#sick fic but it’s Roman gets fever every few days

[pleasedonthurtcjstar]

What if the poison makes Roman tired. And cuddly. Like when you’re actually sick. At some point the poison had to have had an affect on Roman. At least subtly. I mean if we all just ignore the fact that I’m sure you can’t GET BETTER from poison lol

#*Hand flaps my way back to tumblr* #sick fic #sick fic but it’s different #sick fic but it’s Remus attempting to get Roman immune system or whatever to stop having a reaction to the poison #sick fic but it’s Roman gets fever every few days #sick fic but it’s Remus gives Roman the anti site in the form of something super sickly sweet #*​antidote #sick fic but Remus going in that fake caring voice “Gah you look pretty sweaty today Ro what’s going on?” #sick fic but it doesn’t make sense irl but that’s ok bc this is fiction #sick fic but I’m going crazy in the corner #lol #remrom

[arteacactus]

Can we get a sick fic Janus hiding in his room until someone else breaks down the door? Cause he thought no one would care

this is so out of nowhere bc i like never get fic requests here anymore it’s like always on my sideblog hissceit ,, but it’s 10000% welcome and appreciated JDFJFD thank u .. also i apologize for how needlessly wordy this is HAHA i strayed from the prompt like .. a lot

warnings for sickness , the coughs , vomiting, sore throat , etc , the whole shebang-- and some cursing 

-----

It’s not that Janus had never been sick before, it’s just that...

Well, he’d never been sick before.

He wasn’t positive why (which irked him; he hated being in the dark about things, especially things concerning himself), but he had some theories- the most plausible one thus far simply being that while Thomas had always viewed the Light Sides as human, to some extent, he saw Janus as a two-faced snake; a monster kept hidden away in the shadows under his bed. And monsters didn’t get touched by things like disease. So while the others got touched with sickness occasionally, Janus never did.

But if Janus was getting sick now..

That implied that after he told them his name, Thomas started seeing him as somewhat human, too, with vulnerabilities like the rest.

He wasn’t sure just how he felt about that, but he didn’t love it (he liked being untouchable, okay?).

Ah, well, Janus supposed the why didn’t matter much at the moment. He could ponder that after the fact.

Right now was the time to think about how to end it, because it was pure torture.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, his head throbbed and his body ached in places he never knew could ache, his eyes were sore and oozing and his nose wasn’t faring much better. His throat was raw as if he’d spent hours and hours screaming at nothing, and even after trudging his way into the Dark Side’s kitchen for a cup of tea (though it was more like a cup of honey and lemon with a hint of green tea), it felt absolutely no better; in fact, he just felt worse, because he had to leave bed, go downstairs, spend twenty minutes standing around to make the tea, and then go back up the stairs to his room again.

He’d been fidgeting with his blankets for the past three hours; having them on made him too hot, having them off made him too cold, and so he settled for having one leg covered and nothing else (oddly enough, this was actually a good compromise). The air in his room was hot and stuffy which certainly didn’t help- nor did it help his sinuses any, as it made his headache pound worse and his airways were thoroughly blocked off. He dreaded drinking or swallowing anything as it sent the most uncomfortably painful sensation down his throat and rendered him to a groaning, pained mess.

He clutched his pillow weakly, pressing his head into the hot surface. He hated this. Usually, he thrived in the heat, as his room was typically colder than a jail cell, but this time he wanted it gone. He wished it was winter, just so he could full-body launch himself into a mound of snow and sleep for eternity. 

He felt a slight tug, the distinct feeling of someone requesting his presence, and promptly shooed it away. Not only was he just wearing pants, but he was sick, and he’d rather die than show that level of weakness to anybody.

Three days before, when he’d first felt his symptoms come on, he’d briefly considered going to someone for help; perhaps Remus, because he was his best friend, or Logan, because surely he’d know how to handle diseases and how to cure them, or maybe even Patton, because he was a father figure and might have even made him soup- but he had quickly banished the thought. Sure, maybe they knew his name now, but they still really didn’t like him and had absolutely no reason to help him and not laugh at his predicament.

Well. Remus liked him well enough, but he would have just taken his morning star and bashed Janus across the head with it and called it good, so Janus had to pass on that.

Another tug came, a little more forcefully this time, and Janus dismissed it, just as forcefully. For a little precaution, he took a deep breath and waved his hand, locking up his room so no one could rise up/appear in it, nor could they come through his door. The strain it put on him to maintain that lock was almost enough to make him pass out, but he didn’t dare remove it; he couldn’t risk anybody seeing him in this state. 

He forced his body to roll over to the side, pressing his face into his pillow and sighing in relief as his nose unplugged just enough to take a deep breath in. He found himself actually wishing he’d sneeze, just for the temporary relief it brought. 

He pointedly ignored the next few tugs that hit him, though they weren’t as forceful and harsh as the past couple were. He could only assume the only reason they actually wanted him up there was to lecture him, because him being incapacitated like this surely was affecting Thomas in some way that they didn’t like.

Well, sucks to be them, Janus thought in mild frustration, I’m staying right here until this all goes away and I don’t want to die anymore.

Eventually, the incessant tugging slowed to a stop, and then they finally left him alone.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Janus curled his body into a tight ball, cringing at the sticky feeling of his sweaty skin against his silk sheets, and tried to fall asleep.

Thankfully, sleep claimed him easily, and he drifted off.

However easily it came, though, it certainly wasn’t very forgiving. 

He didn't wake up randomly, but he kept getting thrown so many vivid nightmares and odd, fever-induced dreams that he almost wished he was waking up every few minutes, if only to get away from whatever things his mind kept throwing at him.

He wasn’t awake, but he was aware of his own constant tossing and turning, his bed creaking in protest every time he thrashed and threw his body around the mattress, and when he finally did open his eyes (his throbbing head wasn’t very appreciative of it), he realized he’d somehow twisted himself so his head was at the foot of his bead and his blankets had been fully tossed onto the floor. His pillows weren’t faring much better; only two of his usual six remained in place, and they were mangled to death, the rest on the floor with his blankets.

Janus truly couldn’t bring himself to give a damn- instead, he weakly pushed his body upright, trying not to topple over as his head swam, and fell right back down in the proper position. Thankfully, though, his head not touching the pillows in a while meant they were delightfully chilled, and he moaned aloud at the lovely sensation it brought him. Absently he wondered if he should gather the strength to get himself an ice pack or run an ice bath, but thought better of it. After all, he was still part snake; he’d rather not throw himself into a self-induced comatose state from the cold. 

He blindly reached out and grabbed ahold of his bedside clock, a little antique thing he designed himself to fit his aesthetic despite being very poor at reading Roman numerals, and squinted as he tried to decipher how long he’d been asleep for.

He nearly dropped the thing upon realizing he’d slept for eleven straight hours.

He slid it back onto his nightstand and groaned loudly, though it quickly turned into a pained, chest-wracking cough. He couldn’t avoid it; he had to get up and eat something, or drink something, or get literally anything in his body, because whether he liked it or not, that was the only way he was going to get over this thing quicker. 

He managed to move just enough to get up and off the bed (nevermind the fact he nearly fell straight on the floor the second he stood), and took a couple shaky steps towards the door. The moment he reached out to turn the knob, though, the knocking started.

He froze, looking like a deer caught in headlights as he stared wide-eyed at the piece of wood in front of him, the only thing separating him from them.

There was a call of ‘Janus?’ that was so soft, Janus didn’t actually know who it came from; but that didn’t matter now, because the doorknob was turning and fuck, when did he let go of his lock?

Janus snapped his fingers, and managed to summon all but his hat when the door opened and revealed- much to his surprise- Virgil.

Janus and Virgil blinked at each other for a moment, dumbfounded, but thankfully, Virgil didn’t seem to see anything off about him, and just lowered his gaze and shrunk into his hoodie, refusing to meet Janus’ eyes.

“We- uh, they were trying to call you earlier today, you know.” Virgil’s voice was low and gruff, and Janus could honestly say this was the best possible Side to come see him. Remus was loud and shrill, Patton was too cheery and Roman was boisterous- Logan probably wouldn’t have been awful, but with his insistence to look everyone in the eye as he spoke to them, Janus was sure he’d have deciphered what was going on in a second.

“I’m aware,” Janus replied, internally cringing at his rough tone. He cleared his throat, which was screaming in protest at speaking. 

Virgil didn't seem to notice- or if he did, he didn’t care. “Well. You made them worry, and they sent me to come collect you.”

“Worr- Collect?” Janus echoed in confusion, taken off guard by everything Virgil said.

“Yeah, uh, you worried them so now they won’t take no for an answer. You’re gonna have to come with me.” Virgil, at least, seemed a little sheepish saying this, but he also has a particularly determined and frustrated look to him. Clearly, he wasn’t happy being the one picked to come ‘collect’ Janus, and he wasn’t going to take no from him as an answer, either.

“Wh-” Janus was cut off as Virgil gripped his arm, and any protests he could have made died on his tongue as they started moving. Dizziness attacked him with such ferocity that he was honestly astounded that he hadn’t immediately fallen over, and his stomach lurched at the speed they were moving. Of course, he didn’t bring this up, just took a deep breath and pushed through. After all, Virgil was the last person he wanted to know about his current state.

Once Virgil brought them across the line that separated the Dark Sides from the Light Sides, the immediate bright artificial light from the lamps and ceiling lights making his head pound in a way that was even worse than what the red light of the heat lamps in the snake terrariums in his room caused. 

The air here, though, was clear and fresh, and he basked in the coolness of it as it surrounded him. If it wasn’t for the lights, he’d almost be tempted ask to stay for a while.

Once they made it to the living room, Virgil released him from his grasp, and slunk over into his own corner in the stairwell- and Janus found himself standing right next to Logan.

Unfortunately, they were all staring at him.

Time to put your acting skills to work, Janus, he thought to himself as he heaved an internal sigh, and plastered a toothy grin on his face that bared his sharp canines just enough to make them flinch away.

“So. I was summoned?” His throat protested speech, but thankfully his voice came out smooth and silky, not one bit of it hinting towards his predicament.

“Yeah, and you never answered..?” Thomas seemed more concerned than anything, but Janus definitely saw some suspicion on Roman’s expression (he couldn’t blame him, after how his name reveal went), and Patton was more fidgety than usual. Logan, bless him, didn’t seem to be acting any different, and Virgil looked just as bored as he usually was.

Remus, however...

Well, Remus was looking at Janus with a suspicious gaze similar to Roman’s but far more scrutinizing. Janus briefly felt a flare of panic. If there was anyone here to notice he was off, it would be his best friend, who he lived with and saw every day.

“I was resting, Thomas, would you blame your personification of self-preservation for taking a day off for self-care?” Janus’ tone was exasperated. He wasn’t lying, not really; he was resting, and he was taking a day off for self-care.

Just.. more than one day.

“Respectfully, I have to.. what is the term, ‘call bullshit’?” Came Logan’s voice next to him, and he hoped to God that Logan didn’t notice Janus’ feverish tremors. “You’ve been MIA for the past few days, and it’s escalated to the point where Thomas is beginning to react to it. There is something else going on, and we’d like to know what’s going on.”

Ah, yes, for the good of Thomas, Janus couldn’t help but think a little bitterly, Really, I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like they’d worry about my wellbeing. “I’m afraid I wasn’t bullshitting you, Logan,” Janus replied coolly, “It was the truth.”

“Then how come your room looked trashier than Remus’?” Virgil’s voice, where earlier it was comfortingly gruff, was now an offputting growl. Despite his words, though, Janus could tell he was trying to act like he didn’t actually care. He took note of that, because Virgil caring about him was odd.

“Rearranging,” Janus replied simply, and hoped they took that alone as an acceptable answer.

Of course, they didn’t.

“You never rearrange,” Virgil’s tone turned accusatory, and then Patton cut in. 

“Well, maybe then that’s why he’s doing it now? For something fresh?” He sounded hopeful, as if he couldn’t wait for this entire conversation to be over. Janus felt similarly.

“I’ve lived with him, Patton, I know him, and it’s not something that happens.” Virgil argued, but this seemed to set off Remus as he cut in with, “And you left, so who are you to claim you ‘know him’?”

This sparked an argument amongst themselves, as they fought over the sudden new topic that thankfully centered around Virgil more than anything, and with Logan, Roman, and Thomas trying to mediate, there was no attention put on him anymore.

Janus took this momentary distraction to let out a sigh of relief, the mix of loud voices and trying to act like nothing was up was doing absolutely no good for his headache and exhaustion. He mourned the loss of his hat, because he could have used that to hide his face away from the lights that were bearing down on him and making his skin feel uncomfortably hot.

Though perhaps that was from all the layers of his outfit.

Unfortunately, though, as the seconds passed, the voices seemed to get louder, the lights got brighter, the clothes got hotter and his stomach was churning, his hands were sweating, his head was pounding his legs were getting shaky oh god his ears were ringing oh fuck fuck stop the noise please turn off the lights please stop please stop-

Distantly, he felt his throat start hurting intensely and he realized he was speaking out loud, stammering out pleads that were growing muffled as everything swamped him. His hands raised to cover his ears, trying to drown out the noise around him, and his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed, feeling something warm and wet trickle down his face- tears? Was he crying? No, surely he was just imagining the feeling- but before he hit the hard floor, he felt something grab a hold of him, long, spider-like fingers gripping the undersides of his arms like a lifeline. He felt sharp nails and soft ruffles and realized Remus had caught him, he must have run from his spot to catch him before he fell, and Janus felt the stinging gaze of everybody on him. He felt like a mouse that was dropped into a snake’s cage for feeding, cowering beneath the penetrating gaze of the predator before him. The roles were reversed, and he hated it.

He managed to pry open his own eyes- when had he shut them?- and the moment he saw the horrified gazes trained on him, he fled.

He forced himself from Remus’ arms and he vanished, retreating back to his room, where the lights were off and the curtains were shut and the only thing he had to deal with was the light of his snakes’ heat lamps.

The hot, stuffy air attacked him with a vengeance, though, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. He stripped himself of his clothes again, his skin glistening, heat radiating off of his person. 

He hurriedly locked up his room again, and fell to his knees beside his bed, and retched.

Thankfully, he’d managed to grab his trashcan, but it didn’t make him feel any less humiliated.

He thought he was doing himself a favor, hiding his state from all of them, but from not going to just one of them when he could, he had ended up breaking down in front of all of them. 

Body trembling and chest heaving, Janus collapsed onto the hard floor beneath him, unable to pull himself onto his bed, and curled up into a tight ball.

He wanted this to end.

Janus was so caught up in his misery that he didn’t even notice pounding on his door, all of his senses wrapped up in himself, in his throbbing head and hot skin and burning throat and sore stomach and the sound of his blood pumping in his ears, until there was a deafening ‘crash’ and splinters of wood came flying into his room.

He flinched at the noise and forced himself to sit up, but the sudden movement made him gag, and he found himself panting like a dog trying to cool himself off and calm down his raging nausea. 

There was a barrage of voices at first, but they were quickly hushed- from what, he didn’t know- and then a delightfully cold hand clutched his bicep, and he couldn’t hold back the relieved moan he let out in response.

“I’m gonna put you in bed, okay, Janus?” Came a soft voice- Remus- and Janus didn’t protest as he was gently lifted up by the Creative twin. Admittedly, he didn’t even know Remus could be that gentle, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

There was some quiet shuffling and the sound of a dull ‘smack’ and then someone cursing softly, but soon enough Janus was set down on a set of smooth cotton sheets, clean and cool, and an absolute blessing.

“Jan-Jan, why didn’t you tell us you were sick?” Remus’ tone was scolding, like a parent to a young child (ironic, considering Janus was the one who raised Remus), and Janus opened his eyes just enough to see Remus’ face swathed in the shadows of his room. 

“Weak,” Janus croaked in reply, his voice wrecked, “Di’n.. wan’ see.”

“Your pride is going to be the death of you,” Remus sighed, and Janus heard some other voices pipe in.

“We would have helped you, Janus,” Thomas sounded sad, almost regretful. For what, Janus would never know.

“Indeed,” Logan’s voice was a comfort, Janus was willing to admit. “In fact, I will begin researching how to best care for this as soon as possible, so you are in utmost comfort while you recover.”

“I’ll make some soup,” Came Patton’s quiet promise, “And water, and tea.”

“I changed your bedsheets,” Roman seemed shy, “If you need me to, I can try and make a set that keeps you cooled down.”

Janus almost moaned aloud at the thought, and Roman must have seen it in his expression because he perked up right away. 

“Sorry for, uh, dragging you away so forcefully,” Virgil muttered, and Janus just managed to flap his hand dismissively. 

“You didn’ know.” He mumbled weakly, and he felt Remus’ cool touch brush away hair that clung to his sweaty forehead. 

“And now we do. So we’re going to take care of you, because we care about you.” He promised in a tone with no room for argument, with the others murmuring in agreement behind him.

And for once, Janus believed him, and let himself be taken care of.

#vanna talks #ask #anonymous #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #sickfic #fic #fanfic #sanders sides #tssides #thomas sanders #fanfiction #platonic dlamptr #with a slight focus on dukeceit i suppose #Anonymous

[sparrow-flies-south]

Drown My Fears (Til You All Just Disappear)

Pairings: Patton & Janus Summary: When Janus gets sick, he finds that he can only speak in lies. He has ways of dealing with this - namely, be alone whenever he's ill. He assumes this time will be the same as all the others. Too bad Patton cares about him, now. Warnings: Sick fic Notes: My gift to @shadow-whisperer152 as part of @sanderssidesgiftxchange! I hope you like it!

Thank you @droidofmay for betaing

Masterpost  Read on AO3

It had been easier since Virgil left.

Before, Janus would have to find the right balance of half-untruths and cutting remarks to keep Virgil away. Now there was only Remus left, and Remus was easier. As soon as Janus felt it coming, the first lies forcing their way out of his mouth, he’d come up with some distraction. Send Remus on an epic quest into the Imagination, or tell him that Roman needed to see him and stand back.

Which means that now Janus is free to hide out in his room the entire time he’s sick, and wait it out. Better yet, he can’t go ask someone else for help, even if he wanted to.

So when he felt the illness coming on, he suggested that Remus spend more time in the imagination, and holed himself up in his room to wait it out. The first day was fine enough, Janus had enough energy that he didn’t have to stay in bed all day. Instead, he spent his time reading, or keeping an eye on Thomas. He even managed to leave twice to get food.

On the second day, things got a lot worse.

He woke up with a fever, and just standing up made him feel dizzy. Unfortunately, standing up turned out to be necessary, as he had to run to the bathroom to throw up twice.

When he returned, he crawled under his covers, and pulled them tight around him. He was sweating for some reason, but he felt so cold. He closed his eyes, and actually managed to drift off into something close to sleep.

He was awoken by knocking at his door. Janus stared around the room, wondering what it could be, and the knock came again.

“Virgil?” Janus asked, because Virgil was always knocking on his door when sick. But that answer didn’t seem right, but Janus couldn’t quite figure out why.

“Janus?” a voice that wasn’t Virgil’s asked. “It’s Patton. Are you alright?”

Janus blinked, tried to figure out why Patton of all people would be knocking on his door. Patton didn’t even like Janus, except-

Right. The wedding, and everything that came after. Patton was his friend now, and Virgil wasn’t. Patton knocked again, and Janus managed to croak out, “I’m fine.”

Fortunately, in this sense his condition had helped. The only thing Janus wanted to do at that point was lie.

But then Patton asked, “Can I come in?” and ruined everything.

Janus didn’t answer, glad that the sickness allowed that, at least. If he stayed quiet long enough, perhaps Patton would decide he didn’t want to talk and go away. He might be upset by it, might think Janus was horribly rude, but that was still better than the alternative.

“Janus?” Patton called after a few moments.

Janus stayed silent, and soon enough there were footsteps retreating from his door. Janus sighed in relief, and fell back asleep.

Then next time he woke up, he was too hot. He threw the blankets off him and curled up on the bed, groaning. His head was killing him. You were supposed to drink water while ill, and Janus had run out.

He pushed himself out of bed, even though the action made him want to throw up. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning enough for him to stumble to his door, and pull it open.

He almost collided with Patton, who was standing outside.

“Janus?” Patton asked, eyes wide with concern. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Janus muttered, trying to pull away.

“Pretty sure that’s not true, kiddo,” Patton said, gently pushing him in the room and back to his bed. “You shouldn’t be moving around right now.”

Janus scowled, but let Patton push him down. Maybe once Patton was satisfied he wasn’t dying, he’d go away and leave him alone.

“Was there something you were trying to get?” Patton asked.

Janus didn’t answer, which apparently was the wrong choice because Patton came and sat closer to him.

“It’s okay,” Patton said gently, as if Janus was fragile. “Do you want me to get water?”

“No,” Janus said without thinking, and then, to make everything worse, Janus started crying, because he did want water, but there was no way to ask for it without Patton misunderstanding.

Patton wrapped his arms around him, and Janus let him, too tired to try and fight him off.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Patton said. “What’s wrong?”

The smart thing to do was to push Patton away, to make it so that Patton didn’t come back. But Patton was hugging him, was warm and safe and there, and Janus was nothing if not a weakling. He was the side who whispered temptations to Thomas, how could he not give in to temptations of his own?

“I don’t want water,” Janus said, “And I can totally ask for it.”

Patton’s brow pinched in confusion for a moment, before it smoothed into an expression of concern.

“Oh,” Patton said. “Of course you can have some. Wait here.”

Janus was loathe to be extracted from Patton’s arms, but he allowed it anyway. Patton picked up a blanket from the floor, where Janus must have thrown it at some point, and draped it over his shoulders.

“I’ll be right back,” Patton promised.

As soon as Patton was gone, Janus lay back down, seeing no reason to force himself to stay sitting when no one was around to see it. Keeping his eyes open felt too difficult, so he closed them. He felt so tired, his limbs felt heavy. Patton would be back soon, for now he’d just rest.

He fell asleep before Patton returned.

*

Thomas had been around ten, the first time he’d noticed it.

He’d gotten sick before then, they all had, but for some reason it was aged ten when Janus started changing. Perhaps it was because Thomas started seeing him differently. Perhaps it was just because they were all growing up.

Either way, it was aged ten when Virgil asked if he was sick, and Janus had answered, “No.”

Virgil had just rolled his eyes and ignored him – he must have thought Janus was being sarcastic. But Janus himself had been shocked into silence. Because what he’d meant to say, what he’d started to say, had been “yes”.

He’d retreated back to his room, after that. Locked the door and tried to whisper truths, horror growing with every lie that passed his lips.

Well, he told himself, Virgil and Remus were used to him, used to the urge to speak in lies. They would understand what he wanted, probably wouldn’t even think too hard about why he was speaking backwards all of a sudden.

So he did what they always did when they were sick; bundled himself in blankets and lay down on the sofa. Remus tried to find ways to entertain him, and Virgil provided company, occasionally fussing over if Janus was eating enough, or drinking enough, or sleeping enough. And if Janus complained less than he normally did, neither of them said anything.

It worked the next time he was sick, too.  And the next.

Until suddenly, it didn’t.

He was curled up on the sofa, Virgil beside him, while Remus was doing something in the background (judging by the crashes, Janus didn’t want to know).

“I don’t need more blankets,” Janus complained – they were at an age where it was different for them to just conjure what they needed.

“There’s some in the attic,” Virgil suggested.

Ah. The attic that was very dark, and filled with spiders, and which Thomas sometimes had nightmares about.

“Well, then don’t get them for me,” Janus ordered.

Virgil tensed. “What? No way, I’m not going up there.”

Well, Janus wasn’t about to go up there either. He wondered if he could Remus into doing it for him.

“Why can’t you do it yourself?” Virgil asked.

Janus rolled his eyes. “I’m not sick,” he pointed out.

“Sick enough that you can’t get a couple of blankets?” Virgil asked, and Janus said nothing. Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “So what is it? Wait- are you scared of the attic too?”

He couldn’t deny it. Or rather, he could only deny it, and Virgil would know it was a lie. Which meant Virgil would know he was scared. He’d know how ridiculous Janus was, for being of it – not even the real attic, either, just a copy of it.

It was alright if Virgil was the one scared of things, being scared was his job. But Janus was meant to be different- he wasn’t meant to get scared of the dark like some kind of baby.

And now Virgil was staring at him, waiting for him to answer, and if Janus didn’t answer then he’d know, anyway.

A loud beeping sound came from behind them. Both of them twisted to look into the kitchen, where the microwave was suddenly on fire. Virgil leaped from his seat, swearing.

“What happened?” he shouted.

“I don’t know, it just set fire,” Remus shouted back. “It looks cool though, right?”

Virgil ran to the kitchen, and Janus took his chance to slip away. He shut himself up in his room, and sank to the floor.

That had been far too close. If Remus hadn’t distracted Virgil-

Janus liked lying. Liked the safety it gave him, the way he could hide parts of himself away, so deep the rest of the world would never be able to find them. He’d thought that being stuck in lies was nothing more than an annoyance, now he was starting to realise that perhaps it was worse than just that.

After all, if he could only lie, then he couldn’t hide the truth.

He couldn’t be around Virgil and Remus, not while he was like this. He was just glad that he never had to see the Light Sides, because the idea of them talking to him- well, it made his stomach twist in knots. Kind of like how Thomas felt, when he was standing on a balcony of a really tall building and looking down.

Well, he’d just have to stay away from them, then. Just while he was sick- that couldn’t be too hard, surely. He could bundle up in his bed, kind of like how he would bundle up on the sofa. It would be better, even. Without Virgil and Remus around, maybe he’d actually have some peace for once.

He crawled into his bed, curled up in a ball. It felt too quiet and lonely in his room, so he closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.

“This is better,” he mumbled to himself.

*

Janus woke up to a cool hand against his forehead. He blinked open his eyes, squinting at the figure above him. Patton, right.

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton said, and Janus wanted to argue about the nickname but he didn’t have the energy. “I brought you that water.”

Janus pushed himself into a sitting position, Patton’s hand resting on his shoulder. Patton pressed the glass in his hands, and he drank it slowly. The water felt blessedly cool, even as his stomach twisted.

“Do you want me to get Remus?” Patton asked.

Janus gave him a withering look, not bothering to speak. Remus, really?

“Well, okay, he doesn’t seem the most… nurturing,” Patton admitted. Janus snorted. “But who do you normally have look after you?”

It was an open ended question, which were the easiest to answer without saying anything, since technically he could name any side. He had a feeling that Patton would just press him on it, though, so he said, “Oh, I absolutely have someone look after me.”

Patton looked as if Janus had just kicked a puppy in front of him, which was just ridiculous. It wasn’t like Patton was the one who was sick.

“No one?” Patton asked. “But you’re sick.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Janus muttered. “And for your information, I just love to be surrounded by people when I feel like this.”

“That doesn’t mean you should be alone,” Patton argued. “At least have somebody check in on you.”

“Perhaps you didn’t notice,” Janus hissed, “But it’s totally easy for me to talk to people right now.”

“I mean, it takes some getting used to, but I can understand you just fine.”

“That's the point,” Janus snarled.

“Well, then, what is?” Patton asked.

Janus just glared at him, because there was no way he was going to admit his weaknesses to Patton. Even if they were possibly friends, now.

“Do you want to be alone?” Patton asked.

“I already told you-”

“No, you didn’t,” Patton replied. “You told me you didn’t want to be surrounded by people, and that it’s difficult for you to talk to people. Neither of those mean you want to be alone. Besides,” Patton added. “You kind of just said you didn’t tell me.”

“Fuck,” Janus muttered, but there was a strange look on Patton’s face.

“I guess you really couldn’t have said anything else,” Patton mused. Which was technically incorrect, because Janus could have said anything else in the world, except for the truth. It was just that the truth had a nasty habit of leaving a rather large hole when omitted.

“I think I get it now,” Patton said softly. “Why you don’t want people around.”

“Congratulations,” Janus muttered, humiliation curling hot inside him. He really had just given Patton the key to learning all his secrets, hadn’t he?

“What do you want me to do?” Patton asked.

Janus scowled. “I want you to ask me that.”

“Okay,” Patton said. “I won’t.”

Janus stayed silent, and just lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. Perhaps if he pretended to be asleep-

“Janus?” Patton asked, nudging him. Janus didn’t move.

Moments later, he heard the sound of someone standing up, and footsteps across the room. At the last minute, he lost his nerve, sitting upright so fast it made the room spin.

“Please leave,” he begged.

Patton froze, hand on the door, and for a moment Janus thought that he would actually leave – what reason did he have to stay, after all?

But Patton just crossed the room again, and sat back next to Janus. “I’m here,” he murmured, gently pushing Janus back down. And even then, Patton didn’t leave. Instead, he began to stroke Janus’ hair. “Try to get some sleep.”

If Janus cried a little, well, Patton didn’t mention it.

*

Staying away from the others was not as easy as Janus had thought. He didn’t last half a day before Remus was knocking on his door, demanding his attention. He tried to keep his tone as sarcastic as he could when he had to, relying on the lies he wanted to say when he could, but it did nothing to deter him.

And then, the day after, Virgil started knocking. At first, Janus was able to ward Virgil off by saying he was perfectly fine, just busy, but he could hear the suspicion in Virgil’s tone grow with each conversation.

To make matters worse, Janus’ illness did what illnesses are prone to do, and grew worse. Not bad enough for concern, but enough that the knocking on his door grew steadily more irritating.

He tried to do something, since it was clear he wasn’t going to get any rest any time soon, only to fall asleep at his desk. He woke up just in time before Virgil barged into the room.

“What the hell?” Virgil snapped. “Didn’t you hear me knock?”

“Have you been knocking?” Janus asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He was able to sound just sarcastic enough that Virgil didn’t seem to notice.

“What are you doing here?” Janus asked, questions were good, because questions couldn’t be lies or the truth.

“You’ve been in here for days! Are you sick or something?”

If Virgil knew that he was, what would he do? Probably not leave Janus alone, Virgil was annoying like that.  But even if he managed to convince Virgil this time, there would always be a next time. And a time after that. And if next time felt worse- well, he might not be so lucky.

So he’d have to find a way to stop Virgil from checking in on him. And there was only one was to ensure someone as protective as Virgil would stop.

“Actually,” Janus said, “I just didn’t want to see you.”

Virgil froze, and Janus tried to focus on that, and not what it meant that he’d been able to say that.

“What?”

“Well, why would I? It’s not like we’re friends, or anything.”

Virgil’s flinch let him know he’d hit his mark, but he still needed to make the kill. He stood up, thankful that he didn’t even wobble, and stepped towards Virgil.

“Honestly, you’re just tiresome to be around.”

Virgil’s fist hit him directly in the nose, sending him staggering back, When he reached up a hand to touch it, he realised he was bleeding.

“Fuck you,” Virgil snarled, before storming off in a tangle of shadows.

Janus sighed and laid down on his bed. Finally, he was alone.

*

When he woke, there was a body next to his own. He twisted to see who was with him, and jostled Patton awake.

“Sorry, kiddo, I must have nodded off,” Patton said sheepishly.

“It’s not fine,” Janus replied. “I’m certain you didn’t need the rest.”

“Well, speaking of needing the rest, how are you feeling?”

Janus considered this. “Worse,” he admitted.

Patton beamed. “Oh, that’s great! Do you think you feel up to eating something?”

“Certainly not,” Janus said. He hesitated, and then asked, “Will you tell them?”

“Who, the others?”

Janus shook his head.

“If you want me to tell them, I can,” Patton answered. “But if you don’t, then I won’t.”

“I’m certain they won’t notice your absence.”

Patton shrugged. “Then I’ll tell them I was busy.”

Janus smiled. “That doesn’t sound like a lie of omission,” he pointed out.

“I don’t think lying is always bad,” Patton said.

“Oh?” Janus sat up straighter. “What other times do you consider it acceptable?”

“Well, I guess-” Patton cut himself off and pointed a finger. “Hey! No ethical debates until you’ve eaten breakfast. You need to look after yourself.”

Janus chose not to argue about that, instead he let Patton bustle out of his room. He could hear him downstairs, and wondered how Patton would manage trying to make something edible out of what was kept in the Dark Sides kitchen. Still, he was glad that he didn’t have to worry about it.

He lay back on his bed and let himself relax. Perhaps it was okay to have someone around when he was ill, just this once.

#sanders sides gift exchange 2020 #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #patton sanders #janus sanders #tss patton #tss janus #my fic

[trashyswitch]

Roman's FREAKING QUILL!

Logan had gotten Roman a quill for his birthday, and Roman writes with it constantly! But Virgil is super flustered by the thought of that quill tickling him. It doesn't take long for Roman to learn of Virgil's feather sensitivity, and for him to use it against Virgil.

This fic is for @kanene-yaaay

What's this?! A FIC THAT'S ON TIME?! What is this sorcery?!

Just kidding! I will warn that it's a little short, But I hope you all like it despite that!

Tickletober Day 14: Light Tickles

Virgil was laying on his bed, going through a giggle fit that had started earlier this morning. Roman was using it again! He was using the new pen! Even though the pen was meant for writing, all Virgil could focus on was the fluttering of the feather decoration on the end. Or rather, the fluttering of the entire pen. It all started when Logan had the audacity to buy Roman a quill pen for his birthday! Roman absolutely loved the pen and in return, he would end up using the pen as often as possible! That’s where this whole mess started. The mess, that was his flustered, giggly self.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Virgil was really feather sensitive. Just a simple feather decoration on a hat will turn Virgil into a flustered mess of emotions. So Roman constantly using a feather pen to write his thoughts down in a notebook? UUUH-how about NO?!

To make things worse, Roman has always found a preference with feather-patterned things! His notebook was covered in them! And not just the front, EVERY PAGE IN THE NOTEBOOK HAD A LITTLE FEATHER IN THE RIGHT CORNER OF THE PAGE. Virgil made the grave mistake of looking over his shoulder, and being bombarded by 3 FEATHERS in his peripheral vision! It felt like his face was gonna melt from the heat he was exhibiting! So, Virgil stopped hanging out outside his room whenever Roman was writing and socializing. Sure, it made people suspicious. But people would become even MORE suspicious if they looked at Virgil and found him as red as a cherry!

Suddenly, Virgil was ripped out of his thoughts by a knock on the door.

“Virgil? Are you feeling alright? You’ve been in your room a lot lately.” the person on the other side of the door asked.

Virgil’s eyes widened as he tried to hide his blush. “I-uh...I’m fine.” Virgil attempted.

The person opened the door- OH NO!

“Hey Virgil, sorry. I didn’t wanna have to yell through the door.” Roman told him.

Virgil didn’t mind that Roman wanted to come in. He normally allows him to, on a normal day. But WITH THE QUILL AND NOTEBOOK?! Just LOOKING at the quill made him wanna curl up and DIE!

“Mmmmm- it‘sfine.” Virgil replied. IT’S NOT FINE.

Roman tilted his head in curiosity and bent down to Virgil’s bed height. “Why are you...red? Are you sick? Do you have a fever?” Roman asked. The prince put the quill down for a moment and checked Virgil’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Hmm...You don’t feel feverish…” Roman muttered, picking up the quill again. “Are you tired?” Roman asked him, pointing at him with the feather part of his quill.

UUUUH...How about you DON’T point at me with the quill?!

Poor Virgil! If his face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now! Not knowing what to do, Virgil looked away and turned to the other side of the bed.

Roman frowned at this. “Oooh...you’re grumpy.” Roman reacted with a small smirk. “Is Virgey being a gwumpy pants?” Roman teased in an UwU voice.

Virgil whimpered in response. WHY THAT VOICE?!

Roman giggled and laid himself on the other side of his bed. “Poor Virgil! So grumpy and tired! Whatever will the princey do, to get the emo out of bed?” Roman teased with a fake innocent voice.

Virgil was LOSING HIS MIND. He...he wouldn’t do what he thinks he’s gonna do...right?

Roman smiled and looked at his quill. “I heard from a tweeting bird that Virgil’s sensitive to feathers~” Roman sing-songed as he waved the quill in front of Virgil’s eyes.

Virgil just about squeaked in horror! WHO TOLD HIM?! AND HOW DID THEY KNOW?! Virgil covered his face up further with his blanket and shook his head.

“Awww! Denying it, are we?” Roman teased.

Then, Roman did something absolutely ILLEGAL: he fluttered his feather on Virgil’s neck! Virgil squealed and curled his neck in, but couldn’t stop the feather! The truth was, he couldn’t! Not without revealing his blushy face!

“Tiiiickle tickle tickle tickle tickle, Virgey-Wirgey!” Roman teased softly as he tickled his neck. Virgil started to let out little titters as he struggled to get away from the ticklish feather. He was so gonna die from this! He could just imagine the report papers:

Name: Virgil Sanders.

Cause of death: embarrassment from a feather

Next, Roman started tickling the back of Virgil’s neck. Virgil squeaked again and curled up, but shook his head as Roman fluttered the feather on all the exposed spots of Virgil’s neck. Virgil could feel himself breaking bit by bit. This was MORTIFYING! Who gave Roman the PERMISSION to tease him like this?!

“Ooooh! I know!” Roman declared proudly.

What was that prince planning? He’d better not consider ripping his blanket off a-

“AAAEEEEEHEHEK! ROOOO!” Virgil squealed and whined, letting some giggles out by mistake.

Roman gasped. “What’s this? Does Virgil have…” Roman leaned into his ear: “ticklish ears?” Roman whispered in a breathy fashion.

Virgil’s face started to turn to a more scarlet version of red. That little…

Roman interrupted his thoughts by tickling the back of the outer ear flap.

“EEEEEK! Rohohohoho nuuuUUU!” Virgil squeaked, finally letting go of the blanket and waving his hands around to get rid of the ticklish feather. But this ended up being a HUGE mistake!

Roman quickly pulled the comforter off of Virgil and started tickling his chin and jawline. “Yay! A ticklish free chin has opened itself up to me! I just HAVE to tickle it!” Roman declared as he fluttered the quill under his chin. “A coochy coochy coochy coochy coo! Such a ticklish widdle emo!” Roman teased evilly. “I can tickle absolutely everywhere, and STILL get a reaction!” Roman declared.

Quickly, Roman moved his quill to Virgil’s lower neck. “A kitchykitchykoo!” He teased, fluttering it on the spot for a few seconds.

Next, Roman moved his feather to the back of his neck! “A tiiickle tickle tickle!” Roman teased as he fluttered the quill around on the spot for a moment or two.

Lastly, Roman moved the feather to the back of Virgil’s ear! “And a flutter-flutter-flutter for my special Virgey-pooo!” Roman teased happily, tickling his ear with the feather for a few moments.

Virgil felt like he was slowly losing his sanity! He couldn’t keep his giggles down no matter how much he tried, and Roman seemed to know that! The unpredictability and the baby-talk just ENHANCED the experience, and caused Virgil to shake his head and giggle in every high tone possible!

“Stahahahahap!” Virgil finally begged.

Roman gasped and removed the feather. “Did the emo plushy just talk?” Roman teased.

ExCUSE ME?! EMO PLUSHY?! HOW DARE HE!!

“Yehehehes!” Virgil replied with a whimper.

“That’s great news! That means now, I can do this:” Roman declared as he shoved his hand under Virgil’s comforter to flutter the feather on Virgil’s bare belly.

Virgil guffawed in surprise and finally started wiggling around and giggling gleefully! “Stahahahap thahahahat! Gehehet thahat feheheatheheher awahahay frohom meeee!” Virgil ordered through his whiney, yet bubbly giggles.

“Hmm…” Roman thought to himself, removing the quill for a moment so he could think. “Naaaah.” Roman replied confidently as the feather returned to his ticklish belly.

Virgil squealed, tossed himself around to face the evil tickler, and attempted to push him off the bed. But this attempt would prove itself to be fruitless, and only MORE exposing as Roman fluttered the feather on Virgil’s belly button! Virgil wheezed and finally let out his very first full-fledged laugh of the morning.

“Awww!!! Such a cutie little bat!” Roman teased further.

“STAHAHAP TEHEHEHEASIHIHING MEEHEHE!” Virgil begged.

“But teasing a cute little puppy baby bat fly fly baby dog, is my specialty!” Roman replied.

Oh NO! EVEN QUOTES FROM TALYN?!

Virgil couldn’t take it anymore! He felt like Roman was killing him with his teasing abilities alone! Why must Roman do this to him?! Does he WANT him to go insane?!

“WHYHYHYHYHYHY?!” Virgil shouted at him.

Roman smirked. “Now THAT is the question we should all be answering! Why? Why are we here? Why are humans so ticklish? And why is Virgil such a feather sensitive bat with a ticklish giggle button?” Roman asked.

Oh HELL NAW! Even EXISTENTIAL CRISIS QUESTIONS!

“IHIHIHI’M GOHOHONNA DIHIHIHIEHEHEHEHE!” Virgil whimpered and laughed loudly.

Roman giggled at this and stopped fluttering the quill. “Don’t worry, Virgey. I’m not gonna kill ya.” Roman replied with a kiss on the cheek.

Virgil’s face only grew DARKER from there, as he covered his face with his blanket. “Tohohoho lahahahahate!” Virgil complained.

“Oh my! Did the poor Virgey die from embarrassment?” Roman asked. “Sounds like a cute little Sims death to me~” Roman teased before booping him on the nose with the quill. Virgil whimpered, let go of the blanket and kitty flopped his hands around to stop the prince from killing him with teases.

Roman bursted out laughing at this silly reaction. “Awww! You’re like a widdle kitty!” Roman laughed. Virgil giggled and hid his face in Roman’s chest.

Now, Roman’s chest had started going on full on gay panic mode. It was jumping around, flopping absolutely everywhere, and was basically beating out of his chest! Roman couldn’t handle it! He wanted to scream out of excitement and GAY!

Suddenly, the door opened. “You guys oka-” Patton’s eyes widened when he saw the unbelievably ADORABLE scene in front of him:

Roman was holding Virgil close, smiling widely and staring at Virgil, who had his face pressed up against Roman’s chest. Janus looked up and stared at Patton with the cuteness-overloaded eyes. Then, Roman mouthed something: ‘So CUUUTE!’.

Patton covered his mouth as he slowly and quietly closed the door and let them have their peace.

But not before taking a picture on his phone, setting it as his lock screen and airdropping it to Roman.

Roman smiled and looked down at his adorable bean. He looked so cozy...so soft...so calm! So, Roman decided to cozy up a little closer to him and rest alongside him with his quill and notebook placed on Virgil’s nightstand. There, Roman would be able to write down Virgil’s adorable sensitivity to quill’s, and how his teasy tickle attack on Virgil came to happen! Lastly, Roman would write down all he needs to write about how he feels about Virgil!

...All while writing it in front of him with the quill fluttering and flustering Virgil to pieces...

#ticklefic #ler!roman #lee!virgil #flustered virgil #romantic prinxiety #adorable virgil #feather pen

[youtuberswithalex]

Keep It Hidden

Summary:  Virgil caught his least favorite illness of them all (if one could have such a thing)—the stomach flu. The last thing he wants is for the others to find out. (Pre-Accepting Anxiety)

A/N: This is the sickfic that I wrote for an anon last week that got WAY out of hand and ended up as a five-page fic-- I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: detailed depiction of vomiting, sickness, mentioned Unsympathetic Dark Sides, cursing

Word count: 1,878

---

Virgil had known this day would come eventually, but now that it was actually here, it sucked.

Getting sick was far from a rare occurrence for him. When Thomas got a little too nervous, or got jumpscared one too many times in a day, Virgil’s immune system would go to shit and he’d be left as some sort of feverish mess. He’d had what felt like every type of illness under the sun over the years—colds, flus, sinus infections, ear infections, chicken pox, and so, so many more.

His normal routine was to lay on the couch and watch cartoons until whatever bug he had this time passed. He’d cover his head with blankets whenever Remus ran by, screaming about butts, and he’d hiss at Deceit until he got the message that he wanted to be alone. And with the other guy, he’d…

Well. Virgil didn’t want to think about what he’d had to do to get him away.

It wasn’t a fun system, but it got him better way faster than if he stayed cooped up in his bedroom, for some reason. He liked to think it had something to do with the cartoons, or maybe just being away from the germs that got him sick in the first place.

And then the Dark Sides kicked him out, and he got stuck with the Light Sides that despised him, and he’d caught his least favorite illness of them all (if one could have such a thing)—the stomach flu.

And it sucked.

For the last six hours, Virgil had been curled up on the bathroom floor, throwing up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten in the last three years until there was nothing but bile. Every gag and retch at this point felt like someone was trying for force a rock up his esophagus. Between cycles, he would lay down and press his throbbing head against the cool tiles below, but it never lasted long before being sideways took its toll on his stomach and he was retching over the toilet again.

The only thing he could be grateful for was that it had started in the early hours of the morning. The last thing he wanted was for the Lights to see him like this. But he knew his luck was running out, and he needed to get back to his room before—

“Anxiety!” Bam, bam, bam! “Hurry up in there! I need to make myself beautiful for the day!”

Virgil choked back a groan, pushing himself off the floor as he glared at the door. “It’s a bathroom, Princey, not a miracle store,” he snapped.

He heard Roman gasp. “How dare you! I got a full ten hours of beauty sleep last night; I just need to touch myself up!”

His eyes fluttered shut at the mention of sleep, but he did his best to stay awake enough to make his voice sound normal. “Have you tried 24?”

Another noise of offense sailed through the door, followed by footsteps storming away. As soon as Virgil heard them going down the stairs, he moved as quickly as he could handle to get up and clean the bathroom. He then rushed down the hall to get to his bedroom, shutting the door just as Patton was coming up.

Legs trembling, Virgil slid down the door and breathed as evenly as he could.

Knock, knock. “Anxiety?”

This time, he didn’t hold his groan. “What?”

“Breakfast is almost ready!” Patton said. “I made some eggs, and Logan’s making his special waffles! You do not want to miss out on this!”

Just the thought of food made him wish he’d never left the bathroom. He squeezed his stomach. “I’m not hungry. Eat without me.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure? You shouldn’t skip meals like this, kiddo…”

“Positive.” Virgil’s stomach twisted again, and he swallowed thickly, panic welling up inside him “Leave me alone.”

“But Anxiety—”

“Go away!”

A moment passed, and then Patton let out a breath. “Okay,” he softly said. “Just… Please come down for lunch, at least?”

“I’m not making any promises,” Virgil grunted. He carefully pushed himself to his feet, and as footsteps slowly disappeared down the hall, he slowly lowered himself back into bed.

Bundling himself up in as many blankets as he could, Virgil shut his eyes and forced himself to try to get some sleep.

---

He was awoken a few hours later by another knock on the door. “Anxiety?”

Virgil sat straight up, looking towards the source of the sound as his brain struggled to differentiate reality and his fever dream. “Whu… Huh?”

“Patton has asked me to notify you that lunch is ready,” Logan stated. “He was very adamant that you attend, and I can’t say I feel much different. Skipping meals, especially breakfast, is extremely unhealthy.”

Scrubbing at his eyes, Virgil let out a moan. “I’ll be down in a minute…,” he muttered.

“Excellent. I will see you momentarily.”

“Mm-hm…”

Virgil hardly heard the footsteps walk away as he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. It was so nice and warm here in bed… So easy to fall back asleep…

---

The next time he woke up, it was to a sharp twist in his stomach.

His eyes shot open to see a dim room and an orange sky; he remembered with a start what he’d last been doing, and would have let out a curse had he not been breathing heavily, trying to force the nausea away as soon as he could. He balled up his fist and held it in front of his trembling mouth. He did not want to be sick again.

His body, however, seemed to have other plans.

Virgil shuffled out of bed and towards the door as fast as he could. He wrapped a loose arm around his stomach as soon as he was on his feet. Knowing the others were probably around, he did his best to be silent opening his door.

Another door opened down the hall. Virgil looked over in time to make eye contact with Roman as he stepped into the hall.

They glared.

“Well, it looks like someone was projecting this morning,” Roman sneered.

Virgil huffed out a shaky breath before stumbling towards the bathroom. “Shut up, Princey,” he wheezed.

“Oh, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it, huh?”

He shut the door and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

“Real mature, Sir Ector de Morbid!”

Virgil retched.

The first heave took out any bile remaining in his stomach from that morning, and then all he could do was dry heave until his body decided to stop. His abs ached like there was no tomorrow; his lungs burned as he struggled to get air between cycles. Snot and tears dribbled down his face and landed in the water below.

“Uh… Patton?” Roman’s voice yelled from outside.

An agonizing minute or two later, the door burst open, and a gasp echoed between the tiled walls.

“Oh, Anxiety…!”

One hand rested between his shoulder blades while another slipped into his hair, each rubbing soothing circles. Virgil tried to shake them off, but with his head still in the toilet, found it very hard to do so.

(Not that he really wanted to, anyway—it was… strangely comforting.)

When his stomach finally gave him the chance to breathe, Virgil slumped against the seat and panted. His head spun like the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair, and his eyelids felt as heavy as the ride itself. It would be so easy to just… take a little nap…

The hands removed themselves from his body, and Virgil had to choke back a whine. They weren’t gone for long, though; a second later, they rested on his shoulders and sat him up before carefully settling him back against the tub.

He cracked his eyes open to watch as Patton rested a hand on his forehead. Behind him, Logan was filling a paper cup with water at the sink. Roman hovered in the hall just outside the door.

“I didn’t…” Virgil tried to swallow. “Di’n mean to miss lunch,” he breathed.

“Shh, it’s okay, Anxiety,” Patton whispered. “You’re running a bit of a fever… Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well?”

Virgil whined. “Didn’t wanna.”

Logan crouched and held out the water. “Drink this. You need to stay hydrated.”

Virgil tried to take it, but his hands were trembling so much that he nearly dropped it as soon as he had to support its weight; Logan and Patton were quick to catch it and help guide it to his lips, where he practically began to pour it down his throat.

“Easy, easy…”

They pulled back after a moment, and Virgil drooped, leaning his head against the wall. He let out a moan and wrapped his arms around his stomach. Patton placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed little circles with his thumb before looking at Logan.

“What do you think it is?” he asked.

Logan inspected Virgil’s face with a frown. “Well, it appears his symptoms include vomiting, nausea, stomach cramps, and a fever, so I suspect it’s—”

“Stomach flu,” Virgil mumbled.

“Viral gastroenteritis, yes.”

Roman leaned against the doorway. “Were you ill this morning?”

Virgil shut his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Is that why you were taking so long in the bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

Patton looked at him. “When did this start up, kiddo?”

He swallowed thickly, then let out a whimper when a cramp rolled through his stomach again. “Woke up at like… 1:30…?”

“Oh, Anxiety…” Patton pressed his hand to his cheek and frowned. “Why don’t we set you up on the couch for tonight? I know you don’t like staying outside your room for too long, but I really want to keep an eye on you until you’re feeling better. We can watch whatever you want, if you’re up for it.”

Virgil opened his eyes to look at Patton; the father figure offered a gentle smile, despite his brow still being furrowed. His eyes flicked to Logan, who had a similar concerned gaze, and then to Roman, who refused to look his way. A pit settled in his stomach as he looked back to Patton.

“Is it gonna bother anyone if I’m out there…?” he whispered.

Patton shook his head. “No, honey. It’s okay. You’re allowed to be in the living room, sick or not. Okay?”

Tears threatened to form in Virgil’s eyes, but he forced them back. He sniffled and wiped at his nose.

“…Can we watch Billy and Mandy?”

-----

A few minutes later, Virgil lay on the couch, head in Patton’s lap, washrag on his forehead, and a blanket wrapped tight around his shivering body. A garbage can sat just in front of him, and the Grimm Adventures of Billy and Mandy played on the TV. Logan and Roman sat on the other side of the couch.

Patton was running his fingers through Virgil’s sweaty hair. Virgil tried to keep watching the show, but his eyes kept fluttering shut. Eventually, Patton leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Anxiety,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He was too tired to say no.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #sick fic #sickfic #virgil sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #alex writes

[nightwingvixen23]

SCORCHED

A little JayRoman fic that i just  now whipped up while bored as fuck lol

***

*****

*******

"I'm still wonderin' just where in the fuck you got those god damned things from.” Roy's words are knifelike, however at the slice of it’s blow to my gut, out rushed butterflies, contrary to blood.

Fuck him. Pinpointing just what’s not vital at this very moment.

"Always had'em," I insist, housing the twin mamba pistols, gleaming in decadence, back into their holsters at each thigh. . .. . . And yeah; they are in fact new. And no; I didn't buy them. 

Yes, i’m a fuckin' liar, sue me; I’ve been called worse. On the other hand, the actual truth reaches a hand far deeper into my organs then anyone needs to be groping there greedy fingers within, sloppy in movement, scuttling after answers that I'm beyond sure the owner of such a prying hand will come to anguish.

"Nah," Roy presses, slinging himself across a couch here in the drearily lighted safe house that we've together taken up refuge in somewhere North East of Gotham City, " I know all’ov your artillery dude. That shit's new. And looks hella posh. Did I miss yer birthday or somethin' ? " He cracks open a beer, guzzling it down while those jade eyes pierce through me from above the can. God damn him. I carelessly knock into his bow and arrows causing him to sputter his alcohol and run to their salvation, whining about how I could be 'such a fucking bully' however it gets him to shut the fuck up on the former topic under fire; and that was my only intention.

Nobody. 

Nobody needs to know about the gifts. 

What started out as a game has me now roped in pretty heavily, but, I’m a damn sucker for fucking with Roman's upper story, what can I say ?? I can be a mother fucking flirt when I wanna be (while not quite as sophisticated in the art as Dick Grayson himself) I've picked up a few logistics on how to score a man's desires...I mean,at least: the murderous type; how to score the desires of a man who wants to lacerate my spine as well as fuck me into the nearest floorboard. And it was all just a game. I swear it was. The thorns in my side enjoyed toying with the temper of a well-bred villain who's tasted blood soaked daggers, and known the Godlike fever of electing a fatal gasp from an parched lung. I liked the twisted smirk of his face from under that obscene leather mask. I liked the tangled intrigue of his body language. I relished how I held him in the palm of my hand; just another man eating whatever slop from the filthy bowl I threw at the floor for him to gobble up. 

That shit made me feel potent, dominant, I ain't gonna lie.

It had been upon entering my apartment one afternoon that I found a giant box on my coffee table, looking out of place amongst overall brown and black furnishings; this bright box done up in all red. With a scoff I checked it for explosives before revealing it’s contents to find a Gold-Inlaid Colt Model 1849 Pocket Revolver. . .this shit sells for 1.1 Million. . .and it was with that knowledge that I’d been keen on knowing just who the sender of such an item had been.

I’d doubled over laughing.

So, it went on this way for a while. The times Roman and I would happen to ‘chance upon one another’ or fall into a breakneck fight beneath dark Gotham skies, I always played up the immodest tart card. Teasing. Leading. And he followed the trail; come a few short days later I'd be rewarded a gift. This became something of a cycle. Something routine. Just, expected, yanno ?

Up until one drunken night I found the presents piling up around me to be annoying as all fuck in their gleaming elegence.

I wasn't a cheap prize to be won, some sodden part of my brain manifested this notion that then exploded into me breaking into Roman's estate and cursing for him to take every damned gift back, because, and I quote " I ain't your god damned slut mother fucker " more or less slurred.

There had been a beat of silence between us then. A beat. Just a beat. Before I was grabbed. Picked up. And I fucking cringe to say that that shit had me near to begging for him. Not many men that I've been with could pick me up, they never had the musculature and we’d always end up in missionary. But there I fucking was...being suddenly ripped piece by piece by Roman himself. Broken open.

 The callous scratch of the wall leaving red reminders trailed into the skin of my back, a surface I’d arched myself into as if to arch away. A part of me wanted that wall to swallow me whole, make me dissipate from here because I was feeling too much all at once. I didn't understand anything past our flirtatious banter. Didn't know the whimpered cries and wet moans coming from deep within my chest, nor the hands holding tight to the broad shoulders of this man who kept me blanketed in a hot rapture that not even Heaven it's self could muster the courage to match, and maybe that’s because this damned brute in a leather mask is the Devil; breathing into me all 7 Deadly Sin's at once, making burn within my esophagus a startling realization that all this time I may have been his fucking puppet whereas I thought it the other way around.....his fucking puppet now his fucking fuck toy.

I honestly can’t say how I made it back to my apartment. Last thing I recalled was being spent, slung over Roman's shoulder, then waking up in my own bed alone. Nevertheless, the scratches and metallic taste of blood were a clear reminder of the night we’d shared.

And upon that night, all that which I’d once known had been laid to rest.

Costly weaponry turned into expensive clothing. Expensive clothes turned into rare jewels. Jewels turned into a sports car, a sports car turned to a motorcycle....and my dumbass accepted it all, while discovering in me some sick, dark sort of amusement with each tiding.

Dick registered right away something was off with me, the depth in his blue eyes said it all as he took in my abrupt departure in fashion choice and of transportation. "I'm just doin' a bit better is all," I'd told him and he arched a brow while saying, "Look, I think I know what's up. But, only because I've been there myself. And let me just tell you that it's not worth it." I had scoffed, watching him walk away. Leave it to Dick to be the OG Sugar Baby of the BatFam. Somethin told me that Bruce was the supplier of his every need and hunger, but I refused to dive any deeper into that and left. In fact, I've stayed clear of Wayne Manor for quite some time. Refusing team ups, partnerships, and or pursuits having anything to do with Batman.

When it comes to Kori, she likes to dote on all that I've been given. On her own she unearthed the jewels I kept hidden away and tried them on for herself, twirling in the mirror and laughing while telling me, "Whomever this mystery man is has quite the taste," with a fancy wink. I'm shocked she didn't mention it at all to Roy--

---which is where we are now, currently in my safe house as I watch Roy check on his bow for scuff marks and pout over at me, grabbing back up his abandoned beer can. "I still say that someone bought you those pistols. It ain't your usual style, there too expensive seeming--"

"You callin me cheap ? Like i don't buy quality? " I ask a bit too defensively. Roy put his hands up . "No ! I'm just sayin...." his eyes squint a bit. “I’m just sayin that somethin's up with you man, an’ I got a bad feelin' about it."

I shrug, going to cleaning the mamba pistols of any blood tracked back from our earlier run in with a Mafia Boss and his little posse; which gets me thinking about Roman; the heated sting of his fingers, the scorch of those gloves everywhere they touched. And they never leave, those gloves. they stay on. Not because he chooses it, but because I demand it. I admit to being a bit of a masochist In the same way that I’m a bit of a liar A bit of a manipulator while also being the manipulated A bit damaged A bit taken for granted And with sense enough to know that Roman and I are destined to crash and burn But I’ve already burned once before, so;

     what's one more go around gonna hurt ?

#jayroman #short little fanfic #jay the sugar baby lol #fanfic shit #my random writings #jason todd #red hood #roman sionis #black mask #roy harper #arsenal #dick grayson #nightwing #koriand'r #starfire #batfam #brudick

[blogging-time]

Mealybugs

Send me a random word and I will attempt to write a Hurt/Comfort Fic containing/based on it. My Fic Masterlist

Word: Sick - Submitted by @3amthebitchinghour! 

Summary: Roman couldn’t deny the fact that he’d found Patton’s seemingly unjustified concern to be somewhat endearing at first... but now things were quickly getting out of hand...

If only Roman had known why Patton felt so protective over him, it could have saved the pair oh-so much heartache. 

Warnings: Mild illness/fever. Very brief Remus mention.

Pairings: Platonic Royality. (Can be interpreted as romantic.)

Word Count: 3,595

~ ~ ~

Roman couldn’t deny the fact that he’d found Patton’s seemingly unjustified concern to be somewhat endearing at first. Despite his well-sown fear of appearing both feeble and childish, there was just something about the dad Side’s ever-blossoming kindness that chipped away at the prince’s protective thorns until he was nothing more than a delicate collection of crimson rose petals in the botanist’s careful hands.

Perhaps to Patton, Roman was little more than a single clipped rose, powerless to fight off the tender love and care that he had deemed the prince beautiful enough to be deserving of. Still, Roman had enjoyed every last moment he’d spent simply being a part of his friend’s heavenly garden. Every day he’d let his roots embed themselves further and further into the soil until there was seemingly no moving him, and every day his friend would come by to perform his routine check-up.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you flourishing, kiddo!” his friend would chirp with a carefree smile.

But even the most attentive of botanists will one day see their flowers wilt. Even the most well-tended gardens can become victims of disease. And when this happens, perhaps one of the worst things you can possibly do for an already suffering rose is overwater it.

In the beginning, the whole thing had seemed as innocent as a timid field mouse cautiously poking its head up to greet the cold evening breeze. True, you typically wouldn’t want to see any type of rodent rummaging around in your garden, but there had just been something so careful and genuine in Patton’s eyes that had made the man seem far sweeter than any succulent berry he could possibly steal away.

Besides, Patton had been Roman’s faithful botanist, not some common thief. The prince knew there was nothing in this world that his friend would intentionally deprive him of. However, the intention doesn’t always match the outcome, and one simple observation was all it took to set off a rather unfortunate series of events.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, kiddo… you’re sick,” Patton had commented, concern dripping from his voice like melted ice-cream.

“Oh, Padre, you’re too kind,” Roman had joked back, hoping against all odds that he could bury the dad Side’s concern with his quick wit.

But Patton’s heart was not so easily satisfied.

“What in Thomas’ name do you think you’re doing out of bed? You should be resting.”

The prince sighed before answering, “It’s just a passing cold, Patty-cakes. There’s no need for you to be getting your buns in such a twist.”

“You leave my buns out of this, little mister,” Patton countered, taking a step forward and gently placing his hand on the ill man’s already damp forehead.

Looking back, perhaps the moment Roman instinctively let himself melt into the touch of the moral Side’s cool hand was the moment he’d sealed his fate.

The botanist’s persistent supervision began not long after that.

~ ~ ~

It had all started with a humble offering of chicken soup.

“Now you just lie here, Roman, and I’ll serve you up one of my very own Patton-patented pawsitively palatable poultry plates in just one moment!”

“Now look who’s paid a visit to the alliteration station!”

Then came the many cutesy looking coffee mugs, almost all of which contained some different variation of Healthline’s ‘Top 10 Healthiest Herbal Teas You Just Have to Try!’

“As the wise Uncle Iroh once said: Sharing tea with a fascinating stranger is one of life’s true delights!”

“Padre… we’ve known each other for almost thirty years.”

“And yet this dashing prince simply never fails to fascinate me!”

And who could forget all of those simple yet tedious everyday tasks that Patton had offered to fulfil in Roman’s steed?

“Oh, most sweet and noble knight of mine… are you absolutely certain that this quest I have assigned to you won’t prove itself far too time-consuming or demanding?”

The moral Side chuckled faintly at that.

“My liege, I can assure you there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll see to it that Master Thomas gets his chance to rehearse this afternoon, and that the last of the required props are picked up from Ye Olde Hobby Lobby in plenty of time for supper!”

“You have my eternal gratitude.”

“And you, my tissues.”

One could easily argue that the feverish prince had been entirely too willing to comply with the botanist’s generous wishes during those first two days, but how was he to know just how overbearing his friend would become over the course of the next seventy-two hours?

It had all started with Patton’s refusal to let Roman prepare his own toast.

“It’s just a simple slice of toast, Doctor Ramsay,” Roman bantered, “And if it’s any consolation I’ll promise not to cut the bread with my sword this time – Prince’s Honour!”

“Kiddo, you shouldn’t be handling food at all while you’re not well; that’s how you end up spreading germs.”

“To whom? Myself?”

“You never know, Roman. Please… just leave all of the cooking to me for now. I can have everything done within five minutes.”

Then came the many unnecessary yet incessant visits to Roman’s room that Patton would make throughout the day.

“Knock, knock!”

“Oh, I wonder who could possibly be there?” Roman drawled.

Patton giggled weakly at that.

“Just your happy-chappy pappy checking up on someone sappy!”

“Somehow I don’t think I’m the sappy one here, Patton.”

And how could Roman ever overlook the fact that he’d practically been put on strict bedrest for multiple days when there were so many other things he’d rather be doing to elevate his growing boredom?

“Listen, nurse… I understand you’re just trying to look out for me, but I can’t see any good reason as to why I shouldn’t be allowed to go and play ‘Mario Kart’ with the court jester. I feel like I’ve done nothing these past few days, and besides, my temperature barely even meets the criteria for a fever anymore.”

“First of all, we’ve already spoken about you referring to Virgil as the ‘court jester.’ Second of all, the reason your health has been improving is because you’ve taken the time to do nothing. Thirdly, Roman you’re far too competitive to be playing videogames right now. You’ll just end up psyching yourself up too much and making your headache so much worse.”

The prince had done his best to tolerate this sort of treatment for five whole days before allowing himself to finally admit the obvious: Patton wasn’t his knight in shining armour; he was the dragon-witch responsible for keeping him locked up in a tower.

He knew confrontation was inevitable if he wanted to see the outside world again anytime soon - Too long now had he been kept inside of a restrictive vase as opposed to an open flowerbed. Still, going into the discussion, Roman had downright dreaded dealing with the resistance he would surely be met with from his fellow Side. Of course, he knew the moral Side would never be mad at him for standing his ground, but if he didn’t want his friend to worry then he felt he’d still have to prepare a solid rebuttal.

The creative Side had braced himself for his moral counterpart’s troubling frown. He’d fully anticipated his friend’s most frequently recycled justifications and prepared what he considered to be an adequate counterargument for each. Heck, the prince had even taken the liberty of preparing an evidence casefile should the dad Side ever demand to see proof of his ongoing recovery.

“Behold! The piece of evidence that clearly contradicts the witness’ testimony!” Roman rehearsed, finger pointing rather dramatically at his bedroom mirror, “If you take a good look at this thermometer, you’ll see that my temperature read as 98.6F this morning. Mr Sanders, you claimed I couldn’t leave the room for as long as I have a fever, but this device clearly shows I now have a perfectly normal body temperature!”

Undoubtedly Roman had done enough preparation to ensure that even a man as tight-lipped as Logan couldn’t help but feel proud of his work. If only history had been kind enough to repeat itself, then perhaps the creative Side could have even found himself standing in the middle of another ‘Sherlock Holmes Fan-Fic’ type situation.

However, there had been one rather unfortunate series of developments that the prince had not fully fortified himself for – one that had proven itself to be far more regrettable than unlikely, and one that the prince would have no choice but to embrace as he failed to sway the conversation back in his favour.

For within mere minutes of opening his carefully planned, well-constructed and adequately researched argument, both the poor over-watered wilting rose, and his apparently not-so-attentive botanist had completely abandoned their cool demeanours in exchange for a far more contentious persona.

“Roman, please, just be reasonable,” the dad Side pleaded, arms outstretched in a halting motion as he took yet another step back towards Roman’s doorway.

“Oh, my stars!” the aforementioned Side proclaimed incredulously, “Do my ears deceive me? Or is that truly ‘The Hypocrite of the West Coast’ sincerely asking me to be more reasonable?”

Had the man standing before the prince been anyone but his favourite fatherly figure, then surely he would have pressed him on the long sigh he just let out.

“Kiddo, I understand why you’re upset, but you know I’d never try to deter you like this if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary. I hate seeing you cooped up in here just as much as you do!”

“Then why won’t you set me free?”

“Because I believe-”

“Oh yes, because you believe it’s the right thing to do, don’t you? That’s always what it seems to come down to at the end of the day! Everything in the entire Thomas-sphere has to revolve around what Morality thinks is right and wrong! Honestly, what have the rest of us ever done to deserve a seat at the table?”

The moral Side’s entire body seemed to tense at that, his breath hitching as though he were trying to force some unsavoury words back down his own agitated throat. Tears were now threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes, yet his gaze remained almost perfectly fixed.

“Roman…”

“No! I don’t want to hear it, Pat! I’m sick and tired of listening to what you have to say!”

“You’re sick and tired, full stop, Roman! Please, you should really just go back to bed while I-”

“While you do what, Patton? Are you planning on tucking me back into bed again? Perhaps you could infantilise me even further by reading me another bedtime story, or- Oh! I know! Why don’t you go and prepare me yet another bowl of your infamous chicken soup? I’m not sure the first couple-hundred bowls have made me entirely anti-poultry yet!”

Undoubtedly, hunched up shoulders and pointedly narrowed eyes weren’t a particularly good look on the usually oh-so-cheery dad Side, but he simply couldn’t help the fact that his composure was shrivelling up so fast.

“If you really want to get me out of your hair so badly, then why won’t you just let me take care of you? The sooner I can get you healthy again, the sooner I can leave you to your own devices!”

“Because it’s not your job to take care of me, padre!” the prince snapped back, this time sounding utterly exasperated. “I’m not some delicate little flower that you should feel obligated to attend to! You’re not my designated botanist! You… You know what you are? What you really are, Pat? You’re just some aggravating little mealybug that’s latched onto my leaves that now adamantly refuses to let go! You’re sucking the life out of me, Pat, and it’s causing me to wilt! How on Earth do you expect me to stand it?”

With those words, the last of the moral Side’s composure finally slipped away.

“I don’t know, Roman! How do you expect me to cope with losing Creativity again?”

The words had come barrelling out of his mouth before he could even think to stop himself, and the tears don’t fall too far behind.

The room fell completely silent in an instant, bar the sound of the dad Side’s sombre hiccups.

Try as Patton might, he genuinely couldn’t help the feeling that he was being cruelly suffocated and torn apart from the inside. It felt as though someone had forced him to swallow an entire packet of dandelion seeds, and now the unwelcome plant was blooming, stems sprouting painfully from the pit of his stomach before forcing its way up through his throat, and finally bursting out dramatically from his silently screaming mouth. It seemed that no matter how hard the botanist had tried to suppress this unruly weed, the truth was always destined to come to light in some horrific way.

“Patton…?” Roman hesitantly asked, his previous shouting voice having been replaced by an almost-whisper.

The man in question only let a single choked sob escape before continuing to speak…

“…He was just like you, you know…” he blurted out, voice sounding unnaturally strained from trying to suppress his own emotions. His eyes were now utterly transfixed on the floor, almost as if he were willing it to magically open up and swallow him whole.

The prince audibly gulped as he mentally prepared himself for the question he’d inevitably have to ask, regardless of whether or not he already knew the answer.

“Who was, Pat?”

Another choked sob escaped; this time followed by a long, shaky, uneven breath. The question seemed to hang in the air far too uncomfortably for far too long as one Side watched the other pathetically curl in on himself.

“The King,” Patton eventually rasped out, words slicing through the tension in the air so swiftly and so grotesquely they almost seemed to mimic the actions of a rusty lawn mower blade.

Roman could practically hear the machine whirring around inside his head.

“He told us all it was just a cold – That he’d be perfectly fine if we just left him alone for a few hours…”

“Patton…”

“He told us all to just go out and play… He promised us he’d come and join us as soon as he was feeling better… At the time none of us even realised that would be our last chance to run around in the garden together… Our last chance to marvel at the early Spring flowers together… Our last chance to weave intricate little flower crowns together with the King… and so we missed it… We missed our final chance to say ‘goodbye’ and then he was just… gone…”

As the well finally overflooded, allowing for two long streams to suddenly pour down the older Side’s fiercely flushed face, the young prince swore he could feel his own still beating heart immediately split in two.

“Patton,” he tried again, “Surely you don’t blame yourself for any of that. I highly doubt there’s anything you could have done to prevent such a fate from befalling the old Creativity – and even if there had have been, you couldn’t have possibly known any better!”

“I could have been by his side!” Patton snapped back, punctuating his words by gripping his upper arms even tighter. “I knew one of my friends was sick and I did nothing to help him! Worse than that, Roman, I left him alone to play hopscotch.”

“Darling, it’s not your fault for having such faith in an old friend. He was the one who told you to give him some space! You were only doing what was asked of you!”

A sudden wave of realisation swiftly struck down the prince’s confidence the moment he heard those words aloud.

“Oh, my dear little heart…” he cooed as he watched his shaking friend visibly shrink. “I’m so sorry, Pat… I didn’t mean to-”

“No… No, you don’t have anything to apologise for…” Patton sniffled as he tried to stand up properly. “I… I understand I may have been a bit… overbearing these past few days, but I…” He was getting choked up again. “I… I just couldn’t risk losing Creativity again… I couldn’t risk losing you. I love you so much, kiddo, and I genuinely don’t know what I would do if I ever-”

Roman decided to silence that oncoming tangent by abruptly pulling his spiralling friend into a warm embrace. Perhaps the experience would have been a little more pleasant had his own body not decided to start trembling mere moments ago, but none of that seemed to matter as the dad Side slowly melted into his soothing touch.

“Do you want me to let you in on a special little secret, padre?”

The dad Side merely nodded his response into the crook of the prince’s neck, causing the slightly calmer man to let out a faint chuckle.

“The truth is… when I first appeared here in the mindscape, I really didn’t know much at all about… well… anything! Sure, I had a decent enough hold on what sort of things inspired Thomas, what stories he wanted to tell and how he wanted to go about telling them… but when it came to Thomas’ internal ‘Breakfast Club’ I was almost completely at a loss! By all accounts your quizzical looks should have made me feel like a Roman gladiator thrown haphazardly into a colosseum without so much as a broken stick to defend myself!”

“I’m sorry if any of us startled you…” came a muffled response.

“But that’s the thing, Pat,” Roman recounted with a kind smile, “None of you ever did… In fact, from the very first moment I ever laid my dazzling eyes upon all of your startled yet adorable – if not slightly nerdy – faces, I honestly never felt anything but… safe, secure… welcome, even! Now I know that may not make much sense at first given how little I actually knew you all at the time, but I happen to have my own little working theory as to why I felt that way. Would you like me to share it with you?”    

That question was apparently enough to make the dad Side look up from where he had been nuzzling his tear-soaked face into his friend’s now admittedly rather damp shoulder. The sight of his puffy eyes alone was enough to make Roman want to tear off his own crimson rose petals and use them as an overly extravagant tissue on the botanist’s grief-stricken visage.

Alas, a small piece of his velvety sash would have to suffice for now.

“Please,” Patton tentatively begged as the prince carefully wiped away at his cheeks.

“I reckon it’s because the Creativity you once knew never truly left. Even if I didn’t maintain the vast majority of his memories, I vehemently believe that all of those otherwise inexplicable feelings were the by-product of him having once loved all of you. He never felt betrayed… He never felt lonely… He never felt as though you let him down, padre, because it’s abundantly clear didn’t.”

“But how can you be so sure his feelings never changed?”

“I don’t know, my own little Patton-ted Piglet… How can you be so sure they ever did?”

Something in the moral Side’s expression seemed to change in that moment… Something subtle yet unmistakable that let Roman know he’d finally gotten through to the man.

It was only a matter of time before a contented smile had taken place on both of their blushing faces.

“I suppose I never really thought of it that way…” Patton sheepishly admitted.

“Yet you’d dare to entertain the thought that your dashing prince would ever leave you?”

The creative Side had fully intended for his sentiment to come across as light-hearted. Rather unfortunately for him, it appeared his words only served to make the dad Side feel more guilty.  

“I’m sorry for blowing up at you like that earlier, kiddo… and I’m sorry if my paranoia ever made me act unfairly towards you… I guess I just let my parental instincts get the better of me sometimes…”

“I’ll consider it all water under the bridge so long as you promise not to tell Teach I had to take a leaf out of his book today,” Roman joked, earning a stifled burst of heartfelt giggling from his now slightly more chipper and upbeat friend.

When the laughter eventually subsided, the dad Side decided to take a step back and get a better look at Roman, consequently breaking the embrace as he did so.

“I can’t tell if you acting all logical is supposed to be a sign that your health is improving or deteriorating,” he playfully teased.

“Well whichever one of the two it is, I just hope all of this exposure you’ve had to my sorry-self over these past few days hasn’t been enough to infect you.”

“Oh, Roman, I hate to tell you this, but I was already sick,” Patton merrily admitted after only a brief pause.

“What?” the prince dramatically exclaimed, voice suddenly sounding perturbed. “Oh, padre… Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well? We need to get you tucked into bed with some medicine and a bowl of chicken soup right away!”

Although Morality had tried to contain their mildly inappropriate giggling, he simply couldn’t help but be amused by the irony behind Creativity’s words.

“I’m afraid there won’t be any need for that,” he giddily reassured, “After all, doctors say there’s still no known cure for love-sickness!”

~ ~ ~

General Tag-List:

@lunamay2006, @not-so-innocent-bi-sander, @saphael-malec102, @anastasialestina

Note: It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a fic, so this tag-list may be a little outdated. If at any point you want to be added/removed from my tag-list then feel free to let me know!

Secondary Note: I may come back and edit the ending a little at a later date. This fic had been sitting in my WIP’s for far too long, so I’m worried it may have come across as rushed due to the fact I really wanted it to be completed.

As always, feedback is much appreciated! I was very out of practice and sleep-deprived here, so I’m sure I’d benefit a lot from constructive criticism! I hope you’re all having a fan-der-tastic day!

#Thomas Sanders #Sanders Sides #Roman Sanders #Patton Sanders #Royality #Platonic Royality #My Fic #Reblogs > Likes

[amintyworld]

Love in the Time of Hopelessness - Sanders Sides Oneshot

A/N: Hey guys! Minty here! This is a small oneshot I had the idea for one day, but never finished. Took a look at it now and decided to finish it for you guys! The Aphmau Fic as well as the finale for the Avian Fantasy AU are in the works, but I hope you guys will like this one in the meantime. I'm sorry I can't get them out sooner. Anyway, love you all and I'll try to get the other two out soon!

Summary: Patton pushes Virgil to leave his room, and Virgil finds more than a friend.

Ship: Heavily Prinxiety.

TW: Sick mention, Hospital mention, Cancer implied, parasite mention, no hair, cuddles, and slight sarcasm

Patton walked into the small hospital room, carrying half a sandwich and some ginger ale. His patient, Virgil, looked weak and pale in the bed, and gave a smile as he entered.

"Hey, Pat."

"Hello, Virge!" Patton said cheerily as he set the tray down on his bedside table. "How ya feeling today?"

"Not worse than usual." He joked as he sat up in the white bed. Patton moved to the opposite side, inspecting the drip they placed yesterday. Quickly he unplugged the drip from the needle inserted into his arm, and it left a small portion of tube hanging that Patton quickly taped.

"How's the new meds? Helping with the nausea?"

"A bit." Virgil said. Hungry, he eyed the food, but knew that if he ate it it would be in the toilet by the afternoon. He sipped the ginger ale sparingly, knowing Patton would have a fit if he didn't touch his lunch.

Patton took his temperature and quickly checked his blood pressure. "That stubborn fever…" he huffed. "Luckily, it lowered from yesterday!"

Virgil's been admitted for...going on around a month. They'd found a nasty parasite that messed with his stomach and immune system. Funnily enough, he was only admitted for a fever. They'd been working to weaken the parasite and remove it, but it wasn't so simple. He was transferred to the Urgent Care ward almost instantly.

Patton gave him his daily assortment of colorful pills - three green, two white, one red, and one pink. They had a bad aftertaste Virgil was used to.

"I was thinking, Virgil...maybe you could hang out with the others today? You've been cooped up in here for so long..." Patton said, rubbing the back of his neck. Virgil was the only patient Patton had ever had who never left their room. Patton thought it was just shyness, and he only needed a little nudge.

Virgil's anxiety got the better of him. He wasn't one for social interaction, often loving his alone time with his music a lot more. Just the thought of it made his throat close. However, he knew Patton was stubborn, he needed to find an excuse...ANY excuse.

"But I...I have a fever, r-remember?! I wouldn't want to get anyone sick." Virgil said desperately.

"Oh, don't worry about that, I got a mask for ya right here!" Patton said, handing him the black mask he had in his pocket. "I was worried about that darn fever." He smiled.

"W-well, I wouldn't know who to talk to!" Virgil said, trying desperately to get out of any of his pathetic attempts to make friends.

"What about Roman? He's just next door…" Patton said with a grin.

"You mean the songbird who's been singing nonstop since last week?!" Virgil said.

"He's quite the singer." Patton laughed. "I actually think you two could get along quite nicely. You're very...similar."

"Similar? Me and Sir-Sings-A-Lot over there?!" Virgil said, pointing to the wall behind him. "Patton, you're insane." He laughed.

"Just...give him a try. Please?" Patton asked. "It's not healthy to be cooped up in here all alone." Virgil noticed Patton's eyes filled with concern.

"Fine."

That's how Virgil ended up outside Roman's door that was covered in letters, pictures, and get well cards. He heard a faint coughing behind the door, and hesitated before knocking, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie anxiously.

Roman opened the door wearing a bright red beanie over his head, hair sticking out underneath. He gave him a bright smile. "You must be Virgil. Patton's told me so much about you." His voice was somewhat hoarse. "Come in, please!"

Roman's room was small and white, like all the other rooms in Urgent Care. His bedside table had a small stack of movies, and a thick red book with a shiny yellow bookmark wedged inside. Small plastic props overflowed a small cardboard box and scattered about his room. Roman smirked at Virgil. "Guess you finally decided to abandon hermit life?" Roman joked.

"Look, I'm doing this for Patton." Virgil snapped. "This isn't about me, okay?!"

"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to... You know what? Here, I'd like to make it up to you." Roman said sincerely.

"And just how would you do that?" Virgil asked quizzically, annoyed of course, but...curious as to what Roman was going to suggest.

Roman sat down on his bed and picked up the stack of movies. "I've got all the classics - Snow White, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast - you can choose the movie." This peaked Virgil's interest.

"Disney? No wonder you're a singer." Virgil joked. Roman's face flushed.

"You...you heard me singing?" He said. "I didn't think…"

"That's the thing about hospitals, Sir-Sings-A-Lot - they always have thin walls. Especially around here, with the budget and all." Virgil said, flipping through the movies. Honestly, none really fit his style. Virgil always got tired of the same Disney tropes again and again. But, he remembered the one movie that his mother played over and over, he'd memorized it by heart. He plucked it from the pile to show Roman. "What about this one?"

"Beauty and the Beast? Never pegged you as a fan." Roman said.

"Looks can be deceiving, Princey." Virgil said as he hopped onto the bed, crossing his two slippered feet.

Roman got up to pop in the movie. "Princey?"

"What can I say? It fits you." Virgil smiled under his black mask.

"Look, I'm really sorry for earlier-"

"It's fine, Princey. Really. Honestly, I've always been a hermit. Plus, you let me pick the movie. You're… not that bad." Virgil admitted. "I was expecting way worse."

Roman smiled as he hit play and they settled in for the movie. Roman, for the first time, couldn't concentrate on a Disney movie. His eyes started to wander over to the other viewer. His eyes sparkled, and his hair looked like silk when a small breeze from the window ran through it.

He...he didn't like him, did he?

His heart skipped a beat, and he flushed when Virgil caught him staring. "Uhh, Roman...you're missing the best part."

"Sorry, I...I got distracted…"

When every song came up, Virgil could hear Roman's soft humming. He could tell how badly he wanted to burst out into song, maybe tap a number…

Roman's humming was warm and comforting. Though Virgil could tell he wanted to overdo every note, he didn't know that his voice was already perfect, at least, to Virgil it was.

Through the wall, it seemed egotistical, maybe a bit too much, which Virgil guessed is why it annoyed him for so long. Virgil didn't know how passionate Roman was, he could hear it in his voice, something he had never heard through the wall.

"You...you have a good voice." Virgil had said, which snapped Roman's focus. 

"Was I humming? I'm sorry, I know it's annoying. I'll stop-"

"Don't. It's...nice, actually." He said, earning a smile from Roman.

"Thanks, I- just thank you."

As the ending music started, a question lingered Roman's mind. "So, Emo Nightmare, you dance?"

"Dance?! No, I'm horrible. It's like I have two left feet, I swear-"

"Let me teach you then." Roman offered, offering his hand and giving a small smile.

Virgil couldn't help but smile back under his mask. "I'd like to see you try, Princey." He took Roman's hand and suddenly, their fingers were intertwined and Roman's hand lay at his hip. Virgil couldn't help but notice his hands were warm, and that somehow they were holding hands...and he didn't mind.

Roman lead, showing Virgil a box step. He'd slowly gotten a handle on it, with many stepped on toes of course. The background music from the movie blasted loudly as they danced, Virgil relaxing into Roman's grip. Roman smirked. "Time for a twirl, Virge."

"Wait, what?!" Virgil said a bit late as he spun out, and was quickly pulled back in, the force smacking them both to the floor.

Roman and Virgil burst out laughing on the white floor, both wearing goofy smiles, though Virgil's was hidden underneath his black mask. "We're idiots." Virgil chuckled.

"Yeah…" Roman said. His beanie had fallen off in the crash. Roman's hair was almost completely gone, the few clumps still hanging on were the ones sticking out that Virgil had noticed before.

"R-Roman, your beanie-!" Virgil exclaimed quickly when he noticed what lay beneath.

In a flush of embarrassment, Roman sat up, grabbed the beanie, and put it quickly back on. Awkward silence passed between the two.

Roman looked solemn, all the happiness drained from his face. "You can go, if you like. I'll make sure Patton won't bother you anymore about all this."

"What...what are you talking about?" Virgil said. He wanted to ask about Roman's hair, but knew it might not be his place. Everyone in Urgent Care had their own problems, personal or not. Roman just needed to know that he wasn't the only one. "I'm way worse, just look at this pale skin!" He laughed.

A hint of a smile washed over Roman's face. "Another movie then?"

"You read my mind, Princey." Virgil said. Something about Roman's smile just made him blush. He wanted him to smile, to be happy, it was just so full of joy and happiness.

As they settled in again, Virgil started to yawn. Guess the meds finally kicked in. "You okay, Virge?" Roman asked.

Virgil yawn again sleepily. "Side effect numero uno of my meds, Princey - Drowsiness."

"Well, dinner's still for a few hours...you're welcome to crash here. I know it's hard to get back to bed once those kinds of meds hit ya."

"Well, isn't it weird, though," Virgil yawned. "That I'd be sleeping in your bed?"

"I'll explain everything to them later. It's no big deal." Roman said. 

"Thanks." Virgil smiled again, under his mask of course, as he laid back onto one of the pillows, letting the sleepiness and drowsiness he'd been fighting finally wash over him.

Halfway through the second movie, Roman laid down next to him due to tiredness as well. The chemo they had him on really came with its wonderful, and long list of side-effects. He turned to Virgil. The emo in question was dozing softly next to him, his hair over his face. He looked so incredibly peaceful just laying there.

Virgil suddenly shivered in his sleep as the cold air from outside flew in. That window had been stuck for the entire time Roman was there, and he didn't want him to get cold. He carefully wrapped his arms around Virgil as they were pulled closer together. Virgil snuggled up into his chest and sighed in relief, and Roman couldn't help but smile. He was so cute.

Virgil's warmth lulled him into sleep in no time, both snuggled together.

This was how Patton found both of them when dinner was being delivered. He smiled at them both, and chuckled at what Virgil had said earlier. Clearly, Virgil and Roman were a perfect match. Silently, he grabbed a wool blanket from the nurse's closet and draped it over the two, quietly closing the door and notifying the nurse's station to 'do not disturb' that room.

Patton giggled the rest of the night, knowing full well that they were more than just friends.

#sander sides #sander sides fluff #morality sanders #princey sanders #anxiety sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides prinxiety #prinxiety #sander sides oneshot #sander sides fic

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

previous chapter / chapter ten / 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, sickness (coughing, fever)

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 21,282

notes: me writng the second to last section / me writing the last section

logan can’t focus.

it’s not because of the bowler-capped head in the corner that’s smirking at him. it’s not because he’s lost in the source material that they’re supposed to be silently reading, a series of pages in the poetry anthology that weighed, approximately, the same amount that a concrete block would. it’s not because of the slightly too-noisy tick-tick-ticking of the clock behind him that he’s been trying to limit himself from twisting around to read. he knows the reason he can’t focus fully, but even knowing the reason doesn’t fix anything.

he just. he can’t focus.

this is absolutely not a typical event, for him, especially when they’re talking about poetry in english class. studying poetry is his favorite part of any english class, and the chilton syllabus has actually branched out from the “The-Same-Ten-Old-Straight-White-Men” list that sideshire high had stubbornly stuck to, which had directly led to him and roman founding the least popular club in school, the poetry appreciation club.

logan glances surreptitiously at the watch that his grandmother had gotten him for his birthday and resists the urge to faceplant directly into his poetry anthology. how has it only been thirty-five seconds?!

only five more minutes, logan tells himself, and at most ten. and then a car ride. 

“...and as brock-broido herself once said, she said that her theory is ‘that a poem is troubled into its making. it’s not a thing that blooms; it’s a thing that wounds.’ how can we apply this quote to her poem father, in drawer... sanders?”

logan curses to himself, mentally, and quickly skims an eye over the poem in question. 

“the poem itself is clearly a demonstration of the speaker’s grief for her father,” logan says, fingernails biting briefly into his palms before he forcibly relaxes his hands. “so affected by the grief that she and her sister—“ he quickly skims for the line he’s looking for— “his daughters’ scales came off in every brittle tinsel color, washing to the next slow-yellowed river and the next, toward west, ohio-bound. this is the extent of that. i still have plenty heart. this poem is, in itself, troubled—troubled by grief, the act of burying her father, of how that grief in and of itself changed her and her sister forever, in an action so massive that brock-broido ventures into the mythical, the grandiose—that its emotional capacity is so large that though the details of it may be particular to the point that only brock-broido, or the speaker herself, could understand them, the emotion is clearly present throughout anyway. it wounds—not just brock-broido, but the reader, as well.”

he sits back in his chair. that will have to suffice. you know what’s happening, he tries to telegraph to the teacher, call on someone else.

“close, but not quite,” floats from the back corner of the room, a bowler tipping up, and forget it, logan’s sticking around to defend his point if necessary.

“why do you say that, slange?”

“well, there’s some soundness in your analysis, but you’re entirely too focused on the parental grief, not on the effect it has on the people surrounding him. i suppose i can’t blame you for being distracted, considering everything that’s going on with you.”

logan grits his teeth. “i’m not distracted.”

“oh, of course you’re not,” dee simpers. “i mean, i can’t blame you, if my father was in the hospital, i’d be too focused on the whole grief of losing a parent thing, too.”

there’s an outbreak of murmurs across the room. angie, whose two bleached-blonde braids swing and settle on her shoulders when she turns in her seat to stare at logan outright, asks, “is your dad dying?”

“he’s fine,” logan says. “he’s coming home today, actually.”

“can we get back to the poem, please,” mr. medina tries to break in wearily.

“what happened to him?” asks dermot, a round-cheeked boy entirely too kind to have been stuck with a name like dermot.

“pneumonia,” logan says brusquely. “anyway, he’s fine. i’m leaving to accompany him home in—” he checks his watch. “approximately three minutes.”

“not to mention anything else,” dee says, settling his chin on his hand and, logan swears, batting his eyelashes for a brief moment. “do you want to share with the class, logan?”

“i have nothing to share except for more extensive poetry anaylsis.”

“yes, thank you,” mr. medina says. “now, about brock-broido—”

the classroom phone rings. angie leans wildly to answer it.

“yeah? he’s right here. okay, i’ll tell him.” angie looks to logan expectantly. “ambroise for signout.” 

logan nods, putting away the anthology in his backpack.

“if your dad’s in the hospital, who’s picking you up?” angie continues.

“a family friend,” logan says curtly. 

“maybe it’s good that you’re leaving early,” dee says, and his eyes glint. “i mean, i’d hate for any distraction of yours to mess with your grades, considering we’re just a couple weeks away from finals.”

a noise of complaint rings throughout the room. there’s a completely different ringing noise in logan’s ears.

finals. his first set of finals at chilton. he hasn’t even remotely begun to prepare. he’d forgotten. in all the chaos of his thanksgiving break, he’s lost a valuable week of prep time, and he forgot about finals week.

(”failure is a part of life, but not a part of chilton. understand?" charleston’s voice rings in his ears, and "i'm also top of the class. i intend to be valedictorian when i graduate. you'll never catch up,” and suddenly logan has to remind himself to breathe.)

“don’t want to fail and ruin those perfect straight a’s,” dee tuts, and logan zips his backpack shut perhaps a touch too quickly, zippers clacking together.

“you’ll hardly find that i’m the one who’s distracted,” he says, and nods to mr. medina before he leaves the classroom, heading for the ambroise building.

the hallways are empty, the only noise his shoes against the marble and the distant drift of lecturing professors or discussion from students or brief breaks of laughter or the orchestra rehearsing for the winter concert that’s coming up, the occasional stray student on a bathroom break passing him with a nod or wave if he knows them, and the occasional stray student who edges out of their hiding place as soon as they register that logan’s in the chilton blue-and-navy, not a teacher. 

he enters the receptionist office, and virgil looks distinctly out of place and distinctly uncomfortable from where he’s sitting on the fine leather couches just outside of charleston’s office, in an old purple-and-black flannel that has his characteristic thick white stitching placing an entirely different purple-and-black plaid pattern over where the original shirt had worn through his elbows and a spot on his stomach, his torn-up black jeans, his puffy winter coat sitting beside him. virgil gets up, mouthing save me at logan, who presses his lips together to keep from smiling.

“sign here,” the receptionist says, and logan does. the receptionist sweeps a disapproving eye over virgil, and says, “you may go.”

as soon as they exit, virgil mutters to logan, “jesus, i didn’t realize you went to school in a castle.”

“falsehood,” logan rebuts, “i know for a fact you’ve seen photographs of chilton.”

“roman would be right at home here,” virgil says, glancing at logan with a glint in his eye, and logan gives him a you’re not as subtle as you think you are look.

“terrifying women and everything,” virgil continues in a mutter, rubbing the back of his neck. “i swear i could feel her plotting my murder when she realized i was besmirching the hallowed halls of chilton because i, god forbid, wasn’t wearing a tie.”

“mrs. fischer’s not murderous.”

“show up without a tie and see how long that stays true,” virgil says, as they exit the building. “i parked over there, so.”

logan heads over to virgil’s trustworthy, top-safety-rated sedan, and drops his backpack off in the backseat before he hops into the front seat as virgil settles in the driver’s seat. he drums his fingers against the wheel.

“how’s dad?” logan asks, refusing to acknowledge that it’s been less than seven hours since he saw him last—virgil drove him to school, too, and they’d visited the hospital then. where he’s stayed, since then.

“good,” virgil says. the drumming picks up the pace. “or, you know, good considering the circumstances. excited to get home.”

logan nods, absorbing this. his dad’s displeasure with his extended hospital stay has been made more and more clear the more and more he’s recovered. he’s officially cleared to go home and take all of his antibiotics and go back for a check-up once those are done, just to be sure his lungs are clear, but checking out of the hospital meant that they were in the last stretch of his illness. 

“i wanted to ask you something, actually,” virgil begins, fingers tapping frenetically, and logan’s first thought is he’s asking permission to propose.

but no, logan dismisses. his father would want to be present to inform him of any romantic change to his and virgil’s relationship. a change would make sense, though, the only person who’s spent more time at the hospital than logan for the past few days is virgil, and his father and virgil have yet to have an emotionally-charged (ick) conversation about virgil finding his dad passed out on the ground, which might lead to other emotions being brought to the forefront, but—no. virgil’s no christopher. virgil wouldn’t rashly propose, he’s not one to go from nothing to everything. he’s one to cautiously, slowly warm up to an idea after percolating on it for months or possibly years at a time.

so something else, then.

“ask,” logan says, keeping his guesses close to the chest.

virgil takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and says, “and if you’re not cool with it, consider it forgotten, i never even brought it up, but—”

“virgil. ask.”

“i was thinking about staying over at your house to keep an eye on your dad just to be sure he doesn’t backslide,” virgil blurts out. “i mean. you know how he is with remembering things, so i’ll just—i dunno, help handle things around the house and remind him to take his meds and—stuff, and i won’t stay very long, just until the winter fest on friday, so.”

(logan remembers, distantly, plotting with roman, back when they were both young enough to daydream together, talking about how obviously his dad and virgil should get married, so that way virgil and patton could live together and logan would move out of the pool house and that way logan could have two dads, so maybe roman could borrow one sometimes since he didn’t have any, or maybe they could get married too so they could share parents, right, that’s a thing that married couples did, and when they were married they would have a library like belle in beauty and the beast and a big pretty dance pavilion like in barbie and the twelve dancing princesses and they’d eat nothing but crofter’s sandwiches all day and—)

“that’s a good idea,” logan says, redirecting his gaze to virgil’s face. “to stay over. you should.”

virgil blows out a slow breath. “yeah?”

“yes,” logan confirms. “finals are coming up. i’ll be at school most of the day, and studying a lot besides.”

“oh, yeah, finals, huh,” virgil says. “i nearly forgot about those.”

logan directs his gaze out of the window.

“yes,” he says tightly. “me too.”

...

logan walks into the room to see a nurse obscuring the view of his father, having removed the much-complained-about iv from his arm at long last.

“finally,” his dad says gleefully. “well, that seems like that’s just about that, mei. it was nice to pneu-know-ya.”

mei giggles. logan turns around to walk out, deciding to wait in the car. virgil, a laugh in his throat, catches logan by the shoulder and nudges him back into the room.

“patton,” virgil says. “your son’s been here for less than five seconds and you’ve already infuriated him.”

“dad,” logan says, anguished. “seriously. pneu-know-ya?”

patton’s grin widens. “not humerus enough for you?”

“i’m disowning myself,” logan decides.

“no, you’re not,” patton says cheerfully, as mei the nurse binds a cotton ball in place over the injection site with medical tape. he waves them over with his free hand. “c’mon, sit down.”

“actually, i’m just gonna make sure the paperwork’s all filled out right,” virgil says, and once again nudges logan forward a little. from the look on patton’s face, it becomes clear to logan that this is a “don’t-let-logan-see-how-much-medical-care-costs” plan, which makes a knot of worry grow in his throat. the last thing they need is for logan to come down with something, too.

logan sits in the chair at patton’s bedside, the same chair he’s been sitting in since friday morning. now it’s monday. he’ll be happy to never sit in this chair ever again. patton looks a little better, but he looks far from his default—he’s still pallid, and the almost-always present sheen of sweat doesn’t help, and his under-eye bags actually might be bigger than virgil’s, and he’s lost a few pounds from being in the hospital, and he just doesn’t look...

well, he just doesn’t look healthy.

it doesn’t help that patton coughs a few times before he speaks.

“okay, v,” patton says, and, with a sly glance out of the corner of his eyes, “suture self.”

mei giggles louder. logan buries his face in his hands and utters a little scream. virgil exits, with his cackles echoing down the hall.

a hand pats his hair. “okay, okay, that’s it. all pun-ned out.”

“for now,” logan mutters, but resurfaces, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

“yeah, for now,” patton says, and shrugs on virgil’s hoodie, which has been somewhere on patton’s person since logan and roman came to the hospital on friday morning, glancing at mei. “is this it, then?”

“once he checks out your paperwork, we’ll be back with a wheelchair,” mei says, and adds, apologetically, at the long-suffering look patton gives, “just policy, i know. you excited to go home?”

patton smiles at logan. “very.”

against logan’s will, his lips twitch up to smile back.

“i’ll go check on that paperwork,” mei says, and leaves the room, and then it’s just the sanders’.

“so,” patton says. “home.”

“yeah,” logan says. “lots of people are excited for you to come home.”

“lots of people, huh?” patton asks teasingly, but logan refuses to be goaded into a potentially emotional moment. 

“i’ve had to rearrange the contents of the fridge three times because so many people have dropped off casseroles,” logan informs him, and patton looks startled at that, the way he always looks a little startled whenever people show up to support him.

“really?”

“really,” logan confirms. “sookie dropped off three, just by herself. plus dr. picani, and remy, and babette and morey, and taylor, and larry and dot, and elliott’s mom, and jackson, and kai, and corbin and sloane, and a few people from the inn apparently grouped up to drop some off, but i didn’t open the cards, so i couldn’t tell you exactly who made which. ms. prince even made one.”

patton looks even more startled. “ms. prince?”

“roman delivered it,” logan says.

“roman, huh?” patton asks, settling against the pillows. “how’s, um. how’s he doing?”

this isn’t exactly an atypical question, patton asking after one of his friends. if it’s roman, patton usually does it with a teasing little tilt of his lips, but the way patton’s asking now is... unusual. logan can’t pinpoint why. 

“fine,” logan says. “busy with the nutcracker and everything.”

recital times are usually the busiest times of year for roman; with friday, saturday, and sunday night performances, plus matinees on the weekends, and special exhibitions, in addition to rehearsals and his usual schedule of teaching and school and extracurriculars, his and roman’s hang-out times usually turn into roman curling up on logan’s lap or leaning against logan’s shoulder, having fallen asleep, even and especially when he tries not to, just because of the amount of effort he’s putting in on a daily basis. this year, as sugar plum cavalier—essentially the male lead role, with the most complex technical performance aspects to go with that—it’s surged to a nearly absurd level.

“yeah?” patton says. “nothing... else?”

logan frowns at him. “no? should there be?”

“i dunno, should there?” patton tries to volley back, and logan narrows his eyes at him.

“why are you being weird?”

“huh, i’m being weird?” patton says. “must be the pneumonia.”

“you’re going to use that excuse for as long as you can, aren’t you?” logan asks, resigned. but logan knows full well that him using that excuse is a good thing—his dad never actually complains when he’s sick, so if he’s using being sick as an excuse, he must be feeling better.

“i have pneumonia, so that probably means you’re going to have to pick up on the chores,” patton says, and logan scowls at him.

“finals, dad.”

“huh, already?” patton asks, looking surprised.

“it’s after thanksgiving break,” logan says, refusing to acknowledge that he also almost forgot about finals.

“so the house will be in a shambles, got it,” patton says. 

“actually,” logan says slowly, “not necessarily.”

patton blinks at him.

“virgil asked me if i would be okay with him staying over to make sure you stay healthy and that you recover okay,” logan says, and patton looks the most startled he’s looked since logan walked into the hospital room.

“oh,” patton says, and then he repeats, “oh,” slightly squeakier. he fidgets with the sleeves of virgil’s hoodie, seems to remember that it’s virgil’s, and abruptly stops.

“i think you should say yes,” logan says. 

“i—oh,” patton says. “really?”

“really,” logan confirms. “i’m going to be at school, and you’re still sick, and virgil always looks after you when you’re sick, anyway. it follows that with a more serious illness, he’d watch you more closely.”

“but, like,” patton says, and his cheeks go pink. “stay over stay over?”

logan rolls his eyes. “i’m sure he’ll insist on sleeping on the couch to prevent yourselves from falling into the bed-sharing cliché, but yes, dad, stay over stay over.”

patton swats him.

“you’re terrible at remembering to take any medicine,” logan continues with his reasoning, “and it’s—well, like i said, finals. the first set of finals at chilton.”

“you’re gonna do great,” patton says firmly, but logan shakes that off.

“because i’ll be studying for them,” he says. “and i’ll be at school for most of the day anyway, so—”

“you could just say that you’re worried,” patton says, and logan says, “virgil is,” and patton sombers.

“he—you know, found you,” logan says. “you realize that’s, like, his worst nightmare.”

“i know,” patton says, and nibbles at his lip. “i actually have a good excuse for not calling.”

“i know, i saw,” logan says dryly. “it’s in your room, in case you need proof.”

“oh, good, i guess,” patton says. he bites his lip more. “i should talk to him about that, huh?”

“you really should,” logan says. “while he stays over.”

“all right, all right, i’m convinced,” patton says. “if it’ll make you both feel better.”

“it’ll make virgil feel better,” he says, avoiding that.

“what’ll make me feel better?” virgil asks, from the doorway. logan turns so he can see his face.

“dad just agreed to your plan of staying over,” he says.

“oh,” virgil says, strangled. he’s gone red. “um. great. mei’s on her way with the wheelchair, she was just behind me, i’ve got—” he lifts a little white paper bag and shakes it, so the sound of pills clacking against plastic is clear. 

“good,” patton says.

“so,” virgil says. “i, um. i packed a bag, it’s in my trunk, so. we’ll just... go to your house, i guess.”

“right,” patton says. “um. good.”

“beep beep,” mei chirps from behind virgil, breaking through the awkwardness in the air, and virgil hastily steps aside so that mei can wheel the wheelchair by patton’s bedside.

“right, then, i’ll pull up the car,” virgil says. “the main front loop okay?”

“that’s the one,” mei says, and virgil departs as mei offers her hands for patton. patton, smiling but clearly trying not fidget, takes them and settles in the wheelchair uncomfortably.

it’ll be for less than five minutes, logan wants to say, but—he gets it. patton can clearly walk under his own power. the extent of the fussing patton’s undergone in the past few days must feel stifling by now.

logan falls into step beside mei as she slowly wheels patton down the hall, out of the hospital room, and out of the hospital, and logan watches as patton takes a deep lungful of fresh, wintry air, and he doesn’t cough, because he can do that now, because he can breathe, because he’s recovering and he’s okay.

virgil pulls up right as mei wheels patton onto the sidewalk, and logan steps forward to open the door. patton stands up before mei can help him, and slides into the front seat.

“get well soon,” mei says warmly.

patton smiles at her as logan opens his own car door. 

“i’m going tibia okay.”

“actually, i’m getting a cab home,” logan says, and virgil laughs.

“get in the car, kid,” he says, and logan is sure to heave his biggest sigh before he slides into the car, too.

...

as soon as they’re home, logan makes an excuse to go to the courant—probably to pull overtime before all his priorities are taken over by finals studying mode—and patton gives him a hug before he goes, and it’s kind of a sign of how much the hospital stay upset him that he permits it with minimal squirming.

virgil, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, waits as patton unlocks the door to his house, and opens it.

someone’s cleaned the living room—they’ve actually vacuumed, so it’s not logan, because that’s his least favorite chore—and patton inhales the scent of the lavender air freshener he’s got stashed in various cupboards around the house and lets it out in a big sigh, happy that he can, one, breathe through his nose, and two, breathe deeply without erupting into coughs as often anymore.

“good to be home?” virgil asks softly, and patton turns to him, smiling.

“yeah,” he says. “yeah, it really is.”

virgil smiles, too. just a little, just around the edges, and it worries patton that he still looks worried, now, even when he’s home. virgil’s looked worried the whole time patton’s been in the hospital, which patton guesses is fair, but. he was hoping it would decrease a little now.

“good.”

and now it’s just them. well, it’s been just them a number of times over the past few days, but now it’s just them without a risk of a nurse or a doctor or, god forbid, his mother walking into the room in the middle of an emotional moment. now it’s truly just them.

patton bites his lip, just a little, and says softly, “we should probably talk, huh?”

“uh,” virgil says, and turns to the couch, dropping his duffle bag. “sure. i, um, figured i could sleep on the couch, but i wasn’t sure if you wanted to set up shop here during the day, we could figure out something with the loveseat so—”

“that’s not what i meant,” patton says softly. virgil’s back is still to him, so it’s all the easier to see the way he tenses up. and how much more he tenses up when patton can’t quite stifle an inconvenient cough.

“virge,” patton says, quiet, and walks a little closer. virgil’s still so tense. “i know that must have been really scary, hon.”

he tentatively wraps an arm over virgil’s shoulders and puts the other on virgil’s chest, stepping his way between virgil and the couch, so that he can see half of virgil’s face, the tightness of his jaw, the bags under his eyes, the way his eyes close, as if patton’s done something that’s pained him.

“i’m really sorry,” patton whispers, looking up at him.

“god, patton,” virgil exhales, and his eyes open. “you don’t have to apologize for being sick.”

“that’s not what i’m apologizing for,” patton starts.

“yes, you are,” virgil says wearily. “at least a little. you were sick, patton. really, seriously sick. i should have—”

virgil chokes up, which means that now patton is choking up, and patton’s already shaking his head when virgil says, voice thick, “i should have known better. i never should have left you like that.”

“virgil,” patton murmurs, “virgil—”

because virgil’s squeezing his eyes shut and bowing his head and he breathes in a shaky little gasp, and oh god, patton thinks, virgil’s about to cry. not his virgil, not his gruff mother hen of a diner owner, if virgil starts crying it’ll be because of patton, and he doesn’t want virgil to hurt because of him, not ever.

“virgil,” he whispers, and something delicate inside of him cracks open at seeing virgil like this. “oh, virgil, darling, please don’t—”

patton slowly worms his way into virgil’s space, gently pushes virgil sit on the couch before he sits, too, and he hugs virgil close, and curls his fingers into the the hairs near the nape of virgil’s neck. 

“don’t cry, virge, please,” patton murmurs. 

“i left,” virgil repeats, voice quiet, and heartbroken, and patton feels him bury his face into patton’s shoulder, at the purple patch of plaid that virgil himself stitched.

“i told you to go,” patton whispers, strokes through his hair once, twice. “virgil, sweetheart—”

“patton,” he whispers back. “your fever was so high that you didn’t know who i was, for a few seconds.”

“v,” patton murmurs, and presses his lips against virgil’s hair, just for a moment. that delicate something’s opened even wider, making him vulnerable, and wanting to keep virgil close until it seals right back up again.

“if i didn’t go—“

“i told you to go,” patton repeats. “i wanted you to go, virgil, i wanted you to see your family. there was no way to tell that i would have gotten that bad that fast.”

“i should have insisted you go to a doctor,” virgil mumbles. patton smiles.

“when’s that worked in the past sixteen years of seeing me when i’m sick?” he chides virgil. 

a pause. then, sulky: “never.”

“that’s right,” patton agrees. “never. neither of us had any way of knowing i’d get that bad. i’m really sorry that you had to—”

“don’t you dare finish that sentence with i’m really sorry you had to see that,” virgil says, pulling his face from patton’s shoulder. patton falls obediently silent.

“it’s just,” virgil says, and takes a breath in before letting it out in a short stream, directed at his bangs. “i dunno. like you said. sixteen years of seeing you when you’re sick, and the one time i leave—”

“virgil,” patton cuts in, fond and exasperated and still hurting for virgil who’s hurting for him, like some kind of weird cycle of hurting that patton would like to stop now, “please don’t tell me you’ve been convincing yourself that somehow, the pneumonia bacteria sensed that you were gone for less than twenty-four hours and set in because you left.”

“no,” virgil says unconvincingly, and patton leans back even further to direct that fondly exasperated look at him, and virgil smiles, just a little, but it’s enough to make patton want to cheer.

“no,” virgil repeats, firmer. “it’s just—” he sighs, and says, softer, “if i hadn’t left, i’d have been able to see how bad you were getting and gotten you some kind of medical care before four days in the hospital was necessary.”

“it was really more like three and a half, since i got there thursday night and left monday morning-ish,” patton muses, and now it’s virgil’s turn to look fondly exasperated right back at him.

“patton,” virgil says, and takes a deep breath in, before he says, “you promised you’d call.”

patton chews his lip, and offers timidly, “would you believe me if i told you there was a really good reason i didn’t call?”

virgil sighs. “what reason would that be?”

patton rolls off the couch, goes to his room, where logan said it was, and sheepishly comes back with his phone in his hands.

his two separate halves of his cellphone, in his two separate hands. virgil closes his eyes at the sight of them, and presses his lips together.

“patton,” he says, measured, and patton could swear it’s the tone he uses when he doesn’t want to laugh. “what. did you do.”

“so,” patton says, setting the phone halves in virgil’s hands, “turns out phones really aren’t any help when you trip over your own blankets you discarded from your blanket nest because they got too sweaty. who knew?”

“you have a heavy-duty case,” virgil says mournfully, weighing the halves of what was once patton’s cellphone in his hands, “for this exact reason.”

“—i know, i know, but i really wanted to clean it because i’d sneezed all kinds of mucus on it and it was getting super levels of germy-gross,” patton says. “so of course, right as i left the case by the sink and went to get a dish towel from the laundry to dry it off—”

“you tripped, fell, and broke your phone in half?!”

“yep,” patton says. “and i know your next question is about the—“

“your landline.”

“—yeah, the landline,” patton continues, “and to be fair, if you go to your apartment and check your voicemail on your landline, you will have a message from me, feverishly mumbling about how i’m not feeling that great, but theeen—”

patton grabs his (truly ancient and dusty) address book, and flips it open.

“—i realized i’ve only got your old number before you had to change it because you switched services, so—”

“you don’t have my cellphone number written down anywhere else?” virgil asks, pained.

patton helpfully picks up the halves of his phone and shakes them at virgil. “i didn’t think i had to, don’t you know what year it is?”

virgil pinches the bridge of his nose, before picks up a pen, scrawls on the corner in circular scribbles to get the ink flowing again, before striking out his old number and writing down his new one in his spiky, slashy print.

“thanks,” patton chirps, snapping the address book shut with a puff of dust and setting it aside.

“okay,” virgil says grudgingly. “okay. those are pretty good reasons.”

patton looks at him hopefully. “so you’re not mad at me anymore?”

virgil looks confused. “i was never mad at you.”

“oh,” patton says, and smiles. “good.”

a beat of silence, before patton adds, “and you’re not upset at yourself anymore either, right?”

there’s another beat of silence. a too-long beat of silence. patton draws back to stare at him, with his best Dad Look.

“virgil,” he says, “you’re not upset at yourself anymore either, right?”

“n...no...?” virgil tries, before he wavers and slumps. 

patton sighs, and decides screw it, and says, “is it okay if i sit a bit closer?”

“um, sure?” virgil says.

“here okay?” patton asks, patting virgil’s thigh, and virgil flushes.

“um? sure?” virgil says, higher-pitched.

so patton squirms into virgil’s lap, and wraps his arms around virgil’s neck, so that virgil’s looking right at him, staring directly into his face.

“okay, think about it like this,” he begins pragmatically. “aren’t you upset with logan, too?”

virgil frowns. “why would i be upset with logan?”

“well, if logan was home, he would have been able to see that i was getting sicker,” patton says innocently. 

"that’s not his fault,” he says indignantly. patton arches his eyebrows at him. virgil immediately looks sheepish. 

“oh.”

“right,” patton says patiently, and runs his fingers through virgil’s hair. “so. if it’s not his fault, then...?”

“it’s not mine either,” virgil mutters, and patton boops virgil’s nose, because it makes him smile grudgingly. his mouth opens, just for a moment (virgil thinks, wildly, i’m happy you’re here, or i’m happy you’re okay, or you’re better now and i thought i might lose you you can’t do that to me before i tell you i’m in love with you) and patton wraps his arm back around virgil’s neck, and snuggles into his chest with a yawn.

“wanna watch a movie or something?” he murmurs.

virgil, hesitantly, leans his cheek against patton’s hair, and patton smiles.

“yeah,” virgil murmurs. “yeah, let’s watch a movie.”

when logan comes home from the courant, it’s to virgil getting up from the couch carefully, with patton cradled in his arms, and logan must make some kind of smug face at him because virgil mutters “not a fucking word” out of the corner of his mouth as he climbs the stairs to tuck his dad into bed.

(Logan Sanders: Roman, Virgil has been staying at my house for less than five hours and I already have one instance of me seeing evidence of them cuddling, complete with my dad falling asleep on Virgil and Virgil carrying him to bed. 

Roman Prince: omg they’re so gay and so dumb

Logan Sanders: I bet you $5 that they’ll get their act together by the winter festival.

Roman Prince: u know what i’ll take that bet!!! but i’m upping it to milkshakes at lucy’s not just $5

Logan Sanders: Deal.)

...

“okay, so. tissues, check, trash can, check, you’ve taken your antibiotics...”

“check,” patton agrees sleepily, the only light in the room the lamp on his bedside table, shedding soft light onto virgil’s face, which is thrown into shadows because of the way he’s standing now, checking to make sure that the bottle of water on his bedside table is full.

“i’m good, v,” he insists quietly, and virgil nods, setting the water bottle back down.

“if you start feeling gross, you’ll come downstairs and wake me up, yeah?” virgil asks.

patton frowns. “you really don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

virgil shrugs. “it’s a comfy couch.”

“you could,” patton says, and takes a breath, before he suggests, “we could share?”

“i—oh,” virgil says. “um. you really don’t have to if you don’t—”

“i’m offering, aren’t i?” patton says, and pats the other side of the bed. “it’s a pretty big mattress, and pretty comfy, if i do say so myself.”

virgil hesitates. patton does, too, before he goes in with something that he knows will make virgil want to stay.

“it’d probably be easier to keep a closer eye on me if you’re, you know,” he says, and pats the other pillows again. “close.”

“i,” virgil says, wavering, and then, “i mean—“

“virgil,” patton says, soft, and leans forward, making his eyes and his voice soft and beseeching. “i want you to stay.”

virgil bites his lip, before he says, “are you sure?”

“i’m asking,” patton repeats, but lies down and tugs the blankets up over himself anyway. “you don’t have to sleep on my couch to respect my virtue, or whatever, i don’t have any of that left, i’m an unmarried single trans father.”

"it’s not about virtue, what is this, the 1800s?” virgil says with a shake of his head. 

“why, mistah danes, i do declare,” patton murmurs in his best southern belle impression, and virgil laughs, just a little.

“not about virtue,” virgil repeats. “it’s about—”

patton waits, staring at him, and virgil falters, shuts his mouth.

”you know what, forget it.” he says, and patton brightens.

“so you’ll stay?”

“well, in a bit,” virgil says, plucking at the denim of his jeans. “don’t wait up, i’m gonna change into my pajamas, and, you know. get ready for bed.”

“no staying on the couch because you think i’ve fallen asleep,” patton calls after him, as he retreats.

virgil doesn’t.

patton’s eyes are closed, about to drift into sleep, when he hears the door open, footsteps plod closer, a soft sigh, and then the click of his lamp shutting off.

“sleep well, patton,” virgil murmurs, and patton nearly jolts out of bed in surprise when dry lips touch his forehead.

“oh, god,” virgil says, and patton opens his eyes. “oh, god, you weren’t asleep. oh my god it makes it so much creepier that i did that when i thought you were sleeping—”

patton reaches out and catches virgil’s wrist in his hand before he can panic himself right down to the couch.

“come to bed,” he says, a laugh in his voice. 

“but i—”

“v, it was sweet,” patton says, and, rolling his eyes, tugs at virgil’s wrist. “c’mere.”

virgil, grudgingly, steps closer. patton’s eyes are adjusting to the dark, not, so he can see that virgil’s more red than usual.

patton sits up, and presses his lips against virgil’s cheek. it’s very warm, and virgil’s skin is very soft. patton lingers for a moment before flopping back against the pillows and letting go of virgil’s wrist.

“there,” he says. “we’re even. you can get in without freaking out, now.”

“what,” virgil says, voice strained. “what—”

“well, i gave you a surprise kiss, you gave me a surprise kiss,” patton says, and wiggles under the covers, getting comfy again. “now we can sleep together.”

patton can feel the embarrassment coming off of virgil, which confuses him, at first, until he mentally rewinds what he just said.

“not like that!” he squeaks, feeling himself go pink. “oh, my gosh, you know what i mean, just—just get in the bed before either of us makes a bigger fool of ourselves, okay?”

“okay,” virgil says, “okay, fine,” and then he walks to the other side and patton feels the mattress dip, and some cool air rush under the covers, and then virgil squirms a little to get comfortable too.

“good night, virgil,” patton murmurs.

“yeah,” virgil murmurs back. “yeah, good night, pat.”

patton wakes up and immediately decides that he does not want to be awake. he makes a noise of complaint, trying to hide his face from the morning light, pressing his face closer into his pillow.

the pillow moves. that’s weird, patton’s pillow doesn’t usually oh that’s not his pillow.

“hey,” virgil’s voice rumbles, which he can feel from where he’s pressed all against virgil’s back, and patton makes some kind of noise that makes it sound like he’s dying.

“sorry, i didn’t mean to wake you up,” virgil continues, and patton shivers, because virgil’s already-deep voice is somehow even deeper from sleep. “i was just gonna make some hot cocoa/coffee and stop in at the diner for a shift, i figured you’d probably sleep through it.”

“oh,” patton murmurs. “yeah, okay, that sounds good. you should do that.”

there’s a long pause.

“you kind of have to let go of me so i can do that, though.”

“oh,” patton murmurs, and does, scowling a little as virgil and thereby virgil’s warmth leaves, before he claims virgil’s abandoned blankets, wrapping them around himself.

“i’ll be back later, okay?” virgil says. "if you wanna go back to sleep.”

“no, no,” patton sighs, and cracks open his eyes. “i should eat breakfast.”

“yeah, you should,” virgil says, and patton squints at him. he doesn’t have his glasses, so he’s a bit blurry, but patton can see virgil, smiling down at him all soft around the edges, ignited by the morning sun, hair falling into his eyes, and he’s so gosh darn pretty that patton feels a little faint.

“i’ll make pancakes,” virgil says, soft. “welcome-home breakfast.”

patton smiles up at him. “you’re amazing.”

“i think you even have the ingredients for me to make your favorite,” virgil says. 

patton actually sits up, so excited by the reintroduction of hot cocoa/coffee back into his life after a week of no caffeine that he doesn’t think he could fall back asleep now if he tried. “really?!”

“one cup,” virgil says. “that is it. you are having one cup.”

“virgil, you’re the best,” patton declares, beaming, and virgil ducks his head, all aw shucks about it.

“i’ll get ready,” virgil mutters, and excuses himself, and patton flops back onto his pillows for a second, smiling.

the smile doesn’t go away by the time he sits down at the kitchen table to a stack of pancakes so tall that wavers a little, threatening to topple because of its height. it doesn’t go away when logan, nose in his history notes, sits down at the breakfast table.

he does, however, have to fight his flush when logan looks at him knowingly over the rim of his coffee mug, and he has to whisper, “do not say a word, or i swear,” as virgil’s flipping pancakes onto a plate for logan. logan only takes a long sip of hot cocoa/coffee that doesn’t quite hide the smirk on his face.

(Logan Sanders: The couch has not been slept on and Dad’s blushing a lot at his hot cocoa/coffee this morning.

Roman Prince: NO FUCKING WAY THEY SHARED A BED????

Logan Sanders: I’m beginning to regret a bet that involves my father’s love life.

Roman Prince: too late u have to keep me updated

Logan Sanders: Obviously.)

...

“i’m bored, and it’s your job to entertain me,” patton says into his brand-spanking-new cellphone, to answer the question of not that it’s not nice to hear from you, but, umm...?

a familiar sigh, before, “well, you’re pulling me away from the thrilling job of trying to find a paycheck, so by all means.”

patton grimaces in sympathy, flopping to lie down on the floor, and chancing a glance at the still-sleeping virgil on the couch above him of the corner of his eye, keeping his grip on virgil’s hand. virgil had fallen asleep holding hands with him, which put all kinds of butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and—

okay, sure, he’s definitely glad that virgil’s getting some (much needed!) rest, after his morning shift at the diner and patton’s first real Public Outing since he got in the hospital to get a new cellphone, which was mostly virgil driving him to the store, buying it, and bringing him in to activate it but driving him home before patton can really stretch his legs, and he’s just. he’s really, really bored. he’s been on some level of bedrest for the past week, almost, if you count the day he got worse before he got admitted to the hospital, and he’s very ready to be done with it all.

“i’m really sorry, c,” patton says gently, tucking his phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he’s got a free hand. “i know you thought that you had the one when you came up to visit.”

“the one to be gone by thanksgiving, sure,” christopher says, and huffs out a sigh. “anyway. you’re all home now, back from the hospital?”

patton’s grimace deepens. “which parent of mine ratted me out?”

“which child, actually,” christopher corrects. “logan and i were texting on friday.”

patton’s grimace is entirely erased. “texting, huh?”

“i led in with the strong opener of how was thanksgiving? did you beat our food stealing record? and logan hit back with the even stronger response of dad is in the hospital with pneumonia, so by all accounts, it was a substandard holiday.”

patton stifles his snort against his hand. 

“but you’re okay now?” christopher asks.

patton shrugs, even though chris can’t see it. “on the mend, i guess. way better than i was,” he adds, “but i’m still taking antibiotics and stuff.”

a pause, and then, “do you want me to come up there to help you out?”

patton presses his hand against his smile. “that’s sweet, chris, but no. especially if you’re, well. searching for a paycheck. airfare or gas money or however you’d be getting here is expensive.”

“true,” christopher mutters.

“just,” patton says. “oh, i don’t know, save up for a christmas visit, maybe, or easter. or we could come to you, it’s been a while since logan’s been to california. we could brainstorm a list of things to do.”

“or you could,” christopher says. “later, though, to help save you from boredom.”

patton nods, mentally adding it to a list of things he’s able to do on bedrest, which thus far consists mostly of “watching things” and “playing games on his phone,” so. planning a potential future trip wouldn’t be too bad.

“bedrest,” patton informs christopher, who has been fortunate enough to never have a medical procedure more invasive than a pulled tooth, “is the worst.”

“ahhh, bedrest,” christopher says, Getting It. “now i see why you’re so bored.”

patton breathes a sigh of relief. it’s true, he likes a lazy day as much as anyone else. it’s just really different to have a lazy day because you choose to have a lazy day, rather than have a lazy day be forced upon you because your stupid lungs decided to get infected, somehow.

“yeahh,” patton says. “and virgil’s staying over, but he’s asleep, and—”

“the diner man?” christopher teases.

patton rolls his eyes. “yes, the diner man, he’s over and he’s been entertaining me for most of the day and for yesterday and for most of the time in the hospital, too, but he’s sleeping and i’m dying of boredom, biscuit, dying.”

“all right, well,” christopher says. “how can i help?”

“i dunno, just talk,” patton says. “things you’ve been doing lately, stuff you’ve been watching, the latest weird craze that’s taken over that i’m sure will trickle back to sideshire in a few months.”

"oh, hey, i actually did wanna ask,” christopher begins, and adds, tentative, “you know the stuff logan’s read and the books he’s got, right?”

“i can take a look on at his bookshelves and the various stacks he keeps around his room, because our son is a hoarder but he hoards one very specific thing,” patton tells him. “why?”

“uh,” christopher says. “well, i’ve been—okay, i, um. i know you’d hinted at it before, so it wasn’t, like, an out-of-the-blue surprise, but i didn’t know logan was gay for sure for sure until he said something when i visited, so i just—i don’t wanna be my dad to him, you know, and i think i’m pretty okay with being nice about that kind of thing, but i wanna be there for him, like i said, and i wanna be here for him with all of this too, so i’ve been reading some stuff, and watching things, and—d’you know if logan’s seen love, simon?”

patton presses his lips together, and then he has to press his hand against his chest for a moment, suddenly and absurdly tearing up.

of course logan’s seen love, simon. he’s read simon vs. the homo sapiens agenda, and the upside of unrequited, and leah on the offbeat. logan’s devoured just about every book directed at gay teens, or gay people, generally, and he’s branched out to media directed at gay people accordingly. love, simon is one of roman’s rom-com picks for a sleepover movie that logan’s actually agreed with him picking. he and roman had a simon vs. the homo sapiens agenda book club when they first realized its existence. logan’s reread the book often enough that patton kind of suspects it might be becoming a comfort book, for him, the way his agatha christie boxset is. 

and i think i’m pretty okay with being nice about that kind of thing, but i wanna be there for him, like i said, and i wanna be here for him with all of this too, rings in his ears, and god, patton is so so happy that chris is stepping up to being a dad like this, by trying to figure out something logan likes so that he can talk about it with him and bond over it. patton’s so happy.

patton swallows and squeezes virgil’s hand, just a little, feels a little spasm that’s like virgil’s squeezing back in his sleep. his heart feels like it’s three thousand times too big.

“yeah,” he says softly. “yeah, logan’s seen love, simon. he really likes that movie. i think it’s one of the only rom-coms he actually likes.”

“oh,” christopher exhales. “cool. good. um, i was wondering if he—i know it’s based on a book, originally, right? i was wondering if i could send it to him. just as a little, you know, thinking about you, i hope you like it present, because—because he likes books, right, and, you know, he’s gay, so i figured that would be good, but i don’t wanna send it if he already has it.”

nope, there go patton’s emotions. christopher wants to send logan a present. an actually very thoughtful, sweet present, based on things that logan identifies with, and things that logan likes, and so patton might be crying a little, but it’s in addition to the week he’s had, so leave him alone, okay?

“he has it,” patton admits.

“oh,” chris says.

“but you should, um. you should definitely tell him that you watched the movie, and maybe you could read it too? logan really likes rambling about the books he likes. and hey, he’s got tons of books on his to-read list, like, um, aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe, or ash by malinda lo, or the star host. those all have gay teens, too, so maybe you could send one of those instead?”

“oh,” chris says, sounding a bit brighter, a bit relieved. “okay, cool, um—could you say all those again?”

patton does, and chris repeats them back to make sure he’s got them right, before he says, “guess i’ve got a to-read list now too, huh?”

patton thinks abruptly of chris at sixteen, loudly complaining about reading and disdainfully pitching books across the room and finding some version of sparknotes for every book they were assigned in english and looking forward to the day he’d graduate and never be forced to read again, but since his son is passionate about reading he’s giving it another try, and nope, patton’s crying again, here we go—

a pause.

“are you crying?!” chris asks, baffled.

“shut up!” patton blubbers into the phone. 

“i just said i was going to read something, roo, are you seriously—?”

“i said shut up!” patton sniffles, and darts a glance over to virgil to make sure he hasn’t woken up, running a thumb over his knuckles when he sees that he hasn’t. “it’s been a long week, okay, and it—it means so much that you’re doing all this to be here for logan, to be a good dad to him, and to show him that you support him, it just—”

“um,” christopher says. “about that.”

“yeah?” patton asks, wiping off his face.

christopher takes a deep breath, and then he takes on a weirdly formal tone. 

“so, i know that, um, as a... straight cis white man, with a lot of privilege considering, you know, the fact that i was born into a pretty wealthy family, i recognize that, um, when we were teenagers, i was kind of, you know. an asshole. and i know that i haven’t, um. been as good a friend as i could have been, or boyfriend, back then, i guess, or whatever we were—”

yeah, they’d never quite figured out what they were in the few months they were together, the vast majority of them overtaken by the “oh fuck oh god oh shit we’re having a baby, we’re sixteen, whaT ARE WE GONNA DO” panic that had been the vast majority of patton’s first trimester (and honestly, the first year of logan’s life, but most of that had been a solo endeavor.)

“—and i, um. i really haven’t been over the past few years? i know being a teenager and not getting it is, like, only kind of an excuse, but i just, um. i wanted to apologize for not being as good of a friend to you back then as you were to me—”

“chris,” patton says, choking up again.

“—which i’m, um. i’m working to understand that—to understand you—a little more, patton, i swear i am. so. i just wanted you to know that i’m sorry for being, well. kind of a dick.”

is it apologize-to-patton-week or something? patton thinks, dazed, and he swallows hard so he’ll be able to talk.

“i really appreciate you saying that, c,” patton says softly. “and you weren’t a—well, you weren’t a butt, okay? we were young, and it wasn’t as well-known then as it is now, and better late than never—”

“i’m supposed to be the one making excuses for me, so stop,” christopher says, amused. “and, um. okay, so, i looked on the internet, and let me tell you i’ve never felt quite as old as i did when i was digging into stuff there—”

“oh, god,” patton chokes out, somehow both laughing and crying, only imagining what christopher could have found.

“but, um, apparently there’s something i’m supposed to say to, you know, communicate support or whatever, so here we go,” christopher says, and then, with the distinct tone of someone reading off a flashcard, “trans rights?”

patton laughs so hard that he wakes virgil up.

(Logan Sanders: Apparently, my other father called dad today to apologize for not being as good of an LGBTQIA+ ally as he could have been.

Roman Prince: yeah??? how’d it go??

Logan Sanders: He said, and I quote, “trans rights.”

Roman Prince: TRANS RIGHTS BABEY!!!!!!!!)

...

“aren’t you gonna come up?”

“oh. i thought it, um. i thought it was more of a one-night kind of thing.”

“well, i mean, it can if you want it to be. but i did offer my bed to you, and i mean. you said you were planning on staying until winter fest, right?”

“right.”

“and that’s... counting tonight, two whole night’s worth of sleep away. you can’t seriously tell me that you sleep better on my couch than you did in the bed.”

“well, no.”

“okay. so. you could stay down here, if you want, but. i mean. i’d go for the better night of sleep, if i were you.”

“i just—are you sure?”

“yeah, v, i’m sure. i’m really, really sure. unless it made you uncomfortable?”

“no! no, it’s not—“

“—because if it made you uncomfortable, of course you can stay on the couch, i don’t mean to guilt you into it or anything, it’s just—“

“no. no, no, no. no. patton, i wasn’t, um. i wasn’t uncomfortable.”

“oh. good! um, good. i was just—i dunno. i was worried i made you uncomfortable. i kind of get close and attach myself to the nearest warm thing in my sleep, i guess.”

“no, no, that—um, that happens. i get it. i didn’t—it was—well, i mean, it was, y’know. nice.”

“oh. i... i thought so too.”

“i just—you know.”

“...what?”

“you know. it’s because we’re...”

“...yeah?”

“we—um. actually, i, um. ahem. it’s, uh. i wasn’t sure about waking you up again. i figured i’d go to the diner in the morning to make sure that everything’s, you know. going okay.���

“...oh.”

“so i figured i’d just. you know. stay down here.”

“you don’t have to stay down here. i’d really be okay if we—um. if we took the extra step and we... went upstairs. together.”

“it’s just that, um. it’s just that i’m nervous about—about waking you up, or messing up your sleep schedule. somehow.”

“but you sleep better, when you’re with me. and i sleep better when i’m with you.”

“well, i mean. we experienced that, sure, but i just—”

“virgil.”

“yeah?”

“do you trust me?”

“of course. god, of course i do, patton, i just—”

“okay, so, trust me. what’s the worst that can happen? i drool on you and steal your blankets? you snore a bit too loud and oversleep?”

“...yeah, okay. i, um. i guess you’re right.”

“i know i’m right.”

“yeah, yeah, okay. don’t be too smug, i’m coming.”

(in the morning, patton will wake up to a snore directly into his ear, and try his hardest not to giggle loud enough that he’ll wake virgil. virgil wakes up to a back-to-sleep patton, and, fresh from the shower, will hesitate before he drops a kiss on patton’s head, thinking he was asleep that time and he wouldn’t notice (patton noticed.))

(Logan Sanders: I cannot believe that, ostensibly, my dad has for the second night in a row convinced Virgil to come upstairs and sleep in the same bed.

Roman Prince: 1. you are the only nerd who’d use the word “ostensibly” in a text Roman Prince: 2. why are you up this late you better not be studying for finals already we pull an all-nighter the night before and die like men Roman Prince: 3. i cannot fucking believe them

Logan Sanders: I hope you’ve saved up enough of your allowance for my victory milkshakes.

Roman Prince: wait milkshakeS????? Roman Prince: we never specified PLURAL milkshakes, cable news nerdwork

Logan Sanders: Getting nervous, are you?

Roman Prince: i can’t believe u just tried to “scared, potter?” me u absolute dweeb

Logan Prince: So, you aren’t?

Roman Prince: ...you wish)

...

patton’s getting better, which relieves virgil more than anything in the world.

he coughs a little, sure, but it’s nowhere near the horrible, wheezing things he did the night virgil found him. he doesn’t have a fever anymore. he’s only a little achy, or so he tells virgil.

he’s just. he’s doing good. he’s taking medicine, he’s out of the hospital, he’s doing better.

honestly, finding patton in the hospital was the last unpleasant surprise he needed for the rest of his life. as far as he’s concerned, nothing else should change, thanks. he does well when things stay the same. when things are normal.

and things are getting back to normal.

sure, it’s a little weird that virgil’s sleeping over at patton’s house for so long. and sure, it’s a lot weird, the sleeping-in-patton’s-bed thing, but it’s not—bad. it is the exact opposite of bad. but that’s it, in terms of changes. nothing else. that was a big enough step for him, and now he just—he just can settle back into work, and so can patton, and everything will be normal again.

or so virgil hopes.

change isn’t exactly good for him. when he knows what to expect, he knows what to worry about—he knows how to channel his anxiety into something productive, he knows what’s ludicrous to worry about, he knows what might be a thing to keep his eye on. it’s routine. basically one of the first mental health tips anyone gives anyone is establish a routine. he’s maybe taken that a bit too much to heart, but sue him, it helps, okay? he likes routines. it’s normal. 

for instance:

virgil’s back to working at least morning shifts at the diner. he’d taken off abruptly to keep patton company at his bedside, and it’s good to see his workers, his regulars, to deal with the trials and tribulations of the kitchen that he’s been dealing with for sixteen years as owner, as long as he can remember staffing the family diner since he was a kid.

virgil’s back to, occasionally, taking breaks in his apartment. sure, the first night in the hospital was the only night virgil spent in the hospital, without the threat of the wrath of emily gilmore hanging over the nurse’s heads, plus the whole near-scare thing, so essentially he’d stumble back to his apartment and not do much else than collapse into his bed. now, his workers force him up there, occasionally, to take a shower or grab a book and it’s—nice. to be back in his own space again. not that patton’s house isn’t nice, it’s just—well, it’s just not his, that’s all.

virgil’s back to hanging out with patton in sideshire. it’s almost easy to convince himself everything is okay when they settle in for a movie marathon or patton attempts to wheedle a hot cocoa/coffee out of him via text at the diner. it makes the night that virgil found him seem more and more distant, like a shockingly vivid bad dream.

virgil’s back to attempting to feed the princes—ms. prince always gets riled up and distracted around recital time, and they’re technically neighbors, so he usually kind of takes it upon himself to do the neighborly thing and cal them in the mornings to see if they want something healthy saved in the back that they can pick up after showtime. most of the time, they take him up on it, even if ms. prince squints suspiciously at her meal sometimes like he’s somehow managed to sneak something greasy and unhealthy into her salad and roman’s chicken-and-rice under her nose.

(okay, he got caught sneaking the kid a jam tart, once, seven years ago, isn’t it time to let that go?)

virgil’s back to translating grunts to mean more coffee and eavesdropping on the tables of gossipers that frequent his diner and managing his teenage waitstaff who think it might be fun to see who can balance the most plates on their arms without dropping things and ignoring taylor doose’s pleas to put up more lights for the winter festival, he’s got one strand, thanks, that’s all he’s doing and taylor can deal with it.

he’s missed his diner. he’s missed his apartment. he’s missed routine.

it’s good. everything getting back to normal is so, so good.

(Roman Prince: virgil was whistling when he gave us dinner???

Logan Prince: That’s... unusual.

Roman Prince: yeah i can see why he fucken sucks at whistling lmao)

...

patton turns his nose to the air and takes in a deep inhale. again.

virgil laughs. “you’re acting like a puppy out on a walk, pat.”

“i can’t help it,” patton says gleefully. “fresh air! the outdoors! snow under my boots!” he helpfully hops into it to emphasize the crunch, a little, though the snow’s been rather packed down, due to everyone trodding all over it in the past week, so it’s not quite as satisfying a crunch as it would be in fresh snow. 

“a walk that’s longer than your car to the phone store place!” he adds. “the prospect of hot cocoa/coffee with my lunch!”

“it would be one cup of hot cocoa/coffee, you know that,” virgil huffs, but he’s smiling a little bit, too.

“mm, that’s what you say now,” patton says. “but alas, you are a week out of practice in facing the puppy dog eyes, virgil, and i’ve brought my a game. plus!” he adds eagerly. “plus, you’re eating lunch with me, so you aren’t responsible for giving me my food slash beverages.”

he maybe overemphasizes the plural on beverages.

“yeah, but i’m responsible for their paycheck,” virgil grumbles.

“be nice,” patton scolds, as if he doesn’t know that the inn and the diner are neck-and-neck on online ratings about ‘best local businesses to work at in sideshire,’ as according to logan’s research. 

virgil grumbles a little more, but opens the door to the diner for patton anyway, and he practically skips inside, happily inhaling the scent of fried food, of hot cocoa/coffee, of spices and sweets and all the good things in the world—of virgil’s diner.

patton’s heart feels like a balloon filling with helium, and he turns to virgil, beaming, and virgil’s face is—

virgil’s face is doing a thing. patton’s caught his face doing the thing semi-frequently over the past ten or so years, sure, but since the whole Hospital Fiasco it’s been appearing with enough frequency to make patton feel a little faint, because—because the thing virgil’s face is doing is so soft, and so unbearably tender, and so fond that it kind of makes patton’s insides feel like they’re melting into slush like the snow outside, except much nicer than the grayish, polluted snow—it’s more it’s rainbow-colored snow, and it feels like it’s melting in the same way that really good chocolate melts in your mouth, except with the addition of butterflies, and—

and look, patton’s torso is feeling all kinds of ways, so the thing that virgil’s face is doing should stop, but also not stop ever please??? it’s very confusing, is what’s patton’s saying. 

patton is saved from asking “so what’s the deal with your face, all of a sudden, and will you just stand still so i can take a picture and set it as my homescreen for every electronic device i have and possibly print it out to frame and keep by my bed, please?” by someone calling out his name eagerly.

“derek!” patton says, working to keep his voice sounding just as eager as his part-time worker’s, turning in time to give him a friendly little one-armed hug.

“are you doing better?” derek asks anxiously.

“much, thank you,” patton says graciously. “i should be back to running everything on monday—”

“—from your office, and not running around like you usually do—”

“—sure, but how have things been, up there?” patton asks, unaccountably anxious. it’s the longest he’s gone without going up to the inn in about sixteen years, if he’s remembering all his vacation times right. 

derek looks around, as if to make sure that there are no eavesdroppers (impossible in this town, really) and lowers his voice. “michel’s scary.”

well, that is kind of what patton hired him for, but he’d kind of hoped that he’d toned it down in the past week or so.

“but otherwise,” derek continues, “things have been... well, holiday-hectic, sookie says that’s normal.”

“it is,” patton sighs longingly, already anticipating the paperwork and customer issues that he’ll have waiting for him, and he’s surprised to find that he’s excited for it. kind of unreasonably excited. to get back into the routine of things, to get back to normal. plus holiday guests always provide the best stories.

“i’ll, um, i’ll let you eat lunch,” derek says, and laughs. “my lunch break’s nearly over, anyway.”

“oh, right, school!” patton says, remembering. derek’s a senior, which means he can sign out for lunches at home or, more popularly, at virgil’s. “right, right, get back to it. i’ll see you on monday!”

“bye, mr. sanders!”

patton turns back to virgil, who’s moved to lean over the counter to chat with jean, one of his part-time workers, and his face is back to normal, so. moment broken there, he guesses. he sidles up to virgil’s side, and jean grins, tossing a towel over her shoulder.

“tune out of work mode for once, virgil,” she advises him. “do you need me to drop by menus, or—?”

“you know, it’s been a while since i actually looked at one of those,” virgil says contemplatively. “why not.”

patton tugs him over to a booth, and slides in himself, propping his chin in his hand.

“how is it that, after sixteen years, this is only our second time sitting down to have a meal in the diner properly?”

“huh,” virgil says, oddly contemplative. “yeah, i guess the last time we ate in the diner together when i wasn’t working or back in the kitchen was—”

“the night we met, yeah,” patton says, smiling reminiscently. he reaches over to swat virgil when he flinches.

“you were not that bad,” he admonishes. “how many times have i forgiven you for it?”

“i lost count by logan’s first birthday,” virgil mutters back. “i still—i mean, can you at least let me cringe about what a dick i was?”

patton tilts his head, like he’s thinking about it. “as long as it’s just cringing.”

“yeah, okay, i’m gonna keep apologizing,” virgil says, “expecting me not to is just unrealistic.”

“i’ll wear you down eventually,” patton says, and smiles at jean as she brings by the menus, setting his aside basically immediately.

“you know what you’re getting?” virgil says, curious.

“yeah,” patton says. “a hot cocoa/coffee to start, but for lunch i want lasagna and a water too, please?”

virgil looks at him, softening, and his face is starting to do that thing again.

“you know what,” virgil says decisively, after little more than a cursory look at the menu. “me too. plus a slice of double chocolate fudge layer cake to split.”

patton beams at him. “you remember,” he says, sappy.

“of course i remember,” virgil says. “i have to keep apologizing for it, don’t i?”

“i told you not to,” patton says, mockingly threatening.

“i’ll be right back with that hot cocoa/coffee,” jean says with a little laugh.

they both thank her, and turn back to each other when she goes.

“virge?”

“yeah?” he asks, and patton bites his lip.

“can i ask you something?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “yeah, ‘course. ask away.”

patton bites his lip, again and again, before he cautions, “it’s going to be really out of the blue.”

“well, now i’m nervous,” virgil tries.

“aren’t you always?” patton tries right back, and virgil lets out a laugh that’s more polite than anything.

“that night,” patton says, quiet. “when we met.”

virgil waits. jean drops off their hot cocoa/coffees and wisely withdraws without a word.

when she’s gone, patton says, “i know this isn’t the—the best way to phrase it, just as, you know. as a disclaimer.”

virgil waits.

patton takes a deep breath. “i thought i was making the biggest mistake of my life.”

“i remember,” virgil says. “you said.”

“what did you think of me?” patton asks, soft. “i mean—virgil, i felt like the biggest idiot on earth—“

“hey,” virgil says, quiet but sharp. “c’mon, hey. no, you weren’t.”

“i was a teenager with a screaming baby and i told you i’d just run away from home,” patton says, “where i had rich parents to support me and my son, and—”

“—and classmates who bullied you mercilessly, and a semi-boyfriend who was at best an absent co-parent, and his homophobic and transphobic parents, and parents who told you to your face that they were ashamed of you, and picked at every little decision you made, and who would have overruled you when it came to parenting logan at every turn, you knew that,” virgil says. “patton, you were hurting, of course i didn’t think you were an idiot. i thought you were brave.”

patton feels his face going soft, going touched, and virgil reaches over to cover patton’s hand with his own.

“i did add a disclaimer,” patton tries, but virgil still looks all—concerned.

“what brought this on?” he asks softly. “you haven’t said something like that about yourself in a while.”

patton shrugs, and says, “we missed the usual coming-to-sideshire-anniversary celebration because i was sick, and—and i dunno. i’m thirty-two, it just—i’ve known you for half my life now, you know?”

“oh, god,” virgil says. “half your life, that’s—don’t make me feel old.”

“i know,” patton agrees. “but i just—i dunno. i was thinking, i guess.”

“about what?” virgil prompts gently, and patton isn’t sure who initiates it, but their grip on their hands shift so they’re holding hands, so it’s not just virgil’s hand on top of his.

this is a new development, too, the holding-hands thing. patton likes it. he likes it probably a bit too much. okay, a lot too much. he just squeezes virgil’s hand instead of try to say any of that, though. too much emotion would probably scare virgil off, or at least prod him into overthinking everything he’s ever done with patton.

“everything?” patton says, and tries to articulate it. “i dunno, it’s just—i’m seeing my parents more frequently than i’ve seen them since i was sixteen, and logan’s sixteen, now, and i just got out of the hospital in the most extended stay i’ve had since i had logan, plus the anniversary, so i just—” he huffs a breath. “i dunno. history repeats, i guess, in one way or the other. i’m getting sentimental. nostalgic. one of the two, or some word that’s better for it that logan definitely knows but i don’t, so.”

“that makes sense, i guess,” virgil says, and swipes a thumb over patton’s knuckles. “similar circumstances, same time of year, same people, even if logan’s gained nearly six feet—”

“he needs to stop growing,” patton grumbles, taking on virgil’s usual line. “eating us out of house and home.”

“—and a vocabulary and an attitude to match,” virgil continues, with a wry twist of his mouth. 

patton smiles, fond.

“i knew you weren’t an idiot,” virgil says, and takes patton’s other hand, so he’s holding both of patton’s hands clasped between both of his. “because you were hurting. i knew you weren’t an idiot because you sat me down and told me the whole story. i knew you weren’t an idiot because you seemed surprised that someone wanted to help you. i knew you weren’t an idiot because you seemed even more surprised that i was trying to comfort you, even if i was fucking it up, like, majorly.” 

“you weren’t,” patton murmurs, but virgil continues anyway.

“i knew you weren’t an idiot because when i was being nice to you you seemed like you were waiting for me to start judging you and you got so startled when i didn’t. i knew you weren’t an idiot because it was so clear from the moment i took a few seconds to watch the pair of you together that you adored logan, you loved him with everything you had—still do—and because you were warring so much with a decision that would hurt you and your parents, but you did it because you thought it would be best for him, and best for you, but that was so clearly second to his well-being, for you. i knew you weren’t an idiot because you were somehow saw all the potential logan had when he was a baby, and you knew he needed a clean slate to be able to access it, whatever kind of potential that turned out to be. i knew you weren’t an idiot because you were being an amazing dad, even when logan had barely been in the world for three weeks. so, you know. i was worried about you, yeah. i called maria to make sure someone was waiting up at the inn as soon as you left, yeah. but i never, not for a second, thought you were stupid for running away, patton. never ever ever. okay? and you shouldn’t either.”

“i never knew you called maria,” patton says past the lump in his throat, because—because he doesn’t know what else to say to all that. what on earth can he possibly say to all that?

virgil shrugs a little, embarrassed. 

patton brings his hands—and virgil’s hands which are still cupping his hands, by extension—up to his mouth. he presses his mouth against virgil’s fingers—not a kiss, not quite, but close.

virgil squeezes his hands harder, and leans forward, eyes wide and standing out starkly from the midst of his under-eye bags and his dark makeup.

“i am so proud of you,” he says thickly, and patton squeezes what little hold he has on virgil’s hands in return.

“v,” he manages, choked up.

“i’m serious,” virgil insists. “look at you, pat. you got your ged, and you’re a year away from getting your degree. you have an amazing job. you own a house. your son’s gonna be the valedictorian of the best school in the state. you’ve managed to patch up your relationship with chris, plus your parents at least a little. you’re the nicest, gentlest, sweetest guy, and everyone in town at least respects you if they don’t outright love you.”

patton sniffles, and tries to joke, as if he is not five seconds away from bursting into really embarrassing tears in the middle of the diner because he’s so touched, “not bad for a dropout teen dad, huh?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “not bad at all.”

patton bites his lip, and says, very suddenly, “you made me a promise, that night.”

virgil’s brow creases, and patton can practically see him trying to run through the memory of a conversation sixteen years prior.

“well,” patton amends, “you never actually said the words i promise, but i kind of, um. i kind of took it as one.”

virgil’s confusion clears, and patton smiles.

“did you ever think we’d be—well, i mean, look at us now, right?” patton says, gesturing with all four of their hands. “sixteen years later, same old diner—well, with a fresh coat of paint,” he amends, and virgil snorts.

“same two guys,” patton continues. “but, i mean. did you think we’d be... like this? even now?”

“we’re even better than i ever thought we’d be,” virgil says, and patton smiles back.

“yeah, me too.” he pauses, before he says, “kinda makes you think about the next sixteen years.”

virgil physically shudders, and patton giggles.

“ugh, i’ll be in my fifties, patton,” he says, sounding horrified. “i thought you said you’d stop making me feel old!”

“i mean, you’re already pushing forty,” patton points out, and falls into even more giggles at the offended look on virgil’s face.

“i’m thirty-eight!”

“thirty-nine, nearly,” patton says, a little gleeful. “you’re so old, virgil, gosh.”

virgil bites his lip, before he says, “you’re really up for another sixteen years with me, huh?”

patton smiles. “logan and roman and you are the parts i’m looking forward to the most,” he says. “and—yeah. yeah, i am.”

“and you’re—staying?”

“of course i’m staying,” he says, soft. “i’m staying with you for as long as you’re gonna keep me, virgil.”

“be careful with that,” virgil cautions him softly. “i might just keep you forever.”

“promise?” patton whispers, and untangles one of his hands from virgil’s to offer a pinky.

the corner of virgil’s lip quirks up, and he hooks his pinky with patton’s. 

“promise,” he whispers back. “i’ll be with you any way you’ll have me, pat.”

“be careful with that,” patton repeats, in the barest whisper. “i might just have you.”

virgil’s face starts doing the thing, again, but his eyes are different, this time, and it’s charging the air around them. they’re full of heat, eyes dark and full of promise and wanting, and virgil looks at him through his lashes, serious and soft and—

and not flirty, patton tells himself firmly, flustered despite himself, because virgil certainly wouldn’t be flirting with him like this, right?? right?

but god, it feels like—it feels like a Moment. it feels like something they’ve been building toward. it feels like the last cresting wave before some kind of tension was released, patton feels like a champagne bottle about to pop the cork—

“i trust you to be careful with me more than anyone else,” virgil says. “i’ll keep taking my chances on you.”

patton’s about to say—something. he doesn’t know what. but he’s so full of the Moment, of the way the air itself seems to have changed around them, of the way virgil’s looking at him, one pair of hands held and the other pair with hooked pinkies, and patton has to say something about—the Something. he has to. he doesn’t know what, but here he goes, he’s gonna say it, he’s gonna—

“hot plates coming in, gentlemen,” a voice rings out, and patton could scream, because virgil startles, and the Moment breaks, and all of the building tension recedes away quick as it surged and their hands break apart and patton looks away, clearing his throat, trying for his best polite smile at jean as she sets down their plates of lasagna.

“um, thanks, jean,” virgil says gruffly. “looks great.”

“you two enjoy,” she says, and flits away, and patton picks up his fork with a barely-suppressed sigh.

(Roman Prince: [one image attached] Roman Prince: LOOK AT WHAT MRS. TORRES JUST SENT ME FROM VIRGIL’S WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK Roman Prince: I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT VIRGIL IS LOOKING AT YOUR DAD LIKE HE’S HIS WHOLE WORLD AND PATTON’S LOOKING AT HIM LIKE HE HUNG THE MOON AND THEY’RE  H O L D I N G  H A N D S

Roman Prince: LOGAN STOP BEING AN UPSTANDING STUDENT I HAVE TO YELL AT YOU ABOUT HOW YOUR DADS ARE SO SO GAY

Logan Sanders: Mrs. Torres?

Roman Prince: she’s the worst gossip of the over-55s LOGAN ARE YOU SEEING THIS OH MY GOD

Logan Sanders: Of course I am seeing it, this optometry prescription is in date and I have sufficient wifi to load photos.

Roman Prince: I CANNOT TELL IF YOU ARE FUCKING WITH ME Roman Prince: IF SO LOGAN THOMAS SANDERS I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU Roman Prince: TODAY OF ALL DAYS!!!!! Roman Prince: I ONLY CARE A LITTLE WHO WINS NOW I JUST WANT IT TO H A P P E N  OKAY)

...

“got your coat?”

logan, without looking up from his notebook, where he’s jotting some last-minute notes, plucks at the collar of the coat he’s wearing—the space one that virgil made for his birthday.

“heavier winter one, too?” patton presses, and logan points with his free hand to where it’s laid over a chair, still not looking up. 

“spare pens?” he checks. “phone all charged up?”

“yes, yes,” logan says absently. 

“you’re sure you don’t wanna walk around with virgil and me?”

“i have reporting to do, dad,” logan says, long-suffering. granted, he’s got the vast majority of the story written, based off pre-event interviews with vendors and people with city hall. he mostly needs quotes and a bit of description, to experience it in order to write a properly captivating lead, and he’ll head back to the press to finish the story after the event’s over.

“i know you usually spend the festival with roman.”

logan shrugs, at last snaps his notebook shut. “roman has his performance in the nutcracker, i have reporting to do. it intersects neatly. besides, he said we’d meet up after the show and once i’ve submitted the story. i’ll text you when i think i’ll be home.”

one of the bonuses of having a cool parent—logan didn’t have a formal curfew. he could count on two fingers the amount of times patton had told him to be home by a certain time when he was hanging out with roman, and both times it was because they had something to do in the morning. as long as logan keeps him updated, he’s free to roam.

“hang on, hang on,” patton says, digging around in his pockets before he passes over a twenty. “get yourself dinner and something else—a souvenir, or a knicknack, or whatever catches your eye, okay? just because you’ve got a job to do doesn’t mean you can’t have fun!”

logan accepts the money, tucks it into his pocket, and taps his pen against the cover of his notebook, before absentmindedly tucking it behind his ear as he stands to get his coat. well, his other coat. it had snowed again last night—an inch or two, really, nowhere close to the foot and a half that had stranded him at his grandparents—and it was forecasted to be a cold evening.

“all right,” patton says, and reaches over to squeeze logan’s shoulder briefly. “i’m looking forward to reading the article!”

“i’m going to the press,” he says, and adds, because he knows patton will ask, “i’ll probably get dinner from one of the stalls, or something.”

“virgil’s running one, this year, but not virgil-virgil,” patton says. “just the diner.”

“um,” logan says, and adds, casually, “speaking of virgil?”

patton blinks at him. “yeah?”

logan lifts his eyebrows, and says, “i couldn’t help but notice that the couch—”

patton turns bright red, and says, “can we not talk about it?”

“is there something to talk about?” logan presses.

“what?!” patton squeaks. “no!”

“you’re sure?” logan says. “i’d be okay if there was, you know.”

“of—of course i’m sure!” he exclaims. “i—why would you even—we’re not—there’s nothing! happening!”

“okay,” logan says simply, and heads for the front door.

“there isn’t!” patton squawks.

“i mean, if you say so,” logan says, opening the door.

“i’m—i—you!”

logan glances back over his shoulder to see his dad actually stamp his foot, looking embarrassed and flustered and much more like logan is the parent questioning their child about their potential significant other, and logan can’t help but smirk at him.

“you’re grounded!” patton manages to splutter.

“no, i’m not,” logan says, a laugh in his voice, and shuts the door behind him, walking the familiar route to the press. and sending a text on the way.

Logan Sanders: Dad insists there’s “nothing to talk about” and there is “nothing happening,” but he also grounded me when I said “if you say so.”

he tucks his phone in his pocket, not expecting a response for a while—roman’s performing, after all—and instead starts to focus on the story at hand, mentally sorting through people to find for a quote, potential photos to take if rudy lets him take the sole newsroom camera, trying to mentally review what he had written and wondering if he should rearrange the story.

the winter festival is a sideshire tradition—booths, food, games, music, and the lighting of christmas tree in the middle of the town, and everything surrounding it: the gazebo, the prince studio, virgil’s diner, among others. it’s the kind of thing that would get featured in a magazine as a sweet, small-town tradition, something the locals do that you should be sure not to miss, and be sure to try lucy’s peppermint or gingerbread ice cream and warm up with a festive coffee from remy’s, or hot cocoa/coffee from virgil’s!

(it’s also pretty well known for having a wedding right after more years than not, and proposals in the midst of the tree lighting, and first dates spent snacking on fresh cookies, which roman is very aware of and therefore has made logan very aware of, as much as he doesn’t particularly want to be aware of the more saccharine aspects of it, thank you very much.)

(well. except for the time they tried to parent trap virgil and roman when they were ten, but that was for science and it didn’t work anyway.)

rudy isn’t at the press when he gets there (logan has his own key) and logan sighs a little, having expected that. but that means he can definitely take the camera, so he does.

he takes shots of set-up. he gets quotes about the set-up from various volunteers and city hall workers. he trawls the booths to take more shots and get more quotes. lucy gives him free samples of caramel-covered apples, insisting he give her his opinion on the variances of each, as she talks about the almost-fifty years worth of winter festivals she’s seen as a business owner in sideshire, and logan makes a note in his phone to pitch a fifty-year profile on lucy next year, as one of the first female black business owners in sideshire who had been in business for so long.

“go on, take this,” she insists, holding out a mini cup of ice cream as he thanks her for her time. “you need to keep your energy up if you keep runnin’ ‘round reporting like this, baby.”

“what flavor is it?” logan asks, juggling his notebook and his pen to be able to accept it, because he has learned over the past sixteen years what happens if he tries to decline lucy’s efforts to feed him. he has never succeeded. besides, it’s only a little more than a sample—he’ll probably finish it in five minutes.

she smiles at him. “caramel chocolate. i can put a cherry on top, since your usual thief isn’t here and you’ll actually get to eat it, for once.”

logan clears his throat, dropping his gaze to the cup, and says, “thank you again for your time—”

she laughs, pats him on the cheek, and says, “give your boy a hug from me. he seemed like he needed it the last time i saw him.”

before logan can ask her what she means, she turns to continue setting up, and logan frowns but keeps moving—he has a job to do, after all. 

he gets a quote from jean, at virgil’s stall (it would likely be a conflict of interest to get a quote from virgil, and he’s already toeing the line a bit with lucy, but, well. it’s a small town. he’d be hard-pressed to say anyone that he doesn’t have some kind of relationship with in this town, even if it’s just in passing.)

he gets quotes from remy, who’s got an arm slung over dr. picani’s shoulders, and emile interjects cheerfully with quotes about how excited he is, and how the festival means that christmas is coming, and it gets him in a mood to celebrate every year. he even manages to get a quote from the mayor, a fluffy, pr-tinged statement that logan’s sure he’ll have to include anyway.

the sun sets, and logan allows the camera to settle around his neck—he’s fairly average at photography, and he won’t be able to really start to photograph the surroundings very well until the lighting ignites his surroundings again—and reviews his notes, jotting down the quotes and the timestamps of the recordings he’s taken of his interviews. 

logan stays to take notes of the ebb and flow of the crowd. logan records the tree lighting for an online feature. logan takes photos of the prince studio lit up with red and gold, of the gazebo strung in pretty fairy lights, of the grudging single string of purple lights strung about the eaves of virgil’s diner. 

as the crowd is growing at its thickest, logan slips away, and tries to focus on his job instead of the person he’s usually here with.

the press isn’t technically a press. they don’t print the paper here, but it really is a bit more thematically appropriate to term this building either the courant or the press, so it maintained the name mostly due to the fact that it houses reporters. (rudy only makes the count on a technicality.)

it’s a tiny, cozy room on top of remy aserinsky’s café, with four tables pushed together and sufficiently ancient computers sitting on top of each. there’s tiny secondhand couches rescued from the sides of the road dotting the edges of the room. there are old, framed editions lined nearly along the walls. 

logan takes in a breath—the scent of ink and paper and coffee—drops off the camera, removing the sd card, and takes a seat at his favorite computer, the one in the corner with his back to the wall and his eyes to the door of the room. he boots up the computer and settles in for writing and editing and photo selection.

it’s a comfortable routine, writing a story. he knows ap style, he knows the common structures, he knows what makes a good quote and what to cut. he ends up rearranging the story to focus more on the booths and the businesses that took them over, rather than the historical aspect, and he’s scanning it word-by-word to ensure that it’s print-ready when he hears someone coming up the stairs.

“knock-knock,” a familiar voice calls, and logan smiles before he lowers his head a little so the smile’s hidden behind the computer screen.

“how was the show?” he asks, glancing up to see roman, in a thick red sweater and jeans, hair a little wet, and holding two to-go mugs. logan holds out a hand for one immediately, grasping at the air as if he will be able to grasp the mug if he opens and closes his hand enough times, and roman laughs, crossing the room and offering the bigger one to him.

“good,” he says. “belle’s a sweetie and i adore her.”

“she’s one of the claras, isn’t she?” logan asks, taking in appreciative inhale of hot cocoa/coffee. 

“she is,” roman says, and digs around in his pocket before proudly presenting logan with a folded-up piece of paper. “look!”

logan takes it and unfolds it, and can’t help but smile, just a little. it’s a card, homemade, dotted over with what must be an entire sheet’s worth of stickers, with good luck! and i love you! and you’re the best! and a drawing of what must be roman lifting up serena, the ballerina playing the sugar plum fairy this year, who is a genuinely professional ballerina. she’s had her doubts about dancing alongside a fifteen-year-old, or so logan had heard, but, well. someone only had to watch roman dance for five seconds before they were corrected of any assumptions due to age. they get along better now, he’s heard.

“you have an admirer,” logan teases, handing back the card, which roman carefully folds and sticks into his pocket.

“i do,” roman says, and frowns. “i feel like i’m forgetting something, now that i’m seeing you, but i can’t remember what it is.”

“well, we’re still coming to the show tomorrow,” logan offers. “my dad, my grandparents, and i. the matinee showing. i’ll text you exactly where we’re sitting, if you’d like. is that it?”

"i would like it, but that’s not it,” roman says, and hooks his chin over logan’s shoulder. logan’s very aware that their cheeks are just a centimeter away from pressing against each other. “eh, whatever, i’ll remember eventually. how’s the fest?”

logan smiles, a little, resists the urge to tilt his head just that extra bit. boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend, is a refrain in his mind. he has a boyfriend, he has a boyfriend. 

“good,” logan says. “the crowds should be thinning out by the time we go, and i’m just doing last-minute edits to make sure everything’s accurate. can i show you the pictures? i want your opinion on the ones i pick.”

“yeah, ‘course,” roman says, and he’s the one to tilt his head, and logan’s hyper-aware of the scent of him—the distant scent of floral body wash, deodorant, the more present scent of cologne, (in his most embarrassing private thoughts, he thinks about burying his nose into roman’s neck and inhaling over and over and over until the scent’s in his nose for forever, he loves the smell of the cologne roman uses)—and logan tries to not. react.

“okay,” logan says, forcing his voice not to come out too high-pitched. “so, i’ve got one of the town square as a whole, all lit up—”

“oh, it’s so pretty,” roman breathes.

“—and a closer one of the tree, and a few detail shots of the booths, but that’s what i want your opinion on.”

“okay, show me my choices.”

so logan does, showing the various shots he has, discussing them with roman, flipping through them when roman requests a repeat view, and then roman makes logan scoot over so they’re sharing a chair, slinging an arm over logan’s shoulder.

“okay,” roman says. “ i think you should do the one of the booths being set up, because it’s just a nice picture and i like it a lot. i think you should do the one with lucy serving a customer, because you’ve got her in the article and everyone knows lucy. and i think you should include the one of remy leaning over to kiss dr. picani, because it’s cute and it kinda ties into the whole sentimentalism end quote you’ve got going on. do you want more?”

logan considers, shuffling the gallery so that roman’s choices are included with the other ones logan’s had picked, and flips through them all at once.

“i think that’s it,” logan says, and turns to smile at roman. “thank you.”

“i have an artist’s eye,” roman sniffs, attempting to take on an air of pretentiousness, before he grins back at logan. “you’re welcome. now do whatever you need to do to publish it and get your coat on, c’mon, let’s go let’s go let’s go, we’ve got carnival games to play and ice cream to eat and lights to go ooh and ahh at and pictures to take for social media, c’mon!”

logan smiles a little wider, before ensures that it’s saved and in the process of being published. as soon as he logs off the computer, roman’s tugging at logan’s hand, urging him out of the press, and logan can’t help but laugh as he follows.

“okay, food first, i’m starving,” roman announces. “you’ve probably had dinner, though.”

logan bites his lip. and then he hides his face by taking a long gulp of hot cocoa/coffee.

“logan,” he says, exasperated. 

“virgil’s booth, then?” he says, avoiding the question.

“you can’t keep forgetting to eat,” roman scolds him, “aren’t you the one who always lectures me on the importance of keeping a routine?”

he starts tugging logan toward the stall—the crowd has thinned, true, but there’s still enough of a crowd that roman apparently sees it to be prudent to keep holding logan’s hand, to ensure they don’t lose each other. logan isn’t complaining, but he does notice—

“roman, your hand’s so cold,” logan says, frowning, and then he frowns even more as he examines the fabric of his sweater. it’s thick, true, but it’s hardly suitable for it to be the sole outer layer during winter. “did you not wear a coat? that must be what you forgot.”

roman’s the one looking guilty now, and logan sighs, handing over his drink from virgil’s for him to hold.

“hang on,” he says, and sheds his heavier winter coat in order to take off the coat that virgil made him for his birthday, before he drapes the jacket over roman’s shoulders.

“there,” he says, and takes back his drink. roman rubs the collar between his finger and thumb, before looking up at logan as if logan has done something extraordinary, as if logan has made some kind of grand romantic gesture. roman shrugs it on, smiling, and strikes a pose with the jacket, as if he was james dean.

“do i look good?” he asks.

“always,” logan says absently, and immediately feels his cheeks heat as roman laughs at him—kindly, but still. 

“kind of a mix of aesthetics, but it works,” roman says musingly—which is true, logan supposes. roman’s bright red sweater and his light blue, slightly torn, high-waisted jeans didn’t look exactly matched with the black leather jacket with space patches all over it, but—but roman was right. it did work.

“okay,” roman says, “okay. dinnertime, c’mon, let’s go!”

he takes logan’s hand again, and logan’s heart does that familiar squeezing thing again, and they’re off at a sedate pace.

roman sighs lovingly over the decorations, the lighting, and though logan has been reporting on it for most of the evening, it’s like roman’s admiration makes it gleam even brighter, as if logan had been distracted by reporting to even look up and take in his surroundings (entirely possible.)

the town square’s been transformed—usually, it’s the gazebo in the midst of a grassy little area, ringed by the quaint, charming businesses of sideshire. but now, the roads have wooden booths strung with string lights and garland arranged along the main road.  the lights reflect onto the fresh snow, making everything glitter. 

logan catches sight of two familiar people—their arms linked, their heads bent together to talk. his dad brightens as he sees logan, and waves to the pair of them wildly with his free arm, virgil offering a tiny little salute. logan nudges roman, and they both wave back as best as they can, as they’re holding hands plus their drinks.

“so,” roman comments, “nothing going on there, huh?”

“according to dad,” logan says, and sighs. “so i suppose i owe you lucy’s, then.”

“that you do,” roman says happily. “we’ll swing by her stall later, i wanna eat first and then we can cross through the gazebo to get to her stall—it’s right in front of the parlor, isn’t it?”

“it is,” logan confirms. “as it is every year.”

roman grins, and says, “ah, yes, the citizens of sideshire, known widely for our ability to change.”

“dad and virgil would agree,” logan grumbles, still stung that he’s lost the bet. he’d thought for sure something would happen this week. 

“aw, l,” roman says, and tugs his arm. “c’mon, cheer up. we’ll eat junk and i’ll win you a teddy bear at ring toss, or something.”

“you don’t need to win me a prize,” logan says.

“um, i definitely need to win you a prize, are you kidding?” roman says, as they slide up to the stall. “hi, jean, what’ve you got?”

they end up both getting greasy slices of pizza (not a virgil’s regular dish, but for the various festivals and events in town, virgil will cave—easy to keep warm and easy to make for crowds) and, even better, end up claiming a bench right next to the gazebo, all the better to gaze at the decorations (roman) and people watch (logan.) 

except logan spends most of his time watching one specific person. roman manages to stretch out the cheese on his pizza, and gets smears of tomato sauce on his cheek. his eyes brighten whenever someone wins a prize at the carnival games, and he cheers, he encourages, he heckles. he eagerly points out the stalls he wants to visit with logan. he chats with those who stop to bid them both hello.

and logan is... logan is happy. he hasn’t been able to spend as much time with roman over the past two weeks—with the snow, and the hospital—and likely won’t until the holidays—with the ballet, and finals—so it is a brief moment, true. but it’s a night where it can be just him, and just roman. the pair of them. the way it’s always been. the way it’s supposed to be. 

“you’re smiling,” roman notes, tapping his fingers gently on logan’s cheek. 

“you have tomato sauce on your face,” logan retorts, handing roman a napkin, and roman flushes, taking the napkin and scrubbing at his face, tilting his head so that logan can look at him full-on.

“better?”

“no, you missed some,” logan says, gesturing to where it would be on his own cheek. roman swipes, and manages to smear it more, and logan laughs at him.

“stop embarrassing me,” roman whines.

“i’m not embarrassing you,” logan retorts, still smiling, and takes the napkin back to lean in and gently dab the tomato sauce off roman’s face, focusing on his unfairly clear skin, ensuring that he gets all of it off. he surveys roman’s cheek, then crumples the napkin in his hand.

“there,” he says, satisfied. 

“thanks,” roman murmurs, and oh, logan’s leaned close enough that he can feel the warmth of roman’s breath. he hastily leans back, clearing his throat, and fiddles with his empty plate. 

“done?” he asks, glancing at the bit of crust that roman’s got. roman pops it into his mouth, and stands. they throw away their trash.

“do you want another hot chocolate?” logan asks, and roman takes his hand again. logan looks at him, but roman’s eyes are bright and excited—and fixed on the ring-toss booth ten feet away.

“c’mon,” he says, eager, “c’mon, c’mon, i gotta win you a prize!”

“you don’t have to win me a prize,” logan tries, and roman scoffs as he drags logan in front of the stand.

“hi kirk—of course i have to win you a prize, i wanna win you a prize, let me win you a prize!”

“ticket,” kirk says.

“oh, we didn’t—” logan begins, but roman’s digging around in his jeans pocket and handing over a ticket. 

“logan, you amateur,” roman tsks, “you didn’t get tickets?”

“i was busy reporting,” logan huffs, but roman ignores him as he accepts the rings from kirk. 

this is familiar too—roman’s unfairly good at carnival games, which logan always thinks are rigged. and yet, somehow, every year roman manages to win at least one prize.

one toss—two—three—

roman whoops, throwing his arms up in celebration, and then throwing them around logan’s neck.

“i won you something!” he says enthusiastically.

“you did,” logan says, squeezing him back, just a little, before separating and turning to kirk.

“what would you like?” kirk asks roman, and roman bumps hips with logan.

“yeah, logan, what would you like?”

logan heaves a put-upon sigh, as if it is a burden, but eyes stray toward the prizes. well, one very specific prize. 

it’s a dragon, a stuffed animal—actually, it seems to large to be qualified as a stuffed animal, and he believes it’s the kind that can fold out into a pillow—that’s navy blue, as dark as the night sky, as if stars could erupt over its scales.

like cecil the pirate’s best friend, apollo the knight, and his trusty dragon astria, he remembers suddenly, with a nostalgic jolt, and he’s pointing to it before he can second-guess himself.

he accepts it when it’s handed to him, and runs his hand down its flank—it’s still a little fuzzy, and it doesn’t have the unpleasant texture that scaled stuffed animals could sometimes have—and then holds it up to show roman.

“there,” he says. “you’ve won me a prize.”

roman smiles, rubs a hand over the dragon’s head. “i did,” he says smugly, and takes logan’s hand again.

logan’s about to say something else—what would you like to do next, maybe, or is there anything that you really want to do that we haven’t discussed?—when two people pass by them. one familiar, and one unfamiliar.

they’re holding hands. the unfamiliar one is wearing the familiar one’s riding jacket. 

it’s jess.

jess seems to catch roman’s eye when they’re just about to pass where logan and roman are standing, and logan looks to roman to see what his reaction is—sure, roman’s holding his hand and wearing his jacket, but this is his boyfriend, isn’t it?—and roman stares.

and then he smiles, tilting up his chin at jess. he and jess stare at each other. neither of them speak, neither of them make any gestures that logan can see. yet some kind of understanding passes between them—some kind of conversation, some kind of acknowledgement. something that neither of the people they’re holding hands with will be able to understand.

in unison, they both offer little dips of their chin. jess tugs the stranger along and they disappear into the crowd, and they’re gone as suddenly as they came.

“c’mon,” roman says, and logan shakes himself, trying to unparse what just happened, but obligingly follows along as roman tugs him toward the gazebo.

(in the crowd, as patton and virgil wait in line for some hot cocoa/coffee, virgil says, “oh, there’s roman and logan again,” and patton coos softly at them and how cute they are—roman wearing logan’s jacket, the pair of them crowd-watching, all lit up by the christmas lights. it’s enough to make patton want to go get his camera.)

“um,” logan says, distracted, twisting his head to try and see jess again. “did you want to go to talk to him?”

“what?” roman says, similarly distracted. “no, why? he’s with dean, he’s having fun.”

“dean?” logan asks uncertainly.

“the friend i told you about?” roman prompts. “the one jess has known since kindergarten? the one that makes me think of me and you? i guess he came to visit?”

“oh,” logan says, remembering. right. his decidedly-platonic friend. “sure, but—i mean, it’s jess.”

roman stares at him, confused.

“i’d think you’d want to spend time with him?”

roman tilts his head. he does not look any more enlightened.

“since he’s your boyfriend,” logan prompts, equally confused.

roman’s eyes go huge, and he blurts out, “holy shit.” 

“what?” logan says, even more confused.

“that’s what i forgot!”

logan frowns. “you forgot jess is your boyfriend?”

“no! no,” roman says, and laughs, leaning against the railing. “oh, my god, i forgot to tell you why i was at your dad’s a couple weeks ago! i forgot to tell you anything!”

"i—oh,” logan says, and now he’s the one tilting his head. “what does that have to do with your boyfriend?”

“well, that’s just it,” roman says, and he leans back against the railing. he offers a soft little smile up at logan, a quirk of his lip that doesn’t quite hide the—something in his eyes. “jess and i broke up, actually.”

there is something exceedingly strange happening in logan’s chest right now. mutually, he feels as if there are fireworks exploding in his chest, and yet he feels—sad. sorry for roman, he supposes, might be the closest statement. roman’s wanted a boyfriend, he’s always been a romantic, and roman’s never been well-suited toward heartbreak, or breakups—

“oh,” logan says, when he realizes he’s perhaps waited too long to give a response than is socially acceptable. “roman, i’m—i’m sorry.”

“eh,” roman says, with an apathetic shrug.

“no, truly,” logan insists. “roman. i’m sorry. i should have been there, and—”

“oh, hey, that wasn’t your fault,” roman says. “you were stranded, and besides, your dad’s got the break-up protocol down pat—um, no pun intended. but virgil brought me snacks, and it was—i was okay, logan, seriously.”

“you could have called,” logan says, a little hurt, despite himself. he and roman have shared everything together. everything. and roman’s first breakup—when roman really liked jess, and he doesn’t know what could have happened to break them apart, even as he’s thinking he doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, he doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, he doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore, and it feels like he’s something carbonated, emotions so close to fizzing over.

“i’m your best friend,” logan says. “i—i mean, i could have been there.”

"i know,” roman says, and reaches out to put a hand on logan’s wrist. “hey, i know, it was just—i dunno. i needed to think—that was your dad’s advice, actually, that i take some time and space to think for once—and i did. after all that, it was bad timing, i guess. with your dad in the hospital and the nutcracker and everything. i really did mean to tell you, i just—”

“forgot,” logan fills in.

“yeah,” roman says. “but i am okay, logan, really. i appreciate it.”

“okay,” logan says.

“i did, um,” roman says. “that thinking that your dad mentioned?”

“yes?” logan says.

“i just—“ roman waves a hand. “at the risk of sounding like a reality show, i think i got into a relationship with jess for all the wrong reasons.”

logan waits, patiently, because he’s been friends with roman for years, and he knows when roman’s in monologue mode.

“because i was trying to avoid my own emotions,” roman says. “i kept waiting for someone to make a move on me, and when jess did, i just—i just jumped in, even though i was wanting something else. someone else.”

logan tilts his head at roman.

“and, i mean, i learned a lot of things, with jess,” roman adds. “don’t get me wrong, he was a pretty good boyfriend. i think he and dean are gonna be really happy together. but through the whole relationship, i was still... wanting. you know?”

logan does, but—but roman can’t be saying what logan is wanting it to mean. he can’t be. right?

“sort of,” he manages, which is the most non-committal answer he can think of.

“because i was waiting for that someone else,” roman says. “and i just—i dunno. i was still pining, even when i had this person here who was willing to pursue me, but i guess i didn’t really—i mean, i can chase what i want too. right?”

“of course,” logan says, confused. “you can do anything you want, roman.”

roman lifts his eyebrows at him. it’s the same face he makes when he’s waiting for logan to understand a joke.

“okay, so,” roman says. “patton told me to think about what i want. and i know what i want. so i’m gonna just—go for it.”

roman waits. logan can’t find words.

roman prompts, “because jess and i both knew that we wanted someone else, and we ended up together because we were in denial. and we knew that. and we worked it out, and honestly, we had a very mature, very adult breakup, aren’t you impressed with me?”  

logan nods, mostly on auto-pilot. yes, of course he’s impressed with roman. he’s impressed with anything roman does. not that he’d say that outright, of course.

“so now jess and dean are together. because they’re best friends. and they’ve always been together, and they want to always be together, because—because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

he cannot be saying what i want him to be saying. right? he cannot be saying what i think he means. i’m misunderstanding this, like i do when he tries to make a pop culture reference. 

“i mean—” roman sighs, before he grins up at logan, and logan’s heart does that squeezing thing again.

“to be completely honest, jess isn’t really my type. you know?”

logan manages a nod. roman takes a step closer. logan can smell his cologne again. he’s actually feeling rather light-headed, actually. 

“so, um,” and logan’s voice cracks mortifyingly. “what—what, um. what is your type, then?”

roman rolls his eyes, says, “oh, for god’s sake,” and before logan knows what’s happening, roman grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, hauls him close, and presses his lips against his.

it’s over in an instant—there’s an embarrassing smacking noise as they part—and logan can only gape at roman, blinking down at him.

roman looks shocked—like even he didn’t expect to do that.

“oh, my god, i’m so—“ he says, and abruptly lets go of logan’s lapels. “i’m so sorry, logan, oh my god, i thought—i thought we were on the same page but i guess not and i didn’t even wait for you to consent and i—”

roman moves to step back, but logan reaches out and catches roman’s wrist before he can. 

logan scrambles to find words, to explain himself, but what comes out is “i love you.”

roman looks like logan’s hit him over the head with something very heavy.

“oh,” roman says breathlessly, and then he can’t say anything else, because logan pulls his wrist and then he cups roman’s beautiful face in his hands and then he’s the one kissing someone who makes a squeaking noise of surprise. 

(in the distance, patton is making the quietest high-pitched shrieking noise he can, repeatedly hitting virgil’s arm before pointing desperately at the gazebo when virgil asks him what’s going on, where his son is kissing the boy he’s been in love with for nearly all his life and oh my god oh my god oh my god oH MY GOD—)

logan doesn’t really know what he’s doing, in terms of kissing, so he just presses closer against roman, and roman lets out a shaky sigh, wrapping his arms around logan’s neck, and tilting his head up, and parting his lips, and—

oh. oh. oh, roman’s kissing him somehow both so fiercely and so sweetly that it makes logan’s heart do the squeezing thing over and over and over again, and logan feels his cheeks burn, and they part.

roman giggles, and ducks his head, hugging logan closer. logan wraps his arms around roman, too, and buries his nose into roman’s hair.

“i love you too,” roman whispers, and when he draws back to look at logan’s face, logan’s cheeks hurt.

roman’s smile is blinding.

...

“so,” virgil comments. their footsteps crunch-crunch-crunching through the snow, but patton doesn’t feel cold—he’s arm-in-arm with virgil, and all pressed up against his side. 

they’re on the way home, which, with most of the town either at home or at the festival, means that they’re the only ones on the road.

“yeah,” patton says, and lets out a breathy laugh, a little overwhelmed. “wow.”

“i’m almost tempted to tag along to see how your parents are gonna react to it being logan’s boyfriend they’re watching in the nutcracker.”

“logan has a boyfriend,” patton repeats, trying to wrap his brain around it. “my baby has a boyfriend.”

“you’re okay with it, right?” virgil checks.

“are you kidding?” patton demands. “of course i’m okay with it! i think i’ve been rooting for them to get together ever since the birthday kisses tradition started! roman asked me for my approval to propose to logan when he was seven! granted, it was with a ring pop, but—”

virgil laughs.

patton shakes his head wonderingly. “i mean, they’ve been best friends for eleven years. eleven years of the pair of them being adorable together. and now—”

patton makes the mistake of looking up at virgil, then. and it is a mistake, because virgil’s fluffy hair is haloed by the warm orangey glow of a street-lamp, his breath leaving his mouth in a little cloud in the cold, and his face—

his face is doing the Thing again.

“and now?” virgil prompts, and patton swallows.

“well,” he says, and then, softer, “it’s just a long time to love someone, is all. ten or eleven or so years.”

virgil’s lip quirks up—but patton can tell it’s really just a smile for the sake of a smile, not because he actually feels like smiling.

“yeah,” he says, softly. “i guess it is.”

patton should be thinking about logan and roman. he should be thinking about the day that he ran to the elementary school from the inn and stood, waiting anxiously for his son, before the final bell of the day rang. he’d scooped logan up in his arms, and he’d expecting to hear all about the books he’d seen and the things he’d learned and the teacher he had, and he did, a little, but he’d been so full of stories, babbling excitedly about the boy who’d drawn all over his nametag and told him the second-bestest-story-ever-after-cecil-obviously and traded his strawberries for jam cookies, and how nice and funny and clever he was.

patton should be thinking about the day that he’d brought logan to a prince studio recital because roman had asked him to come and how logan had sat, staring, mouth agape as roman leapt and twirled on the stage amidst his classmates, and patton had asked him what he thought, thinking that maybe logan had wanted to join ballet lessons too, and he’d just sighed, stars in his eyes, “he’s perfect, daddy,” and had refused to miss a show since.

patton should be thinking about countless sleepovers and lucy’s milkshakes and hisses of “dad!” when patton made sly comments about roman and he’d always relent, because patton’s never really wanted to be the kind of dad who embarrassed his son to the point of logan wanting to hide things from him (fine patton’s using personal experience from here) and logan backstage in shows and roman’s birthday stories and roman keeping his newspaper clips and logan tolerating the occasional rom-com because they made roman happy, and all of this, eleven years in the making, the development and the way they had grown closer and closer and the trust that had grown there.

patton should be thinking about all that. but he isn’t.

he’s thinking about the day after he met virgil for the first time, coming in with a practiced “everything’s-okay” smile fixed on his face and logan in a sling on his chest (a favorite of his which meant holding his baby close and having free hands and hiding his chest from anyone who looked) and virgil had gotten so startled when patton poked his head in the kitchen that he burned his wrist on the stove, which left a scar along his wrist that’s still visible to this day.

he’s thinking about countless feuds over hot-cocoa coffee at all times of the day, patton trying valiantly to get more caffeine into his system and virgil trying to wean him off it, and the various endeavors patton’s undertaken in order to procure more and more of it behind his back.

he’s thinking about mango-pineapple smoothies hiding the taste of vegetables that he knows he doesn’t make enough of, and that virgil makes sure he and logan maintain a healthy diet. he thinks about hidden protein powder in pastries, and all the tactics that virgil employs on everyone he deems who needs it, from five-year-olds to full-grown adults.

he’s thinking about the person he trusts logan with most—more than his own parents, more than logan’s other biological parent—which is honestly the biggest sign of emotional anything he’s ever given to anyone.

he’s thinking about the development and the way they’d grown closer and closer and the trust that had grown there, and—

and they’ve just been stagnant. there’s been moments heaped on moments between them, times when patton thought this is it, we’re going to say it. there’s been so many almosts. 

now they’re standing here, sixteen years after they’ve met and only a little less than that patton’s had at least a crush on him, if not being in love with him, and—

"what are we doing, virgil?” patton asks wearily.

virgil blinks at him, awkward, and gestures down the road. “i’m walking you home?”

“no,” patton says, and pushes both of his hands through his hair. “i mean—yes, but i just—i mean. us. you and me. what are we doing? i mean, it’s just—it’s been you and me. it’s always been you and me. right?”

virgil opens his mouth to respond, but the words are flooding out of patton before he can stop himself—he can’t stop the tide, he can’t stop the champagne after it’s uncorked, and he can’t stop him. 

“right,” he pushes on, “and i mean—i mean, i could get it, when i was eighteen and a disaster and barely an adult, for goodness sake’s, and i could get it when i was nineteen and i tried dating other people to get past—“

he makes an emphatic gesture between himself and virgil.

“—this, and i could get it when i was twenty-one and still careening, but i just—i mean, virgil, it’s been sixteen years. sixteen! half of my life, i’ve known you, and i mean—that’s not nothing, you know?”

“i know,” virgil barely manages to say, and patton keeps going, not really taking in the way virgil’s eyes are getting wider and wider and his face is getting paler and paler.

“and i just—you’ve been such an amazing best friend to me, my first best friend ever, and i’d say my only best friend ever except i think logan’s my best friend too, and i get that, and i cherish that, virgil, our relationship is so good, but i just—i see the look in your eyes sometimes, and there’ll be a Moment, and i think maybe this’ll be it, this is when we say it, except it’s never actually when we say it, and i’m just—i’m tired, virgil, can’t we just say it already? can’t we just acknowledge that this—what we are—isn’t lifelong platonic best friends?”

there’s a long silence. patton looks up at virgil—virgil, whose face is unscrutable, at this moment, and patton’s never hated being unable to read anyone more than he does at this very moment.

and for a split second, patton thinks he’s miscalculated. he thinks he’s gotten it wrong. that those Moments really are just him being desperate for attention, and that he thinks everyone thinks like he does, and he’s trying to get virgil to give him this, like he thinks he should get everything he wants, and he—but he was so sure—but what if he’s wrong?

patton’s voice cracks, and he barely manages to say, “virgil, please. this isn’t—i mean. it isn’t just me, is it?”

“no,” virgil manages to say. his voice is barely above a whisper. “no, patton. it’s not just you.”

patton nearly collapses in relief. what he does do, instead, is suck in a big, deep breath, and stare up at vigril with wide eyes.

“okay,” he says. “okay. so—so what do we do?”

sixteen years (except not really, but sixteen years of knowing him, at least) and now that it’s all laid out there, patton doesn’t know what to do. it’s almost funny.

it’s almost funny, except when he takes a step closer, virgil flinches. patton’s stomach drops like a stone, and he immediately takes a step back.

“virgil,” he manages in a tiny voice. 

“i—“ virgil rasps, and clears his throat. “sorry—i—i mean. patton, i—it’s always—you—”

virgil’s breathing, but he’s starting to take in harsh, desperate pants, like he can’t get in enough air, and patton takes another step back.

he’s panicking. virgil’s panicking because of him.

“virgil,” he says. “virgil, can you breathe in for four, honey?”

all that relief’s turned into awful, stomach-curdling guilt. of course patton shouldn’t have sprung this on him—he has anxiety, for crying out loud, and he knows that virgil can’t handle change well, he could barely handle the walls of the diner being painted without a month’s advance suggestion and two week’s worth of arguing, he knows that virgil needs to be prepared for it, and this is just about the biggest change he could have possibly introduced, and patton’s so stupid, why on earth would he do this—

virgil sucks in a hard, sharp breath, and holds it when patton counts, and lets it out in a big whoosh.

“i’m sorry—“

“no, don’t be—“

“patton, please,” he says, his voice thin and reedy, and patton shuts up. he’s run his mouth off enough tonight, he thinks.

“i—i’m so sorry,” virgil fumbles, and takes a step forward, cupping the back of patton’s head in his hand and giving him a nearly bruising kiss on the forehead. “i—i mean, it’s not just you, patton, i—i mean, i just—it’s you for me too, but i just—i need a bit of time. okay?”

“okay,” patton whispers into his sternum, and, when virgil lets him go and takes a step back, a practiced, fixed “everything’s-okay” smile that virgil hasn’t seen in years has taken over his face. patton’s not sure how convincing it is, considering his lower lip is already trembling. “sure, virgil. that’s okay.”

“patton—” virgil manages, but his arms are wrapped around himself, and he doesn’t reach for him when patton takes another step back.

“if you need time, you can have it,” patton says. “just—just tell me when you’re ready. okay? and it’s okay if you never are.”

“patton—”

“it’s okay,” patton says, except it comes out as a sob, and he shuts up before he can do something even stupider, like cry all over him when he might be in the middle of a panic attack and he’s requested time and space.

“i, um. i think i’m gonna go home now. you don’t have to walk me the rest of the way.” patton says. he tries to make a “haha, wouldn’t that be awkward” face. he’s not sure how well it holds up.

“okay,” virgil manages. “i—you sure?”

“i’m sure,” patton says. “i’m really, really sure, honey. you find a quiet place and calm down, okay? are you sure you don’t want me—”

“no,” virgil says quickly, and patton’s heart drops along with his stomach. of course. of course virgil doesn’t want you here. he just said he needed space, he scolds himself. god, patton, how much worse can you conduct yourself?

he quickly turns his back on virgil, and he walks away. he wraps his arms around his stomach, and bites his lip to keep himself from sobbing audibly.

he doesn’t hear virgil move at all.

#my post #text #wyliwf #moxiety #logince #you get this a day early bc wifi is hella iffy here and i want to be able to reblog with taglist so! #now that i am HOGGING bandwith and probs won't get this chance again! #my fic

[hiddendreamer67]

Thomas and Logan “are you feeling better today?”

Okay and then there was a last one “Thomas and Roman “i just want you to be happy”” But I can’t find it. Anyways, I combined them all into a self-indulgent sick fic. Enjoy the chaos. Once again posted without proofreading. (:

Being sick was nothing new to Thomas. He was often ill in his childhood, be it seasonal allergies or a stronger virus. His mother would make him chicken noodles soup, and after a few days he would be fine. However, that was when he was home. Now he was trapped amongst giants, which was certainly less than ideal. He had felt the cold coming when his head got foggy during sword practice.

“Keep your chin up, Thomas.” Roman instructed. “Feet shoulder width apart, arm steady.”

Thomas tried to follow Roman’s directions, but slowly his arm began to sink.

“…Thomas?” Roman asked, frowning as Thomas’ energy dwindled. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Thomas assured him, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s just a cold.”

“…what’s a cold?”

“You guys don’t get colds?” Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Well, we get cold, but…” Roman picked Thomas up, eyes widening. “Thomas, you’re not cold at all!”

“Yeah, I might be getting a fever.” Thomas explained, feeling a shiver coming on. Roman rushed to the other room, desperate for help.

“Thomas is cursed!” Roman declared to his brothers.

“What? Cursed?” Logan looked up from his book. Virgil came over to see what the commotion was about as well.

“He keeps shivering but he’s all warm.” Roman explained, holding Thomas out so the others could feel.

“That’s weird…” Virgil muttered, watching as Logan put his finger out to touch Thomas’ skin.

“I’m not cursed, I’m just sick.” Thomas explained, giving a slight cough.

“He might be dying.” Logan murmured.

“No, no, I’m not dying.” Thomas quickly assured them, but it seems as though they weren’t listening.

“How long do we have?” Roman asked, looking heartbroken.

“Ohhhhh Patton’s gonna be crushed.” Virgil’s fingers dug through his hair nervously. “We should run away, he never needs to know.”

“Thomas, we are going to do whatever you want tomorrow, alright?” Roman smiled half-heartedly down at the human, clearly expecting the human to only have a few days left. “I…I just want you to be happy.”

“Aw, Roman, that’s really sweet of you, but-” Thomas’ explanation was cut off by another cough, making all three giants wince.

“What’s going on?” A fourth voice entered the room, causing Roman to quickly hide Thomas behind his back.

“Patton!” Roman gasped slightly. “You startled us.” Virgil tried to hide his own anxiety, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Logan pointedly looked anywhere other than at Patton.

“You’re hiding something.” Patton realized.

“Whaaaat?” Roman gave an anxious laugh. “Us? Hiding something?”

“Where’s Thomas?” Patton glanced at the tabletop, then at Roman’s hands still behind his back. Roman sighed, slowly bringing Thomas around to the front.

“He’s unwell.” Logan explained, watching as Thomas gave another sniffle.

“What?” Patton slowly took Thomas into his own hands, looking down at the human with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s… you know…” Virgil drew his finger across his neck, looking forlorn.

“What?!” Tears sprung from Patton’s eyes as he hugged Thomas close. “When? Why? What’s happening?”

“Cursed, I think.” Roman nodded solemnly. “But rest assured I will be seeking vengeance!”

“I’M NOT DYING!” Thomas pushed away from Patton’s chest.

“W-what?” Patton blubbered, pulling the human out enough to look down at him.

“Patton, you know me better than anyone.” Thomas said exasperatedly. “Does it look like I’m dying?”

“But…you’re so warm.” Patton bit his lip. “And you seem so tired.”

“Yes, that’s what being sick means.” Thomas explained. “It’s when a human gets a disease that saps their energy, but it goes away after a few days.”

“So it’s just a minor curse?” Roman clarified.

“I…yes. It’s a minor curse.” Thomas sighed, realizing that’s how they would best understand.

“But a few days?” Virgil’s eyes widened. “How do you survive if you’re weak for so long?”

“Well, usually other people look after you.” Thomas shrugged. “And usually I’m not in a realm where everything outside is bigger and trying to kill me.”

“We can help look after you!” Patton offered, eager to save his tiny friend. “What do we need to do?”

“I mean, not much.” Thomas shrugged. “I just need to sleep it off mostly, drink lots of fluids, that sort of stuff.”

This was apparently the wrong directions to give. The giants put him to bed on Virgil’s mattress, surrounded by the mass amount of blankets. Every half hour or so one of them would come in, asking if he felt any better and dropping off another thimble of water for him. Still, their misguided efforts were helpful. The bed was very comfortable and Thomas fell asleep easily. He awoke to the sound of another of the giant’s entrances.

“Are you feeling better today?” Logan asked, coming in with the customary thimble and noticing Thomas was awake. “You’ve been asleep for half a day.”

“Wow.” Thomas looked surprised, gratefully taking the water. “Yeah, I guess I just really did need to sleep it off.” He took a long sip, then yelled in the direction of the door. “You guys can come in.”

Three heads poked sheepishly through the doorway.

“Sorry kiddo, we didn’t want to overwhelm you.” Patton admitted.

“Are you alright?” Roman asked, coming closer. “That was an awful long time to be asleep.”

“Yes, I’m actually feeling much better.” Thomas nodded, finishing off the water.

“Oh thank goodness.” Virgil let out a sigh of relief. “Don’t you dare scare us like that again.”

#sanders sides #g/t #giant/tiny #giants #giant #giant!roman #giant!logan #giant!virgil #giant!patton #human!thomas #thomas sanders #thomas #roman sanders #romance #logan sanders #logan #roman #virgil sanders #virgil #patton sander #patton #patton sanders #sickness #my writing #writing #amanda writes stuff #mandy writing #mandy's writing #write #writeblr

[today-only-happens-once]

Shatter

Title: Shatter

Word count: 2133

Summary: Glass shatters at their feet seconds before he plummets to the ground. Prinxiety (can be read as sort of romantic (esp. the ending) or platonic). LAMP/CALM.

Prompt: “Catch me.” “What?” [first person collapses]

Warnings: sickness, serious sleep deprivation on top of it, brief ‘worst case scenario’ kind of concern/imagery, medical stuff may not be accurate, Roman is insecure in the beginning, minor foot injury, blood, let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: Guess what this is, friends? More hurt/comfort. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to write something else for this fandom, but that day is not today. This fic kinda gave me fits, and posting is always scary. Yikes. Hope you like it anyway! <3 Edited only by yours truly so all mistakes are mine.

Tags: @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @creativenostalgiastuff (let me know if anyone ever wants to be tagged in stuff!)

,…

Roman pushes back from his desk with a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. He looks at the large wall clock between the two balcony doors in his bedroom. Almost 2 in the morning, and very little to show for it. The stack of ideas sitting in a pile on his desk is dwarfed by the overflowing wastebasket of wadded papers with half-constructed ideas that Roman knew—even before running them by Logan and Thomas—wouldn’t be viable. It… had not been a productive night. But Thomas is supposed to sit down with Joan and work out a script with them tomorrow. Roman needs to have ideas to give to Thomas when he wakes up.

Roman groans, irritated with himself. He needs a break, however brief it may need to be. He stands, running his fingers through his hair again to fix its disheveled state. Even in pajama pant, slippers, and a white t-shirt, a prince still has to slay.

He makes his way to the kitchen, remembering Patton boxing up some leftover homemade cookies the Moral Side had made the other day. Perhaps a small jolt of sugar was just what he needed to get a few more good ideas so he wouldn’t turn up empty handed when Thomas woke up in the morning.

He slows to a stop in the kitchen entryway. Virgil stands in the middle of the room holding a glass of water. His hood is drawn over his hair but even in the dark, Roman can tell how startlingly pale the Anxious Side is.

“Virgil?”

Roman takes a step closer, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. A lamp from the adjacent room bleeds into the kitchen and Roman can see his long bangs plastered to his forehead by a thin sheen of sweat. When Virgil looks up at him, his eyes are glassy. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

Roman takes another, more tentative, step towards him. “Virgil, when was the last time you slept?”

Virgil blinks a few times. “I… uh…” His brows pull together. “I don’t… remember…” His voice is quiet and distant, like he’s talking more to himself than to the Prince.

Roman quietly chews his lip for a moment. Virgil doesn’t just look tired, he looks sick. “Alright, Marilyn Morose,” he says with feigned flippancy, crossing over to him, “let’s get you to—“

“Roman.” Virgil’s voice cuts him off but something about his voice sounds wrong. Roman stops short just as he sees the cup slip through Virgil’s fingers.

It shatters into splinters of reflective glass at their feet with a deafening crash. The sound slices through the still, quiet night air with a vengeance.

“Vir—!”

“Catch me.” Virgil’s voice sounds tight and faint and strangled.

“What?”

But it’s already too late. Virgil’s hand fists desperately in the sleeve of Roman’s white v-neck t-shirt as he pitches forward. Roman yelps in surprise, doing his best to catch him. It’s an awkward entanglement of limbs but the Prince manages to keep the Anxious Side from collapsing entirely into the shattered glass around them.

“Virgil?” Roman asks, alarm surging up his throat. Virgil stays slumped in his arms, unconscious.

The thoughts plow through Roman like a freight train. Questions and scenarios and potential outcomes rip across his mind with almost frightening intensity, each scenario worse than the last. Can they die in the mindscape? Could Virgil lose himself, dissipating into nothingness slowly? Images flash through Roman’s mind of Virgil, pale and fading and Roman beside him and entirely unable to stop it, to keep him here, to keep—

“Roman?” Patton’s concerned voice snatches his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Patton,” Roman replies, relieved. “I don’t know what happened. He didn’t look good and then he just collapsed, and—“

“He’s bleeding,” says another voice. Logan, coming up behind Patton in the entryway. Roman looks down, and sure enough, Roman can see a few cuts along Virgil’s feet and blood mixing into the water pooled amidst the glass on the floor.  The Prince swallows. How did he not notice that before? Virgil isn’t even wearing socks.

“Lo, grab the first aid kit?” Patton asks, his dark eyes worried and serious. He pulls the hood of his cat onesie off his head. Without another word, Logan makes a beeline for the bathroom to grab it out from under the sink.

With a quiet grunt, and as carefully as he can, Roman shifts Virgil weight to sweep an arm under the Anxious Side’s knees and one braced against his back. He picks him up, carefully avoiding the glass on the floor as he carries him into the commons.

Roman frowns. Virgil feels lighter than he should.

Patton follows behind him as Roman gingerly sets the unconscious Side down on the couch. He lifts Virgil’s head and pulls the hood down—he looks too hot and the hoodie can’t be helping him—before pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He is hot and clammy to the touch. Absently, he brushes Virgil’s bangs out of his face before pulling his hand back.

“He’s warm, Patton.”

He feels Patton squeeze his shoulder. “He’ll be okay, kiddo. He’s sick and sleep deprived, but we’ll all take care of him.”

It’s not until then that Roman realizes how hard his heart is still hammering in his chest. The constricted way Virgil had said his name—had told Roman to catch him—echoes in the back of his mind. He’ll be okay, kiddo. Roman glances at Patton skeptically.

He doesn’t say anything, however, as Logan comes back into the room with the first aid kit in his hands and a towel. The Logical Side calmly and wordlessly sits at Virgil’s feet, pulling out tweezers, antiseptic, cotton balls, and bandages. Logan gingerly takes Virgil’s ankle, glancing at his face to make sure he hasn’t woken, before examining the few cuts along his foot.

Patton moves to sit on the arm of the couch by Virgil’s head, soothingly brushing his fingers through his hair. Roman catches the concern that wells in his eyes at, Roman assumes, feeling the heat radiating off of the unconscious Side.

Roman anxiously clears his throat. “Logan?”

“Hm?” Logan doesn’t look up as he grabs the tweezers and pulls a small shard of glass out of Virgil’s foot. Roman winces and averts his gaze.

“Uh, how’s it looking, Doc?”

Logan adjusts the frame of his glasses. “Well, I cannot speak for his apparent illness. Aside from a few small pieces of glass and some bleeding, the injuries on his feet are comparatively minor and should not be a dramatic hindrance to his overall wellbeing.”

“He’s definitely got a fever,” Patton adds, pressing his palm to Virgil’s forehead again. “I wish he’d told us he was sick.”

“It is entirely possible that he did not realize the severity of his own illness,” Logan replies, “and did not want to concern us. Regardless, I agree with you, Patton.”

“Severity?” Roman repeats.

“We will have to keep an eye on him and monitor his progress.” Logan pauses, securing a bandage around Virgil’s foot before looking up at the Prince. “It was quite fortunate that you came into the kitchen when you did. Otherwise, it’s entirely possible Virgil’s current condition would be much more precarious.”

“He told me to catch him.”

“Which is exactly what you did, kiddo,” Patton responds gently.

Except he didn’t. Not enough anyway. The proof of that is right there in Logan’s hands as he begins inspecting Virgil’s other foot. Roman swallows, suddenly unable to look away as Logan dabs a cotton ball against one of the cuts along the ball of his foot.

“How did I not realize how bad off he was?” Roman asks to nobody in particular.

Patton’s hand stills in Virgil’s hair momentarily. A flash of regret crosses his eyes. “He’d been keeping to his room more, and every once in a while I’d heard him up at odd hours of the night. But I thought maybe it was just stress, y’know? From Thomas’s upcoming performances and travel schedule. I didn’t realize he was sick on top of it all.”

“I, too, had noticed a change,” Logan admits. “His diet seemed to have dwindled dramatically the past few days. And I suspected that he may not have been sleeping particularly well. But I had presumed that if anything was truly amiss, he would inform at least one of us. Had he done so, we likely would not be in this situation.” He finishes securing the last bandage on Virgil’s foot, gingerly setting it down on the couch as he slides out from under his feet.

Roman nods, his dark eyes still trained on Virgil’s pale face. “You guys should get some sleep. I can stay with him until he wakes up.”

“Roman, I don’t mind—“

“Ah, I’m gonna be up anyway, Padrè,” Roman says, hoping his voice sounds more lighthearted than he feels. “You both should get some shut-eye before Les Miserablès here wakes up.”

Patton glances to Virgil and then back at Roman. There’s a look in his eyes that Roman doesn’t quite understand and he smiles softly. “All right, kiddo. If you need help or anything, just come find me, okay?”

“Likewise,” Logan adds, looking exhausted but nevertheless sincere. “Although I have the upmost faith in your ability to take care of Virgil while he sleeps.”

Roman feels some of the tightness in his chest ease slightly at their assurances. He offers them a faint smile and nods. “Thank you. To both of you.”

Patton returns his smile with a warm, albeit tired, one of his own. He squeezes Roman’s shoulder before both he and Logan sink out to grab a few hours more of sleep. Roman stays standing in the middle of the commons for a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of Virgil’s chest. He’s still pale and sweaty but he’s breathing and both Logan and Patton seem to think he’ll be okay in a few days and that’s what really matters, isn’t it?

If both the Dad and Voice of Reason aren’t considering the worst case scenarios, then perhaps Roman shouldn’t be either. Being Creativity made that harder, but he could try. Besides, letting too much negative Creativity take over his thoughts had the potential to make Virgil’s recovery a bit harder. And after tonight, the last thing Roman wants to do is worsen the Anxious Side’s state.

Roman glances around the room. Virgil isn’t awake to take any medicine, but there had to be a way for him to help somehow. Logan had taken care of the injuries already. But he still had a fever, and the heat practically rolled off the Side in waves. He even looks uncomfortable, even though he’s unconscious. The Prince purses his lips before an idea occurs to him.

He glances at Virgil once more before conjuring a washcloth and towel. He runs it under the bathroom faucet before quickly returning to the commons. As gently and carefully as he can, the Creative Side lifts his head and sits on the couch. He drapes the towel across his legs before resting Virgil’s head in his lap and placing the cool, damp cloth on the Side’s forehead.

When Virgil’s eyes flutter open a few hours later, his nose brushes the thin cotton of Roman’s white shirt over his abdomen. He has no idea why his head is in Princey’s lap, or why the Creative Side looks so tired even as he gives him a soft grin.

“You’re awake.” Roman sounds… relieved. It only confuses Virgil more.

“Uh, yeah.” Virgil blinks a few times against the sunrise streaming in through the blinds. He squints up at the Prince. “What… happened?”

“Y’know, Virge,” he says, still with that small, vaguely lopsided smile as he dabs something cold and wet against his forehead, “When people say they’re falling for someone, it’s usually a metaphor.”

…

#sanders sides fanfiction #prinxiety #sanders sides #prinxiety fanfiction #fanfiction #hoo boy that took a kinda shippy turn at the end but could also be read as just playful teasing so like #i hope people liked it okay #never written a prinxiety dynamic before so that was fun #sickness #glass breaking #injury #foot injury #blood mention #let me know if any other warnings need to be tagged #okay ill stop rambling in the tags now

[youtuberswithalex]

Virgil the Brave (Prologue)

(/stand alone fic, depending on if I decide to continue this or not)

Summary: Virgil and Roman had been planning on this quest for a week, but Virgil finds himself confined to bed rest with a fever and a nasty cough the day of. Roman learns of his disappointment and determines to give him an adventure anyway-- in story form, that is. (Toddler Virgil AU)

(A/N: This... may or may not become a full fic? The bits with Roman and Virgil are heavily inspired by the Princess Bride movie, but the book is/would be a rewrite of the only novel I’ve ever finished and gave to my friends but they mostly all hated it so I’m a little hesitant to share it hence why I might not finish this ha.This Toddler Virgil AU is separate than the AU that A Little Anxious is set in.

So, uh... Enjoy?)

Word count: 1,414

Warnings: Sickness (I think that’s it?)

Kofi – Writing Masterpost

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Patton pulled the thermometer out of Virgil’s mouth and squinted at the little screen. “A hundred and one,” he muttered. He cooed and reached over to run his fingers through Virgil’s sweaty hair. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Looks like you’re going to have to spend the day right here in bed.”

Glossy eyes widening, Virgil sucked in a small gasp. “But—But Ro and I were gonna go on an adventure! I can’t—!”

A string of heavy coughs burst out of his throat before he could finish his sentence; Patton sighed and rubbed his back until the fit passed. He carefully pressed Virgil back to lean against his propped up pillows before handing him a cup of water.

“I know, sweetheart, but you’re sick,” he said. “I can’t let you go out into the wilderness like this. You’re only going to get worse if you push yourself, y’know? Logan might be able to sneak his way through it, but I’m not going to let you do that.”

Virgil pouted, but he nodded regardless, taking a sip of water. Patton picked up the little jar of Vick’s off of the nightstand and unzipped Virgil’s onesie just enough to expose his chest.

As he began to rub the gel onto his skin, Patton shook his head. “I know you were really looking forward to this, Virgil. I’m sorry. You and Roman can go in a couple of days, once you’re feeling better, okay? How’s that sound?”

With a sniffle, Virgil set his cup to the side. “Okay, Daddy.”

“Good.” Patton gave him a gentle smile before climbing to his feet and pressing a kiss onto Virgil’s too-warm forehead. “I’m going to let you get some rest, kiddo. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”

As he walked out of the room, he flicked off the top light and almost pulled the door closed; a single sliver of yellow light from the hallway was all that shone in the bedroom. Virgil kept his eyes on him until he was gone.

With a sigh, he let his head hang. Patton was right—he really had been looking forward to this quest, ever since Roman brought the idea up nearly a week ago. They’d spend days planning it out, working on what they’d be fighting for, designing the castles they were going to storm, reassuring Patton that it wouldn’t be too mature for Virgil. It was going to be the perfect day.

But now, he was stuck in bed with a stupid cough and a dumb fever and an annoying stuffy nose. Every aching part of him desperately wished that this had hit tomorrow, but it was all for naught.

He didn’t even care about the quest. He just wanted to spend some time with Roman.

Virgil sneezed and moaned at the dull pain in his chest before picking up his stuffed kitty and laying down. He was careful not to let her touch the cream as he snuggled down underneath his covers. Once he was settled, he stared at the ceiling and sighed.

Maybe some rest would do him some good.

Virgil let his eyes flutter shut.

…Only to squeeze tight and pop back open when another string of coughs ripped through his throat.

With a whimper, Virgil sat back up and resigned to curling up against his headboard in a fatigued daze.

There was a quiet knock on the doorframe not too long later, followed by the door slowly creaking open.

Virgil looked up as Roman poked his head into the dark room. With a soft smile, he stepped in; a leather drawstring bag hung on his shoulder. Virgil’s stomach twisted at the sight.

“Hey, bud,” Roman whispered. “Heard you weren’t feeling too good.”

Lower lip trembling, Virgil sniffled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, I really wanted to go, I didn’t mean to get sick—!”

Roman held up his hand, quickly making his way to his bedside. “Hey, hey, none of that!”

He turned on the lamp sitting on Virgil’s nightstand before he knelt next to him; Virgil watched as he pulled the bag off of his shoulder and set it on the floor. He couldn’t help but wonder how much extra work Roman was going to have to do now that he wasn’t able to go.

“I know you didn’t fall ill on purpose, my Sniffly Prince,” Roman laughed. “It’s dreadful that this beast struck you down, but it isn’t your fault. Even I catch a fever from time to time! It’s nothing to apologize for; you had no control over this.”

Quietly, Virgil nodded and rested his head against his headboard. His eyes shut as he coughed and whimpered. Roman hummed, and when Virgil opened his eyes again, he was pulling a thermos out of his bag. He carefully unscrewed the top and held it out.

“Here,” he said, “I brought you this potion. It’ll help your throat stop hurting so much.”

Virgil hesitated, but he sat up regardless and eyed it. “What’s in it?”

“Some boiled leaves and a drop of liquefied gold,” Roman replied with a wink. “Daddy helped me make it. Said it’ll heal you right up from even the worst of illnesses.”

Virgil reached towards it, only for a thought to enter his mind that made him pull his hand back. He chewed on his lip while Roman frowned at him.

“…Aren’t you gonna need it on your quest?” Virgil quietly asked.

Roman stared at him for a beat. “My quest?”

“With—With the dragon, and the wizard, and the big, scary snowman?”

Eyes widening, Roman set the thermos on the nightstand. He moved to sit on the edge of Virgil’s bed and pushed the hair away from his forehead, a deep frown etching on his face.

“Virgil, I would never go on an adventure that we planned without you,” he firmly said. “That would be simply terrible of me! Not only would it be rude and selfish, but without you, it wouldn’t be any fun. What makes you think I would do something like that?”

Virgil leaned into the coolness of Roman’s hand before peering up at him. “Why’d you pack your bag if you’re not going?”

Roman blinked, and then a soft smile formed on his face. He pulled his hand away—Virgil nearly chased after it –and reached down to pull the bag into his lap. “Why, this isn’t packed for adventuring,” he reassured. “I filled it with things for you.”

Tilting his head, Virgil stared up at him. “Huh?”

“Yes! See, I brought that tea— uh, potion, and some more of that goop for your chest, and… Well, there’s a few things in here,” Roman explained, holding it open to show Virgil the contents. “Your father told me that you were quite disappointed that we couldn’t go on our quest, so I figured the least I could do was keep you company during your valiant battle against this bug.”

Virgil sucked in a breath, hope sparking up inside of him. “Really?!”

“Of course, you brave little beast!” Roman exclaimed. He snapped his fingers and shoved his hand back into his bag. “Oh, and I brought a book for us to read! Just because you can’t leave your bed doesn’t mean we can’t have an adventure in our minds!”

Virgil beamed, but the joy was cut short as a coughing fit settled in his chest again. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his mouth in his elbow; Roman tsk’ed and rubbed his back, reaching for the thermos on the nightstand. As soon as it passed, he helped him take a few sips of the hot drink.

“Alright, alright, don’t get too excited now,” Roman soothed. “How about we reapply some of this goopy stuff before we get started, hm?”

Just a few minutes later, Virgil was nestled underneath Roman’s arm as he leaned against the corner where the bed met the wall. His kitty sat in his lap, facing Roman, as he stared at the pastel cover of the book. Roman pressed his lips to Virgil’s forehead for just a moment before humming and pulling the pages open.

“Now, don’t be afraid to fall asleep while I’m reading, alright?” he whispered. “I can always go back and re-read anything you missed.”

Virgil nodded, and Roman smiled. He turned to the book and began to read.

“Prologue:

“The rumbling of the ground did nothing to combat the shaking in Sean’s hands…”

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #virgil sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides fanfic #alex writes #virgil the brave