he’s not running away.

He knows it for the lie it is, little though he wants to admit it to himself. And as he stands there in the center of his room, trying to decide whether it is worth it to continue with the day or if he should go to bed now, avoid the world for a little longer, his reflection in the mirror catches his eye, and he turns to stare at it. A face stares back, and he supposes that the face must be his, but he doesn’t feel like it. It looks as though it is mocking him, taunting him with his unreality.

He shudders and turns away, but the name rings in his head. Janus Janus Janus. A person he should know but that he can no longer find, even here. Once his room was a safe haven, but now it feels like a prison, trapping him between identities that he no longer knows how to escape.

He has his back to the mirror, but the reflection is still there, he knows, and a shiver creeps down his spine, filling him with something like anger and something like fear.

He turns off the lights.

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones