#this is truly a sanders au lmasdlkghasldfkj
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Enjambment (chivalry au)
A/N: itâs the first not-main-story story!!!! wrote this while tryna figure out how to get from point a to point b, and it doesnât really fit in with the storyâs Flow, so itâs gonna be its own lil part! itâs also got a little bit more character building for the Playwright and the Artist, if anyone wanted that lm a o â theyâre good bois, theyâre just. really bad at being good bois.Â
also i kNOW chapter 11 came out like, last night, but ,. ., ., .. . ive had this sitting ready for literally a week ., ,. ,.. sorry for bombarding yâall with this au :ââD
WARNINGS: self-deprecation, self-hate, touch starved, threats, cursing/swearing, destruction of property, destruction of art (ewe)
Words:Â 2085
AO3 link to this story; AO3 link to chivalryâs main plot
MASTERPOST! <-- i dont think this story is understandable without reading the other parts, hence im plugging it so much ; v; iâm sorry yâall ilu <3Â
chivalry taglist:Â @starlightvirgilâ @forrestwyrmâ @daflangstlairdeâ @marshmallow-the-pandaâ @askthesnakeâ @k9catâ @patromlogilâ
general tag:Â @jemthebookwormâ
hope you enjoy!! <3 <3 <3Â
The Playwright didnât like admitting he was wrong. He often wasnât. Having the position of an omniscient narrator meant he got to be right a lot, which was one of Romanâs favorite things.
But his argument with the Artist may not have been one of those ârightâ things. The Playwright leaned on the table, twirling a pencil absentmindedly as he contemplated. He wasnât entirely wrong, no. The Artist had to keep in mind the safety of the other Sides. If anything happened to any of them, Thomas would be hurt, and Roman would riot. Every bit of him, except forâŚ. The Playwright winced. On the other hand, this in-fighting was exactly what they should be countering. Sure, everyone disagreed and that was the purpose of this dismantling, but the Playwright was above these squabbles. Should be above them, figuratively, because in physical space, he very much was above them.
Apologizing would be the logical thing to do.
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didnât enjoy entering the medieval town, didnât like going deeper into the Imagination, but it seemed he would traverse there more often.
The sound of a paper flipping caught his attention. His eyes shot open as he looked around the room. No one was there.
But heâd definitely heard movement. The Playwright swallowed down his fear. âHello?â he called out.
Nothing. None of the costumes had moved, none of the shoes or benches or any of his paperwork.
Wait, no, there was something. The Playwright moved a few scraps to the side and picked up an envelope. This hadnât been there before.
Cordial invitation of Roman âPlaywrightâ Sanders to the Entry Gala â in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceitâs welcome to the Imagination.
The Playwrightâs eyes widened. Oh, fuck.
He tore the envelope open and read its contents.
The Artist wept.
He ran his hand along the ruined canvas â ruined by his hand, torn open with his own knife and dirtied with his tears â and pressed it fast to his chest.
Why was he so mean? Why did it hurt so much, for his creations to be picked at like vultures and a carcass? Wasnât that the point, wasnât that how artists improved?
Ah, who was he kidding. He wasnât a real artist at all. Just a name heâd selected when they first started this game.
The Artist was so wrapped up in his lamentations that he didnât hear the soft sound of paper falling onto the floor beside him.
He shouted again, cradling the broken mess of canvas and wooden frames. All good artists got second opinions. No one was safe from criticism, and there was always room for improvement! He should know this, he DID know that, it was reasonable. But hearing it from the others always made him so anxiousâ
He sniffed, wiping his face with the paw of his sweatshirt. If he was falling apart this bad, it must mean he was losing this challenge thing. But thinking of anxiety and then, well, Anxiety, VirgilâŚ. the Artist wished heâd gotten to meet the two, too. Like every other bit, he did love them.
The sound of debris being scattered, then a surprised yelp. The Artist sighed, curling up tighter. God fucking damnit.
âWhatâIâveâArtist?!â the Playwright asked.
The Artist was sat against the wall, cradling a bundle of broken paintings to his chest, previously white sweater dirtied with layers upon layers of paint. All around him, every painting that has previously been neatly stacked in the room was torn to shreds. Broken pieces of wood and canvases halved were strewn around the room in piles, or one thick pile, with only a small circle of ground around the Artist. Sketchbooks were torn, even the drawing tablet was â okay, the Playwright wasnât going to look at that and think of the physical monetary price, because none of this was real. Holy shit, the Artist had put a hole into the wall of his house. There was a hole? Heâd punched a hole into the wall? Good heavens.
The Playwright, in an effort to not damage any of his art, accidentally appeared on top of one of the piles. He fell over, landing on his butt amongst the shreds, and looked around wildly.
âWhat happened?â he asked once he caught sight of the Artistâs frozen figure in the corner, still since he arrived, âDid Dragonââ
âThey werenât good enough, so I tore them up,â the Artist whispered into his own folded arms.
The Playwrightâs brow pinched in worry. That had happened only a few times before, where a single work had been so terrible that the Artist ripped it to shreds in anger, but heâd never doneâŚ.this. And he especially wouldnât have done this, since he had numerous pieces he wanted to show the other Sides.
He drew in a breath as his mind filled in the gap.
âOh, Artist, what did they say?â the Playwright whispered, pushing himself up and slowly making his way closer.
âNothing. Get away.â
He grit his teeth. The Artist was going to be difficult, wasnât he? Now, now, it wasnât a good time to lose his temper. He came with a job to do, and he wasnât cruel enough to leave the Artist to be upset alone. And he needed his help. This was purely logical.
He wanted to laugh. Being logical was so taxing; how did Logan do it all the time?
âArtist. Iâm not leaving,â the Playwright sat in front of him, âI take it that Logic and Morality didnât take well to your paintings?â
He glanced up at the Playwright, quick enough to now show an expression but slow enough that the Playwright caught a glimpse of his tearstained eyes.
âTheyâThey said my artâs unfinished. Logic did.â
The Playwright frowned. âWait. Thatâs it?â
The Artist curled up more, and the Playwright gently put a hand on his forearm. âWait, wait, I didnât mean it  judgy. I justâŚ.thatâs something youâve complained about, too.â
To that, the Artist shot him a small glare. When the Playwright put it like that, then the Artistâs reaction seemed childish. âYeah, but,â he sighed, âI didnât want them to say anything about it.â
âThen why didnât you warn them about it?â the Playwright asked, confused.
âLook, I donâtâI donât know!â the Artist tossed the painting he was cradling aside and ran his hands through his hair, âIt all happened so fast, and Padre was getting mad at me for not letting Child stay here. Itâthey both got upset at me, and they interrupted my painting, and Padre kept hugging me and it felt weird.â
The Playwright exhaled. He put a mental pin on the hugging thing â a similar thing had happened to him the other day, and he would have to talk to the others about what may be occurring â and then scooted closer again, sitting beside the Artist.
âSeeing as I wasnât there, I cannot speak to what your argument may have been about. But I know that Logic and Morality wouldnât have wanted to intentionally harm us.â
âHow do you know, Pencil pusher?â the Artist hissed, though his words held an emptiness that betrayed his disbelief.
âBecause they wouldnât. Theyâre calloused, but they wouldnât hurt us. Maybe Prince.â
The Artist snorted. âYou really hate that guy.â
The Playwright smiled. Good. He cleared his throat and threw up his hands in the Princeâs signature style. âHoo hoo, look at me, Iâm a Disney Prince and I like singing songs and being an idiot!â he said, mockingly emphasizing a mispronunciation of âDisney.â
That got the Artist to laugh, shoving the Playwright gently. âHey, hey, Disneyâs cool! Iâll defend Disney to the death,â he rubbed the back of his neck.
The tension returned, but only slightly. The Playwright didnât want to push him, but he was a little impatient for the Artist to pull himself together. His feet gently tapped against the ground in a small, familiar tune.
After what seemed like ages, the Artist let out a breath.
â....I didâŚ.overreact. A little,â he said. âThe knife was too much.â
âA lot. Wait, did you say knife?â
âYeah. I, um, I lost it a little.â He rubbed the back of his head again, looking up at the Playwright. âThank you for sitting with me.â
The Playwright smiled. Wonderful. He patted the Artistâs arm comfortingly. âIf I cannot comfort myself, then what am I doing?â
They both shared a small chuckle at that. It was easy to forget that they were two parts of a much more cohesive whole.
It was also easy to forget that the Playwright had something else he wanted to ask. He clapped, sitting upright and startling the Artist.
âSorry,â he put his hands up, eyes blazing with new worry, âI actually came to ask something else â did you get invited to the party?â
The Artistâs brow furrowed. âTheâŚ.party? No?â
âOh, come, you must have,â the Playwright looked around.
The same envelope heâd received prior was sitting beside the Artist, on top of some of the ruined paintings. He picked it up and found two more envelopes beneath. âGreat Ben Jonson, you got Logic and Moralityâs invitations, too,â the Playwright flipped through the three cards and handed the one addressed to the Artist, to the Artist. âYou must not have noticed it earlier. I got a letter similar, this morning. From Dragon.â
âFrom Dragon? Fuck, howâd he find us?â the Artist read the front and flipped it over again, tearing it open.
âI donât know. Perhaps he just sent it to the location of whoever said Logicâs name last night. I also donât know how he got backstage to deliver mine,â the Playwright read over his shoulder, âI honestly came here hoping to find the other Sides. We need to warn them.â
âWe do? About what?â the Artist shot him a frown, but the Playwright just gestured to the paper, so he read the invitation.
His eyes scanned through it once. His body slowly tense as he realized what was being asked, and he flipped it over, checking all around the letter and the envelope that there wasnât more.
âThis,â the Artist reread the letter once more before lowering it and staring, stricken, at the Playwright, âThis is a fucked up joke, right? Like, itâs gotta be a joke. Dragonâs Disney pranking us, without friends.â
âI donât want to hazard that,â the Playwright stood up and motioned for the Artist to get up, âWe need to find the others and warn them. If Logic and Moralityâs invitations are here, then they must not know, and itâs a safe bet that if they donât know, then Anxiety and Deceit donât know, either.â
The Artist pushed himself up, rolling his sleeves up and wiping his face slowly. âHe wouldnât hurt them,â he mumbled. âWhyâs he mentioning Prince, too?â
âI donât know. And after what he did to Damsel?â The Artist rolled his eyes as the Playwright continued, âI donât think Dragon would hesitate to hurt them, and heâs using the concept of Prince as bait.â
Goddamnit, he was probably right. The Artist rubbed his eyes and fixed his glasses. âAlright. I just,â God, he was hideous. âShould I change?â
The Playwright squinted. âHave you not left your house since this all started?â
âNo,â the Artist looked at him like he was stupid, âWhy would I?â
Alright. Alright, this was a predicament. The Playwright blew out a lot of air, eyebrows raising as he tried to figure out, in the most concise way, he could tell the Artist that he wanted to throttle him. His attire was absolutely not correct for the setting that theyâd established, and he couldnât fathom WHY the Artist wanted to parade around a medieval town looking like THAT.
No, you know what? It was fine. Sleep was walking around in a leather jacket, itâs FINE. Perhaps the Playwright was the only one who cared about the sanctity of the setting.
Meanwhile, the Artist looked around and waved his hand. The torn paintings all disappeared, leaving the room empty, looking larger than ever. The hole in the wall faded away, establishing itself as a solid wall once more. He looked down at his outfit and simply wiped it, the paint stains all disappearing as his hand passed over them, revealing a creamy-white color once more.
âThatâs good enough,â the Playwright snapped, grabbing a fist of his shirt and tugging him forward, âCome on.â
#chivalry au#roman#roman sanders#ts roman#ts fanfic#sanders sides au#this is truly a sanders au lmasdlkghasldfkj#sanders sides#my fic#fic#now i get to do all the designs for the next part oh hell yes#i love designin fancy#its always s O FUN C ASLDKFHASLKDSHASLKDHASHLDKJSFF
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