#unsympathetic roman mention | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prodigal-explorer · 1 month

Text

to celebrate together - a sanders sides fanfiction

this is a cute fluffy fic (for the most part) about human versions of the sides discussing easter, ramadan, and passover, three very prominent holidays from three different religions during the springtime!

(cws -> brief mention of anti-semetism, brief mention of anti-semetic hate crimes, honestly there are brief moments of insensitivity towards all three religions mentioned (christianity/catholicism, islam, and jewish) but they are genuine moments of confusion and not in bad faith! this fic is about learning and growing and respecting other religions, so there is a bit of a learning curve.)

word count: 2.9k

(also, i know i usually write a lot of unsympathetic patton which may deter some people. it will comfort these people to know that patton is not unsympathetic in this fic! he's actually a cool guy! so don't worry about that.)

Everyone in the house knew that Easter was one of Patton’s favorite holidays by now. They had only been living together for a few months, but it was obvious from the new way Patton carried himself in the springtime. He bought a lot of Easter-themed furniture, so by the time March 1st rolled around, the house was covered head to toe in eggs, bunnies, baskets, chicks, and crosses. Lots of crosses.

“Why are there a bunch of plus signs everywhere?” Roman had dared to ask one day, “Logan, is this one of your math projects?”

“You seriously don’t know what a cross is?” Patton asked, his eyes wide with shock, “Oh, that’s right. You’re balsamic.”

“Uh…Islamic,” Roman corrected awkwardly, “Me and Remus just say we’re Muslim. And I know what a cross is, I just didn’t know that it was one of those. They really do look like plus signs with a big tail. What are they all for?”

“Well, they’re Easter decorations!” Patton explained readily, “Since Easter is the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus, we have crosses here to commemorate all he sacrificed for his people.”

“Wow,” Roman said, a smile forming on his face, “I guess Jesus must have been pretty brave.”

“He’s not just brave, Roman,” Patton said, “He died for us. The least we can do is celebrate him.”

“Yeah, that seems fair,” Roman said, still gazing around the colorful, decked out area with a gentle, somewhat cautious curiosity that was generally unlike him. He seemed to sense that this was sensitive territory. “So…why do you guys celebrate Easter the way you do? With the bunnies and the eggs? Did Jesus really like sunny side up or something? Did he have a pet bunny?”

“Come on,” Patton said, “I want to tell everyone about this!”

Roman grinned and followed Patton into the living room, where the others were sitting and chatting. Logan was on the recliner, working on a grocery list, while Janus and Remus were on the ground, playing Go-Fish. Virgil was spread across the couch, scrolling through his phone.

“Guys, Patton’s gonna teach us about Easter!” Roman said, “Like, why they use the eggs and stuff.”

“It’s because of Jesus,” Logan droned tiredly, staring up at Patton, “Is this really necessary?”

“Of course it’s necessary, Logan!” Patton chastised, “It’s the most important event of springtime!”

Virgil tilted his head. “But what about Passover?”

“Pass-what?” Patton said, clearly confused, “No, we’re talking about Easter. What’s passover?”

“I like Layat Al-Qadr best,” Remus shrugged, “It’s the only night of the year where I can get Roman to shut up.”

“Hey!” Roman protested, “Oh, I have an idea! We’ll have a contest. Each of us will talk about what we think is the most important event of springtime, and then we’ll hold a vote!”

“I suppose we can do that,” Janus said, “Logan and I don’t celebrate any of these things, so we will be neutral voters. We don’t have any emotional attachment to any of the options.”

“Perfect!” Patton said, “And we’ll start with Easter, because Easter is-”

“Fat chance,” Virgil said, “Everyone already knows everything about Easter. It’s the only holiday that Americans give a shit about. It’s all over the supermarkets, it gets all the attention and respect. You don’t even know what Passover is, and do you even know that Ramadan exists?”

“Of course I know what ramen is, I had some for dinner last night,” Patton said.

The room was silent for a second.

“Virgil has a point,” Logan said, but when Patton pouted, Logan continued, “But we can still hear Patton out. He may say something we don’t know about yet. Besides, if we’re going to keep this vote objective, we need to hear out every option with equal respect and attention. Can we do that?”

“Yeah, sorry, Pat,” Virgil said softly.

“Sure,” Remus said, “Tell us about how Jesus got nailed on a cross.”

“Why would I tell you about that if you already know that part?” Patton asked with a disgusted expression.

“Cuz it’s the coolest part,” Remus replied with a toothy grin.

“Well…you’re not entirely wrong,” Patton said, growing excited as he started again to speak, “Easter is the holiday that celebrates the resurrection of Jesus! It’s celebrated every springtime, after the first full moon of spring. Jesus was arrested by Jewish leaders, and he was sentenced to death on the cross for trying to lead his people.”

“Interesting,” Janus mumbled, narrowing his eyes a bit, “Jewish leaders. That was an interesting detail to mention. Why does that matter to you, Pat?”

“Anyway,” Patton said icily before continuing the story, “A man named Joseph asked these leaders to take Jesus down from the cross after he died, in order to bury him properly. They allowed it, and Joseph buried Jesus in a stone tomb. But three days later, when people came to put spices on Jesus’ body, they found that he was gone!”

“So Jesus wasn’t actually dead??” Roman asked, clearly shocked by that twist in the story.

“Well, of course he’s not dead,” Patton said, “That’s the entire point of Easter, buddy! Jesus was resurrected. Easter is a holiday that represents rebirth. There’s always hope, and Jesus will always be there for us. Even during the darkest times, and even in the face of death.”

“Jesus is badass,” Remus remarked, “But that still doesn’t explain why there are eggs, though.”

“Oh! Another part of Easter is something called Lent,” Patton said, “In the 40 days leading up to Easter Sunday, Christians and Catholics celebrate Lent, which is a time of prayer and resisting temptation from sin. People sometimes give up things that they consider to be sinful during Lent. It’s a mindful thing. Right now, I’m giving up alcohol. And back in the medieval times, eggs weren’t allowed during Lent, so on Easter Sunday, eggs were used to signify that Lent has passed on by. Also, eggs…they represent rebirth in a way.”

“Don’t they just represent birth?” Logan asked.

“Well, I guess, but…come on, Logan! You like the egg salad I make every easter!”

“Your egg salad is quite good.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Easter is pretty cool,” Virgil said, “That’s really cool, actually.”

“So you think it’s better than your day?” Patton asked hopefully.

Virgil laughed. “Good one. Easter sounds awesome and all, but nothing beats Passover.”

“What’s that one?” Roman asked eagerly, “Why’s it called Passover? Do you play basketball or something?”

“Okay, where the heck did basketball come from?” Janus asked.

“I mean…you pass over the ball. In basketball,” Roman replied.

“No basketball,” Virgil chuckled, “It’s actually called Passover for a bit of a complicated reason. I’ll start from the beginning. This story starts in Egypt. The pharaoh, who is basically the leader of Egypt, didn’t like Jewish people, and he didn’t want too many Jewish people living in Egypt. So he enslaved all the Jews who currently lived there, and ordered that all Jewish babies who are birthed in Egypt get killed.”

Roman’s eyes widened, and he started to feel a bit sick.

“But why?” he demanded, “The Jewish babies didn’t even do anything!”

“You’d be surprised what people do to people who are different,” Virgil replied in a mutter, “Anyway, one Jewish woman decided that she wouldn’t let her baby die. She hid her baby in a basket and put him into the river, to float away to somewhere safer. The pharaoh's daughter found the baby, and decided to take him in. His name was Moses.”

“Oh! Moses!” Roman cried out in recognition, “Like the movie, like the movie The Prince Of Egypt!”

Virgil smiled slightly and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, like that movie. That’s a good movie if you guys want to learn more about Moses.”

“And listen to some amazing songs by Stephen Schwartz!” Roman added.

“Roman, let’s let Virgil finish, okay?” Logan said, and Roman reluctantly nodded, turning his attention back to Virgil.

“Anyway, Moses grew up, and found out that he was Jewish, and he came from a Jewish family. He saw how horribly his people were being treated, and when he killed a slave master, he ran away to the desert,” Virgil continued, “There, he found a burning bush, and the bush talked to him. The bush basically said that he was God, and he was going to help Moses set the Jewish people free. But when Moses came back and told the pharaoh this, the pharaoh refused, over and over. And every time the pharaoh refused, God sent down a different plague, or curse, to Egypt.”

“But that’s not fair,” Patton protested, “The rest of the people didn’t even do anything.”

“Well, I don’t disagree,” Virgil said, “But God wasn’t feeling very forgiving after having his people enslaved for years. He knew that there was no other way to convince the pharaoh.”

“Yeah, if you’re gonna get mad at anyone, get mad at the pharaoh,” Janus said, “He was the stubborn son of a bitch who wouldn’t set free the slaves. He put his people in danger by doing that just because he wanted more free labor.”

“There were a lot of plagues because the pharaoh kept saying no,” Virgil explained, “And the tenth plague was a curse called the angel of death, a curse that would kill the first-born child of every home. In order to protect the innocent families, God told Moses to tell anyone who would listen to paint over their door with lamb’s blood. If the door was painted over, then the curse would pass over them, and nobody would die. Passover, see?”

Roman nodded, his eyes widening as he was enraptured in the story. “Passover,” he repeated.

“The Israelites listened to Moses, but a lot of others in Egypt didn’t, including the Pharaoh,” Virgil said, a bit sadly, “It sucked. They all had to learn the hard way. If they had just listened to Moses, nobody would have died. If the pharaoh had just let the Israelites go the first time, then none of the plagues would have had to happen. But stricken with grief after his firstborn son died, the pharaoh finally let the Israelites go, and they were freed from slavery.”

“So that’s the story of Passover,” Logan said, “How is it celebrated?”

“Well, it’s celebrated for eight days,” Virgil explained, “Seven if you’re in Israel. But here in America, it’s eight. On the first night of Passover, Jewish families have a Passover seder, which is a big dinner where we pray and sing, and we tell stories from a book called the Haggadah. All families celebrate a little differently, but for the most part, we do that stuff. I remember when I was little, my mom would always give me a sip of her wine.”

“Damn, just a sip?” Remus asked with a little laugh, “Shoulda given you a whole cup. Imagine a drunk little Virgil stumbling around.”

“That would have been cool,” Virgil admitted, “Me and my cousins would drink grape juice and pretend to be drunk. After all the serious stuff was over, of course. A big part of Passover is discussing current events. Unfortunately, most places in the world aren’t very Jew-friendly. Even here in America, there are a lot of hate crimes. Actually…”

Roman noticed with horror that Virgil was getting teary-eyed.

“Virgil?” Logan asked quietly, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil said, trying to wipe away his tears before they fell, “This is hard to talk about. The synagogue that my family went to when I was a kid before I moved here, it- a few years ago- it- it got burnt down.”

“Burnt down,” Janus realized, “As in…someone did it. On purpose.”

Virgil nodded, his eyes completely downcast. He was crying, but his face was hardened, almost angry. But not quite. He seemed too sad to be angry.

“All the drawings the kids made. All the food that people donated. All the copies of the Torah,” he whispered, “It was all gone in one night. My parents still can’t talk about it without crying. I guess I can’t either.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone burning down a religious building like that,” Patton said softly, “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah? That’s cuz they don’t burn down your stuff,” Janus said quietly, putting a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, “I’m sorry, Virgil. You…don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. No matter what.”

“Don’t let me stop you from continuing the competition,” Virgil said, “Remus, I wanna hear about yours. What is this one day that can get Roman to shut up?”

“Do we really have to bring that joke back?” Roman asked, too amused to be sore.

“Well, the night I was talking about, Layat Al-Qadr, is just one night of Ramadan,” Remus started to explain, “Ramadan’s actually about a month long.”

“A whole month?” Logan asked, “Wow. That’s a lot longer than Easter and Passover.”

“Not if you count Lent,” Patton pointed out.

“Layat Al-Qadr is the 27th day of Ramadan,” Roman continued, “And you pray the whole entire night, pretty much. We ask Allah to forgive us for the mistakes we made, and we hope that he says yes.”

“How do you know if he says yes?” Logan asked, tilting his head slightly.

Roman shrugged. “You don’t. That’s why you have to believe.”

“That sounds kinda boring, praying for the whole night,” Janus admitted, “Is that seriously the only thing you do?”

“I was worried it would be boring too,” Roman admitted, “But it’s actually really cool. You’d be surprised how therapeutic it is. It feels nice, talking to someone who you know will always listen. Reflecting on all the stuff you did, and figuring out how to do better without worrying about anyone getting mad at you or hating you.”

“And we also have iftar,” Remus said, “It’s like a giant meal, and we get to spend time with family while breaking our fast.”

“Wait, wait- you fast?” Virgil asked, “For an entire month?”

“It’s not so bad,” Remus shrugged, “Especially because we have iftar, and we usually eat a little bit in the morning. Breaking the fast together as a family during iftar is cool, because, like, everybody’s breaking it at the same time. So it’s like- we all are hungry together, and then we all become satisfied together. It’s pretty cool.”

“We also have five prayers that we say every day,” Roman added, “Along with an extra one at night. The prayers are the really important part because it’s so traditional. It’s been done for so many years before us, it’s like…passing down a torch. We don’t want to forget about it. So we do it to honor the people before us, so that hopefully, the people after us have something in common with us when they celebrate Ramadan.”

“Well, when you explain it like that, it sounds really cool,” Virgil admitted.

“I used to think prayer was weird, and kinda culty,” Janus mumbled, clearly a bit ashamed, “But…it actually sounds awesome. Mindful, you know?”

“Wait, where does Ramadan come from anyway?” Patton asked, “Like the fasting and the praying. Who started it?”

“It was started by the Prophet Muhammad,” Roman said eagerly, “He’s this really cool guy who told us what Allah wanted for the Muslim people. And Ramadan is the month on the Muslim calendar where Muhammad found the Quran, which is our holy book. It’s sort of like Patton’s bible and Virgil’s Torah.”

“Oh, gotcha,” Patton said.

“To be more specific, it’s the ninth month of our calendar,” Remus said, “But also, it depends on the moon. It’s like a thing. To try and spot the Ramadan moon. Roman and I did it a few times when we were younger.”

“It’s hard to do it now,” Roman said, “There’s so much artificial light in this city. But once it’s high enough in the sky, we can see it great. It’s so cool, feeling like you discovered something.”

“And we fast because Muhammad told us to, basically,” Remus said, “It’s one of the five pillars of Islam, fasting during Ramadan. And like Roman said, the Muslim people have done it for thousands and thousands of years. So it feels really awesome to continue it today. Even if it leaves us a little hungry and cranky sometimes.”

“You guys should come to iftar sometime,” Roman said, “A bunch of our Muslim friends and us all come together and eat and talk and laugh, and just enjoy each other’s company.”

“It sounds amazing,” Virgil said, “Kinda like Passover seder.”

Remus nudged Virgil gently, smiling over at him.

“Hey, yeah!” he said.

“And Easter Sunday!” Patton piped up.

“Maybe all our events have more in common than we think,” Roman said, “I mean, all of them have cool stories, and big dinners, and just…that festive attitude. That feeling of carrying on a tradition that’s so much bigger than yourself.”

“Do we even need a vote, then?” Logan asked, “I don’t know what to vote for. All of those events sound lovely.”

“I agree,” Janus said, “Maybe we can vote on something else. Like what movie to watch tonight?”

“I vote The Prince Of Egypt!” Roman cried out, “Virgil made me think about it, and now all the songs are in my head!”

“Oh! I’ll make some egg salad for dinner!” Patton said, “It’s the 21st century, we’re allowed to eat eggs during Lent now!”

“Maybe I’ll bring in the leftover date cookies from yesterday’s iftar,” Remus said.

“Yes, those are so good!” Roman agreed, “And I wrapped them in foil, so they should still taste fresh!”

Virgil smiled and closed his eyes, wiping away his residual tears gently as he listened to his friends ramble and scramble to celebrate together. Maybe tonight, this strange amalgamation of Easter, Ramadan, and Passover, the mutual respect and admiration for these three holidays, was their most important event of the springtime.

(i hope you all enjoyed this fic!! during times like these especially, it is so important to remember that every religion is beautiful and valid, and every religious holiday ought to be respected! now, i am not catholic, christian, muslim, or jewish. i wrote about these holidays after doing extensive research from multiple sources for each, but if i got anything wrong, please please let me know and i will correct it to the best of my ability. i promise i want to learn and grow, just like these guys, so if something is inaccurate, please tell me if you feel so inclined, and i will take what you say into account!!)

(have an amazing spring, no matter what you celebrate!!)

10 notes · View notes

yourchemicallyimbalancedromance · 6 months

Text

Burned Bridges

Summary: Virgil runs into a wasted Janus at a party that his best friend, Roman, is throwing on Halloween night. A locked door forces them to confront their heavy past.

Ships: past analogical, present prinxiety

CW/TW: Alcohol, smoking, homophobia and bullying, Human!Virgil, Human!Remus (mentioned), Human!Roman, Human!Remy (mentioned), Human!Janus, Human!Logan (mentioned), unsympathetic Virgil, unsympathetic Janus, sympathetic Roman

It was October 31st and instead of binge watching horror movies by himself in the dark of his room, Virgil found himself standing in the corner of his childhood bestfriends house, early 2000’s pop music blasting in the background. He hadn’t dressed up and hundreds of people were bobbing up and down in a sea of red plastic cups, costumes, and glow stick bracelets, screaming the lyrics that came out of the speakers Roman had bought. He’d forced Virgil to go with him to buy them after begging him to come to the party because, in his words, “you never get out of the house, it’ll be fun! Especially if you meet a cute guy”

Virgil laughed after he said this, only responded with “yeah, whatever you say, Roman.”

Tequila suffocated anything that represented a pleasant smell out of the room. He was holding a drink himself, taking sips of it occasionally; not because it tasted good—at all—but because he had a hunch he wouldn’t want to remember the events of tonight.

His throat burned. He knew he wasn’t supposed to sip Tequila, normally he chugged it, but he liked the distraction of the pain and the warmth that filled him after every taste.

He desperately looked around for a familiar face. Last he saw Roman was when the party had started four hours earlier. It was now 2 AM and he had done nothing but drink, take shots with Remus and a few of his friends, be forced to dance by Remy, and stand in the corner waiting for it all to be over.

He chugged the rest of his drink and stood there for a moment, sinking in the environment around him, ultimately deciding to hide in the bathroom until the party was over. He took a few shaky steps into the crowd of people, shoving past drunks and the occasional stoner. He never really understood why Roman hung out with these kind of people, he honestly doubted that he knew most of the people in his house anyway.

He found his way to the bathroom and shoved it open, quickly closing and locking it, sitting on the cold tile floor.

In his rush, he hadn’t noticed Janus, wearing a Harry Potter costume, who was also sitting on the floor.

“Fuck, Sorry I didn’t know you were—“

Janus cuts him off “Vrrrrrrgggllll” he laughs, the name on his tongue slurring together.

“Look I didn’t know you were in here, I’ll just leave.” He states bluntly, getting up to open the door, wishing he still had his drink, he really didn’t want to remember this. He tried to force down his unresolved anger but it came out sharp in his voice.

“Vir-gil,” Janus hiccups “can I tell youuuu a secret?”

Virgil tries to unlock the door but it’s jammed, no matter how hard he pulls or twists the knob, it won’t budge. He sinks back down to the floor, annoyed. “Whatever Janus, sure” he says

“I think you’re still angry at me” he blurts out, giggling a bit, eyes drooping.

“Yeah, I am. You fucked me over, really bad. Who wouldn’t be.” he spits. He had his knees to his chest, his back to the door, trying to stay as far away from Janus as he could.

Janus struggled to stand up, grabbing onto the shower curtain and slipping, falling back down, pulling the curtain and rod down with him. Janus just giggled. “Oops.” was all he said.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Fucking hell, Janus. Can you stop being a nuisance for two minutes?” He screams.

Janus looks at him for a moment before registering what he said, mumbling a “sorry”

With anyone else, Virgil would’ve felt sorry for yelling, but Janus was the exception. He deserved it, worse than that even.

“You ruined the one good thing I had and you expect me to feel fucking sorry for you?” He snaps.

“I-“ Janus hiccups “I didn’t mean to” the light and carelessness in his eyes from earlier, gone. Now replaced with only a hint of it behind dull pupils.

“Yeah?, well you did. You think ganging up on me and Logan didn’t fucking ruin our relationship? You think the constant harassment inside and outside of Uni wasn’t fucking enough for me to have atleast a little bit of anger towards you?” he was practically screeching but he didn’t care, the music would cover it anyway.

Janus was staring at him, almost emotionless apart from the look in his eyes, which were starting to water.

Virgil got up to try the door again when Roman suddenly opened it, looking from Virgil to Janus and then Virgil again. He gave him a “what the actual hell is going on????” look and Virgil just shook his head, shoved past Roman and into the crowd.

Roman stared at Janus for a minute, taking notice of the curtain and curtain rod astray on the floor. He didn’t say anything, just closed the door and ran after Virgil.

———————————————————————

After a few minutes of searching inside, he found Virgil in his front yard, sitting on the stairs, smoking a cigarette.

He sat down next to him and a thick silence hung between them. Virgil blew out smoke into the cold air before clearing his throat. “He was acting like we were best friends again, can you believe it?” He laughed in exasperation.

Roman could believe it, Janus had always been an asshole in College and even before that, that was kinda his thing, which was why he was surprised when Virgil had suddenly decided to become friends with him one day.

“He’s so funny dude, like literally one of the best people I’ve ever met” he had said

Roman had just smiled and laughed in return, knowing how awful he was to his other friends.

Roman didn’t say anything this time either, just shook his head.

“I hate him so much, Ro. He’s awful. He ruined everything. Logan hasn’t spoken to me in almost a year because of the shit he pulled before we graduated.”

Roman sighed, “I know, Virg…but he’s not necessarily known for being a good person, I thought you knew that” he says softly.

Virgil took a drag of his cigarette and breathed out, “obviously not.” He said a little annoyed.

Immediately he regretted it. “Sorry” he said, tapping his cigarette and letting the ashes fall.

Roman gave him a reassuring smile, “it’s okay”

Virgil put his cigarette on the concrete step they were sat on, getting rid of its light and throwing the butt into the grass. He put his head in his hands. “Life’s rough, man. I don’t even miss him anymore I’m just upset because he made me really, really happy. Sometimes…I feel like it’s my fault? for introducing him to Janus.”

“It’s not your fault at all. It’s his. Honestly? I don’t even know why he’s here. I didn’t invite him, someone else probably did.“ Roman says the last part sheepishly, a little ashamed that he let Janus in his house with his best friend that he hurt irreversibly.

Virgil turns to Roman, staring at him longingly in the eyes. They were beautiful. Hazel with green specks around the edges. Maybe it was the tequila, or his exhaustion, or his desperation to feel loved by someone, but he slowly moved a hand to Romans face.

“Can I?” He whispered

Roman looked at him for a moment, weighing his options. He did like Virgil, but what if he was doing this in a drunken haze? What if he was just using him to get over Logan? He didn’t believe he was truly over their relationship just yet.

Despite these fears, Roman shook his head and their lips locked. He let himself melt into it, let himself enjoy the moment. He tasted of alcohol, honey lavender tea, and Marlboro Reds.

After a moment, Virgil pulled away; A look of blissful happiness on his face.

Roman was still holding onto the moment, staring through Virgil.

He looked at him, worried. “oh god I’m so sorry did you not want—“

Roman interrupted him, “No! no I did..I really, really did.” He smiled, genuinely.

Virgil returned it, “That’s good.”

Roman paused for a second “so…does this mean we’re dating?..” he asked “cause you’re drunk and I just don’t want-“

Virgil took Romans hands in his. “I’m just a little tipsy, Honey, but I know what I want, and what I want is this.” he says gently.

“Okay.” Roman responds, hopeful.

“I’m gonna head home, alright? Text me, I’ll respond as soon as I can” Virgil says

“I will, love” he says. The nickname feels odd leaving his lips, especially being used on someone who’s been his friend for 22 years, but he says it anyway.

Virgil gets in his car and pauses.

Romans phone dings after a minute or two and he takes it out of his pocket, reading the message before watching Virgil’s car leave his driveway.

Virgil<3: “I promise I want this, and I want you. Some tequila and a little heartbreak doesn’t change that. 💜”

Roman smiles, puts his phone back in his pocket, and goes back inside.

20 notes · View notes

vash-the-trans-catboy · 1 year

Text

Title: Too Much Morality Will Cause Anxiety

Prompt from @alvodra : Always on the search for more Logan calming Virgil down and being the only one truly understanding anxiety, possibly with Patton messing up somehow

Summary: Patton causes Virgil a lot of anxiety but Logan is there to help Virgil through it.

Word count: 1630

Tag list: @prince-rowan-of-the-forest @ishipgenfics (let me know if you want to be added)

TWs: Mentions of alcohol, manipulation, anxiety, panic attacks, little unsympathetic Patton

AO3

Thomas paced around the living room, occasionally glancing down at his watch. There was a debate going on inside his head and it looked like he was losing. Thomas decided he might as well make this debate real.

“Can everyone meet me in the living room? Please it’s an emergency?” Thomas called out loud to summon his logic, morality, anxiety, and creativity.

First, his logical side, dressed in business casual as usual, popped into the room.

“Is everything alright, Thomas?” Logan asked with a slight face of concern. A few emotions slipped through his stoic face. Logan tries to keep an appearance of seriousness, but Thomas and the other sides know Logan does care a lot.

“I’m-" “THOMAS, ARE YOU HURT?!?” Patton rushed into the conversation, interrupting Thomas.

While Logan and Patton were busy trying to figure out what was wrong with Thomas, Virgil quietly snuck in. Like a cat, Virgil stood on the steps observing everyone, waiting for his opportunity to make his presence known. His purple eyeshadow glimmered in the light. As grumpy as he pretends to be, his eyeshadow clearly gave away that he was having a good day.

Finally, the most dramatic side appeared.

“Oh god! Thomas! This is really an emergency. Your hair is absolutely atrocious. This must be why you called us here so suddenly.” Roman summoned a hairbrush, “Don’t worry as the most stylish side I got you covered.”

“My hair isn’t why I called you all here.” Thomas tried to correct Roman, but Roman was not listening. He threw the hairbrush at Thomas. It flew through the air, then went straight through Thomas’ head. Roman tended to forget since he was part of Thomas’ mind that anything he summoned Thomas could not touch. Thomas blankly stared at his sides as the hairbrush fell onto the floor. “Still isn’t about my hair.”

“Are you sure?” Roman raised one eyebrow in a questioning matter, “Couldn’t hurt for me to teach you to style it.”

“Ok. Moving on. This is wasting time. Thomas, why have you called us here?” Logan huffed at Roman’s antics as he returned the floor to Thomas.

“Maybe he’s dying.” Virgil deadpanned.

Thomas continued talking about his emergency, ignoring the dying comment, “So there’s this party. And this really cute guy invited me to go. But I don’t know if I should actually go.”

Logan rolled his eyes, “You must learn what is a real emergency.”

“A party! With a cute guy! Thomas, you’d be insane to say no.” Roman happily said.

“I don’t know guys. Crowded places aren’t always the best setting for Thomas. We should politely decline and go under our covers instead.” Virgil said looking a bit uneasy.

“Oh, Virgil. Being a downer as usual.” Patton said, “Thomas as your side that is your happiness you have to go. Socialization is great. Plus if Virgil said no you automatically know to do the opposite. When is listening to anxiety ever good?”

“What if the cute guy doesn’t show? Do you know anyone else at this party? What if the host doesn’t want you there? Will there be alcohol or drugs? Who am I kidding, it’s an adult party of course there will be alcohol and drugs. What if you get taken advantage of while not completely in your senses?” Virgil’s eyeshadow turned to a slightly darker purple, all the glimmer disappeared.

“Now you are just being stupid, Virgil. Real life isn’t as bad as your mind tells you it is. Thomas, trust me. I’m your morality. Would I ever really do something to harm you? This party will be good for you, for all of us.” Patton glanced at Virgil, “It will be especially good for dear Virgil here. You know how a little bit of alcohol can take the edge off. Maybe a few drinks and the nagging voice in your head will calm down.”

Virgil’s eyeshadow turned another shade darker. The purple started to mix with black. The joy from Virgil’s eyes was long gone. “If you drink you might not be able to make a rational decision. How well do you know this cute guy? What if he has bad intentions?”

“Please don’t listen to Mr. Fearful over here. Virgil is overreacting. This isn’t even an argument. Everyone knows you should go to the party and you really want to.” Patton smiled at Thomas. Virgil knows that smile and recoiled a bit, pushing his hood over his head, “So you’ll go to the party, right? Wouldn’t you love a night off from anxiety?”

Thomas shifted from one foot to another, he could feel the tension. “I’m not so sure I want to go now.”

“It’s because of Virgil isn’t it?” Patton pointed his finger accusingly at Virgil, “Maybe next time only bring the important sides if you actually want to get anything done.”

The room got deadly silent for a second. The only sound to be heard was heavy breathing.

Virgil’s eyeshadow turned completely black. His eyes dulled in color as well. He wobbled a little as the room spun.

Logan took a step closer to Virgil, “Virgil, you are looking pale. Do you feel alright?”

Virgil promptly collapsed to the floor before sinking out.

Complete chaos broke out the second he disappeared.

Thomas was too stunned to talk. He’d seen Patton and Virgil not get along before, but never to this degree.

“What the hell, Patton?” Roman yelled at Patton.

Logan was trying to hold back his anger, “You crossed a line this time.”

“I didn’t say anything there rest of us weren’t thinking.” Patton shot back.

“I don’t have time for this. I’ll lecture you later.” Logan turned to Roman, “Make sure Thomas is alright. I’m going to check on Virgil.” Logan sunk out.

“Patton please leave”

“But kiddo”

“No. You’ve done enough.” Patton pouted, then left the room in defeat.

…………………………….

Logan appeared in front of Virgil’s door. “Hey, Virgil. Are you in here?” He knocked on the door and waited for an answer. A minute passed; No one answered. He knocked again, “It’s Logan. I’m concerned.”

He attempted to open to door since Virgil was starting to worry him. He twisted the knob; It was locked. “Please, Virgil. I am truly worried.”

Still no answer. Logan sighed and took a seat next to Virgil’s door, “I don’t know if you can hear me but I’m going to give this shot. Take a deep breath. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. Repeat. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.” Logan breathed in and out as he instructed Virgil on his breathing. He wanted to give off as calm of an aura as possible.

“Getting in touch with your senses usually works to help ground you. What are five things you can see? You don’t have to say them out loud if you don’t want to.”

Logan heard a few mumbles from the other side of the door. It sounded vaguely like, “Bed, plushies, lamp, door, fan.”

“Very good, Virgil. Now four things you can feel.” Logan felt an immense sense of relief hearing Virgil’s voice.

“Carpet, clothing, impending doom, coldness.” The door lock clicked open.

“May I come in?” Logan stood up, putting his hand on the doorknob. He waited for Virgil’s response.

It was quiet for a few moments, a small “yeah” was heard in the background.

Logan slowly opened the door. “Three things you can hear.” He said as he walked in.

“Door creaking, sound machine, your voice.” Virgil closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“You are doing great. Two things you can smell.”

Virgil started to sniff the room, “Lavender and your hand sanitizer.”

Logan sat down next to Virgil, “One thing you can taste.”

“Umm, my tongue I guess?” Virgil wiped his eyes, smudging his eyeshadow.

“Physical contact?” Logan asked.

“Yeah, I’m good with physical contact today.”

Logan took Virgil’s hand. He helped Virgil stand up and lead him to the bed. Virgil collapsed into Logan’s arms and started hysterically sobbing.

“I am just trying to protect Thomas and be helpful,” Virgil mumbled into Logan’s chest.

Logan rubbed circles on Virgil’s back, “I know. I think everything you said had a valid point. It is always important to think about safety.”

“I don’t understand why Patton hates me so much.”

“I do not see the logic in him hating you. We are a team. Targeting one of us will just be counterproductive.” Logan ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair, “Tomorrow I am going to give Patten a stern lecture.”

Logan heard a small laugh from Virgil. He looked up to meet Logan’s gaze, “You’d do that for me?”

Logan smiled, “Of course. You know I love a good lecture.”

Logan shifted Virgil off his lap and onto the pillow. He carefully slid off the bed.

Virgil reached for him, “Please stay.”

“I will be right back, I promise.” Logan went into the bathroom connected to Virgil’s room. He pulled out a container of makeup wipes from the draw. Logan gently took off Virgil’s eyeshadow to prevent it from ruining his bed or getting in his eyes.

Virgil’s eyes drooped in tiredness.

“I think it would be best to call it a night and go to sleep.” Logan pulled the spider web patterned comforter over Virgil.

Virgil reached out and tugged on Logan’s wrist, “Stay here tonight.”

“Of course, Virgil.” He pushed the comforter over and slid over it. Logan pulled Virgil into his arms and kissed his forehead. “Sleep tight, my dear.”

Virgil’s breaths eventually evened out as he fell asleep. Once Logan was sure Virgil was soundly asleep he pulled Virgil closer and fell asleep. Logan held onto Virgil all night to let him know was he always there for him.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #c!thomas #sanders sides fanfiction #thegayemo writing #ts logan #ts virgil #ts roman #ts patton #ts analogical #analogical

61 notes · View notes

i-will-physically-fight-you · 8 months

Text

Spoke No More

Title: Spoke No More Summary: Humans are pattern-seekers. They seek to find patterns, specifically ones that are pleasurable and add meaning in life. Humans are not meant to be limited to seeing the same four walls day in and day out. Solitary confinement means there is only one pattern that is pleasureless and meaningless in every way possible. Even with the daily visits of shades that masquerade as his friends, Virgil is still so alone. Such an existence messes with one’s grasp of self after a time. An hour feels the same as a day and a day feels the same as an hour. Cramped, filthy cell or gleaming, luxurious castle--Virgil knows the truth. It matters not his surroundings, he is still in a machination designed by his captors for his impending demise. Yet when a new pattern emerges, one that Virgil has not witnessed within the hundreds of iterations he has endured--there is a question that lingers with it; is it yet another ploy of his captors to extract valuable information from him? Or could it be a sliver of reality shining through? Sequel fic to Heard No More Word-Count: 15k Pairings: Platonic Lamp Warnings: Whump, Malnutrition, Starvation Mention, Disassociation, Nightmares, Aftermath of Torture, Panic Attack, CPTSD, Crying, Injury Mention, Blood, Villain OC, Portrayals of Unsympathetic Sides (None of them are actually unsympathetic), Unreliable Narrator, Guilt, Angst with an Ambiguous Ending (It’s Part of a Series) Hello there, I'm posting this because if I don't post this it will never see the light of day even though this fic could use more time to bake in the oven. This was created as part of the @tss-storytime big bang and @virgeandhis-pocket-protector was my artist partner. Please check out their amazing contribution here! I have felt like I've been drowning the last few months due to ongoing events in my irl so I sincerely apologize for my infrequent communication on here and hope your year is going better than mine. Without further ado please enjoy.

Part 1: Foul is Fair

Virgil stares at the huge swaths of fabric that frame the huge window of the Prince Quarters. There is a name for them—curtains, he thinks. Even though his mother made her living as a weaver, they did not have curtains in their small cottage. Instead, they used wooden shutters to block out unwanted light and slept close to the fire during the cold months to keep warm.

As a Shadow, he slept wherever he was commanded. A cellar, a field, a stable. He was fortunate if he was able to even have a blanket for his weary body to curl underneath. No, it was when he became Patton’s apprentice, that extravagances such as curtains became known to him. His mage apprentice quarters had white curtains. Not a bold, regal red such as the Prince’s Quarters.

It is still peculiar that His Eminence chose the Prince Quarters as the setting of his new lavish confinement. Why not Virgil’s former quarters? Or a supposed guest quarter? Even Patton’s quarters would be somewhat believable.

Furthermore, where does “Roman” supposedly sleeps? Virgil has not even seen his likeness in some time. In all the lies that His Eminence tells Virgil, He never informs him exactly why he is being kept in the Prince’s Quarters. It is almost insulting if He thinks Virgil is incapable of rational thought.

The illogicalness of it could simply be His Eminence’s ploy. He desires for Virgil to think this is a dream and dreams do not make sense. An obvious absurdity could be purposeful to hide away the more subtle absurdities. Virgil cannot let his defense falter for a moment against His Eminence.

The Prince Quarters is certainly a more appealing sight on his eyes than that of his cramped cell. It does not mean his eyes have not grown tired at looking at it. Isolation in a singular environment is torment regardless of one’s surroundings.

Humans are not meant to be limited to seeing the same four walls day in and day out. Humans are pattern-seekers. They seek to find patterns, specifically ones that are pleasurable and add meaning in life. Solitary isolation means there is only one pattern that is pleasureless and meaningless in every way possible. Such an existence messes with one’s grasp of self after a time. An hour feels the same as a day and a day feels the same as an hour.

The only way Virgil has survived is through sheer spite. If he doubts himself for more than a moment, he could not endure otherwise.

Virgil still cannot seem to grasp a coherent sense of time within the Prince Quarters. Time is a rushing fierce current of water and Virgil is helplessly caught in its current, tumbled and thrashed about.

Even so, time does run differently within the confines of the Prince’s Quarter. It is seemingly more linear, consistent in some ways. He continues to not dream—or at least possess any dreams he can remember. There is really only one dream he remembers. He does not know if it is even a dream. It is very possible it is another ploy, another form of His Eminence’s trickery.

All he knows is that he is in the Prince Quarters and it is dark. The intricate décor of the Prince Quarters is reduced to nothing but vague, shapeless silhouettes of the night. Within this darkness, is a figure. A person. Or at least he thinks this shade is a person. It moves around the room, muttering syllables under its breath. Virgil stays still, not giving any indication of being aware of it. But somehow, it knows.

“Virgil,” The shade says, assumingly turning sharply to face him. Virgil does not make a noise. He does not even move. He only stares at the living shadow looming above him.

“Why didn’t you—why did you—” It’s words dissolve into stifled sobs, “You were right, Virgil. I should’ve listened but I—I didn’t, I refused to—and—and I am sorry.”

The shadow collapses onto itself, falling, falling, falling—

“You’re still a moron, you know that?”

“While I am offended that you’d speak so lowly of me, the kingdom actually did not fall apart within the few hours of my absence.”

“Yet.”

The shade huddles near the foot of his bed. Virgil continues watching it with half-lidded eyes. The voice sounds vaguely like Roman. But a form of Roman that Virgil has never seen or heard. Even His Eminence’s frail interpretation is closer to the original than this one. Roman is always too haughty, too prideful to admit his faults. Even so, there is no wrongdoing for Roman to admit. It doesn’t make any sense.

Virgil has no one to blame for his torment, no one but himself. It is because he is weak, he is a shadow—an apparition. He should’ve died long before Patton claimed him as his apprentice. Yet selfishly, he cherishes it nonetheless. For a fleeting, few years—he knew some semblance of happiness he hadn’t known since his mother’s passing. It was everything to him and nothing to them.

Even though within the recesses of his mind, he dares to refer to Roman, Patton and Logan as friends—it is a lie. A sweet lie that comforts him through the groves of more bitter, twisted lies.

This shade, barely comparable to His Roman, insists otherwise, “I should’ve been the one—I deserved it, you didn’t—you shouldn’t have—”

Virgil doesn’t understand it. This must be a dream—there is no other explanation for it. His Eminence would not ever portray the others taking the blame—He enjoys twisting the knife that is reality too much. It cannot be anything else. It cannot.

There is also no explanation for what Virgil does next. Dream or not, he should not react. He should stay still, stay quiet. No rustling of the covers, no creak of the bed as his weight leaves it. All he knows is that somehow, he ends up kneeling by this shade, offering a hand.

“V-Virgil? You were--What?” This shade, Roman-But-Not, asks. Virgil prods his hand closer to the other’s line of sight. He does not think at first this Roman will accept it. But then a trembling hand clasps onto it. Virgil stands up, tugging Roman upright with him.

“Where—oompfh!”

He pulls them onto the bed. It’s where Roman should be resting—it is his bed after all. Perhaps this really is a dream—in that his mind is attempting to put to rest the absurdity of reality. Although in its own illogical rationale—as dreams often are apt to do.

He does not say anything to this Roman. If he did, then this dream would be that of a nightmare. So instead of words, he clasps tightly to Roman’s hand when the other tries rising from the bed. As tightly as he could muster—for his strength is oh so meager.

Somehow, it is enough to stop this Roman from leaving the bed. The probable prince also does not say any words of his own. A squeeze on Virgil’s hand and heaving breaths are the only things that indicate there is another person beside him.

Yet when Virgil regains consciousness, the Prince Quarters is empty of any indication that its true owner had visited within the last night.

Strange dreams aside, he starts to be able to eat solid foods more easily with only the occasional puking incident. His body hurts, but not like before. It helps when His Eminence has avoided any torments of the physical kind. His skin can no longer be described as raw and bleeding as a fresh cut of meat.

Not-Logan has remained the one to watch over him. Patton-lookalike has made a few visits, keeping up a cheerful stream of nonsense. Virgil refuses to acknowledge it, but there is a small part of him that has been growing too comfortable at the sight of this Patton. But the Piper Prince, the person whose quarters he currently inhabits? It has been a while Virgil has seen a glimpse of him aside from that odd specter. Virgil almost misses his appearance, even if it is just a fake. Even though he should feel more relieved that His Eminence has decided against using his face.

His Eminence has invited him to view the Library a few more times after the first visit. Like a stranded traveler in a desert thirsting for a drop of water, Virgil seeks it every time. It is a new pattern, an opportunity to briefly leave the confines of the Prince Quarters. Virgil still cannot find a crack, a weakness in the illusion. He suspects that the Library is a ploy to gain forbidden knowledge from Virgil’s mind.

It seems like a logical line of thinking. If you lead your victim into an illusion of a highly protected confidential library, the victim will associate it with their own forbidden protected knowledge. Sometimes, Logan asks him if he wants to read a book. Virgil simply shakes his head, willing to sit among the books. Logan oddly enough, doesn’t insist on it.

Virgil wonders how much His Eminence is willing to be patient before he gives up on this ploy. Eventually, He will snap. He has to. But the Prince Quarters is still a prison cell and he is still a man slowly losing every bit of his sanity. The truth is that his most paranoid thought is that none of this is real. Or real in the sense that he is still living and breathing.

What if this was some cruel afterlife designed by the gods for his failures to live a more fulfilling life? Best case scenario, it involves him fulfilling a requirement to pass on to the true afterlife, where he can be with his mother. Worst case scenario, he’s trapped here forever.

Or maybe instead of the last moments of his life flashing before his eyes before he dies, the Ether has chosen to leave him with this absurdity.

He blinks and the curtains are nonexistent. He sees not curtains but lines upon lines of rusted iron bars. A face lies half-hidden behind them, with eyes that gleam a bit too unnaturally. Virgil stumbles aback, his heart beating faster at the sight of it.

“What do you want?” He demands, baring his teeth in an animalistic fashion. He doesn’t understand why the visitor is here. He wants to be left alone in the few remaining moments he has left.

The visitor looks at him, smiling. It is a semi-circle that does not convey cruelty but something just as violent; kindness. There are lines on the visitor’s face—crinkles that indicate this visitor has done much of this smiling in his life. The visitor opens his mouth and says—

“Virgil!”

Without any rhyme or reason or explanation, Roman is here. It is too much of a coincidence. It makes Virgil on edge as to what His Eminence has planned in this. This Roman does not, however, weep or make guilty proclamations. Instead, he sits by the bed, detailing his latest duel against his sword fighting instructor.

“So just as he was about to disarm me, I managed to parry and then with quick thinking on my part–”

There’s a knock on the door. It startles Virgil. Never before has there been a knock at the door. Even Roman seems surprised by it, or at least acts surprised. He stands up immediately, positioning himself between the door and Virgil.

“Who is it?” Roman growls, a hand clutching tightly to the hilt of his sword.

“Why, only the most beguiling knight of the realm,” Answers a seasoned, witty voice. It’s familiar. Why does it sound so familiar?

Roman’s hand flies away from his sword as the tension is sharply swept from his demeanor. He practically bounds across the room to open the door. Virgil watches, his reed pen loose in his grasp. It’s the first time he’s really seen Roman this excited since…well. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was really his Roman.

“You’re back!” Roman cries, throwing the door wide open. His back blocks Virgil’s view so he has no idea who he is speaking to. Only that the visible tuft of peppered black hair confirms it can’t be Logan or Patton.

“What, missed me?” The person asks and their question is clearly answered by Roman throwing his arms around them in an encompassing embrace. They share a few words, but Virgil can’t hear them.

“Virgil, look it’s Remy,” Roman says, eyes bright. He clearly expects Virgil to know who it is, but he doesn’t. Is this another ploy of His Eminence? Did He expect Virgil to be more at ease with a foreign face than that of those he treasured most?

Virgil stares, refusing to give His Eminence any sort of reaction.

“Hey Virgil, it’s been a while.” The Knight, apparently Remy, greets him. His voice is softer, more rounded than the shrewd mirth thrown Roman’s way. That isn’t…that doesn’t feel right. Virgil does not know why, but that feels just as wrong as any of the uncharacteristic quirks that occur when His Eminence portrays Roman, Patton or Logan.

Virgil takes a long breath. It does nothing to quell the racing of his heart or the frost that creeps up every inch of his body. If this Remy is disappointed by Virgil’s lack of acknowledgement, it is not made known. Instead he turns to face Roman.

“Your father, The King, is requesting an audience with you.” The knight tells him.

Roman stiffens, the brightness within him extinguishing to burnt coals. “What does he want?”

Remy coughs out a dry laugh, “As much as His Majesty would like it to be the case, I cannot read minds. That is for you to find out when you go to speak with him. I’ve heard you’ve ignored his last two summons, I suggest for the sake of everyone’s benefit, you do not ignore this one.”

At the end of his words, Remy glances towards Virgil. An unspoken message, one that Virgil does not understand. This Roman seems to understand, as his posture straightened, elongating into the perfect poise expectant of a Crown Prince.

“Virgil, I–I must go,” Roman says, “but Remy will keep you company.”

“My prince, I am a busy servant of the crown, so presumptuous of you to claim I may be able to spare the time to keep him company.”

The reed pen in Virgil’s hand drops with a dull thud into his journal pages. It is one thing for Patton and Logan to speak so freely with Roman–who is this Remy to speak with the same nonchalance?

“Must I make it a command?” Roman huffs, exasperated more than any hint of outrage, “you would not be here unless you had the time and desire to spare.”

“Right you are, my prince,” Remy smirks, leaning back against the wall, “your sense of perception seems to have grown in my absence. Go now, lest you want to keep His Majesty waiting.”

Roman rolls his eyes but he does not protest the idea. As his hand makes contact with the doorknob, he looks over his shoulder at the two of them.

“Remy, promise you’ll keep him safe?”

“Of course–your will is mine to fulfill,” Remy says, faithfully reciting the knightly pledge to their lords, “Now go.”

This satisfies Roman at last, who leaves without sparing one last look towards Virgil.

He leaves–and for the first time for perhaps many, many months, Virgil is left in the presence of a face that does not belong to either Roman, Logan or Patton. Early on in his imprisonment, there were other faces.

Faces he did not recognize—the faces that captured him and presented him to His Eminence as a treasured sacrifice to earn His Eminence’s blessings. There were also the faces that shoved him into the cell and had occasionally been the faces to bring him food and water. Slowly, those faces faded from his awareness as His Eminence isolated him—insisting to be the only one to have the honor of breaking his will and spirit.

So why has His Eminence taken this unrecognizable form? If Virgil has refused to say anything in the face of Roman, Patton or Logan, why would he say anything to the face of a man he has no attachment to?

A soft clink disturbs Virgil from his thoughts. A knife. There is a small silver knife in Remy’s hands. Oh, oh. This is it, then. Virgil can see the ploy for what it is, now. This is His Eminence’s way of still inflicting pain onto Virgil. This Remy figment will slice into his body, cut him up and tell him that if he says anything to the others, he will produce the same harm onto them.

Remy’s eyes latch onto his own. He steps closer to Virgil, still clasping the knife. Virgil does not move away, remaining the same position as if he is just a statue that also happens to breathe air. He waits for the knife to knick his skin, narrowing avoiding vital arteries or organs but causing pain all the same.

“Here.” Remy says instead, holding the knife out to him, “This is for you.”

Virgil is no longer a statue that happens to breathe air. He is a statue that does not breathe air because statues do not need it to survive. Why is Remy offering him a weapon? Is this a taunt? A demonstration to show that even if Virgil is armed, all of it will be meaningless?

Yet Virgil cannot help himself as air flows through his lungs at long last. He reaches out, snatching the knife away. It is a simple practical knife, like the ones he once used when he was just a shadow and nothing more. He does not take time to admire it, slipping it away into the folds of his clothes. Remy stands there, making no attempt to take it away from him.

“It is hard isn’t it? To feel safe without a sliver of metal close by your side?” Remy says, the words slicing Virgil deep.

For it is true–the feeling of a knife close to his person is far too soothening to his soul than it should be. More than the steadiness of a comfortable resting place and food could ever provide. It almost makes Virgil prefer it if Remy had used the knife to inflict actual pain.

Remy continues on, “Now, I know this goes without saying but don’t let the others know of that knife–they wouldn’t understand that feeling the way you and I do.”

Then his hands move, making crisp, smooth motions. Knight, report?

Virgil cannot speak. He must not speak. As long as he can draw air from his lungs, he will not let words fall from his mouth. But his hands can speak. They were taught to speak first by his mother–forming simple words that allowed them to communicate with the Deaf merchant that would occasionally buy his mother’s crafts. Then as a Shadow–communication by other nonverbal means was essential. Silence is often a necessity.

His hands move before his mind can think. Good, all good. His throat burns all the same–just as it would if sound had attempted to come out. His hands tremble. If he had held onto the knife, he might’ve accidentally cut himself by now. His Eminence now knows he can speak–perhaps this is why His Eminence has never damaged his hands. He should’ve known this would be a possibility, an exploit that His Eminence would use. Similar to the attempt with the journal.

Hands hold onto his own hands. It is a gentle pressure, one that Virgil could easily escape its grip if needed.

“Sorry, Virge–I had no idea that would–well,” Remy’s eyebrows pinch together, “as I’m sure you know, I’m a man for impulsive follies.”

No, Virgil does not know this. Nor does he intend to convey such a sentiment in any discernible method of communication. More to the point–nothing that has occurred in the last five minutes has made any sense. For months, he has known what to expect from His Eminence’s mockery of Roman, Patton and Logan. He cannot predict the actions of a character that has no purpose in this pseudo play.

He blinks at Remy. This is enough for the knight to release Virgil’s hands, somehow.

“May I show you something?” Remy asks.

Now, this. Virgil knows what this means. It does not matter what Virgil wants, Remy will show him and it will be whatever His Eminence wants him to believe.

Even knowing this, there is a festering curiosity within Virgil. A small emotionless detached part of him idly wonders where His Eminence is attempting to accomplish.

Slowly, Virgil nods his head. This is all that is needed for a flame to burst into life in the cusp of Remy’s palm. It does not stay contained onto his palm. It dances from hand to hand, winding through the air as it morphs into various shapes. A dragon with terribly fierce teeth descending with a burst of flame. A bird, no a phoenix rising high before crashing and turning into flickers of flames. A great cat of some sort, prowling at some imaginary prey.

But the fire is more than a dragon, phoenix or great cat. There is something Remy is showing him. Remy is a Blessed–one who has been touched by the Ether. This is not surprising information to Virgil–for His Eminence could not twist his visage into the likenesses of others without calling forth the blessings of Ether.

“There is one other thing you should know about illusions,” Patton tells him after a show, “those trained in the illusionary arts are usually capable of concealing their Ether signatures–but sometimes if you concentrate and focus on following the Ether to its source, you can find the individual behind the illusion.”

Virgil can scarcely feel the stirring of the Ether within him. But the Ether that flows through Remy–weaving back and forth in bright fiery images? There is no concealment on his end, no masking the Ether that sings loudly through him. Ether that is untainted and unpolluted unlike the dark, oppressive Ether that His Eminence wields with force.

But that can’t be true. This has to be His Eminence. Because otherwise this would mean this is real–and that somehow, some way, he is not enduring another of His Eminence’s machinations designed to torment and agonize him until he gives up what He wants–

“Do you understand, Stormy?” Remy asks, the flame dissipating entirely from his hands.

No, Virgil very much does not understand. But even if he wants to express this, he does not. Instead, he turns to his journal, drawing wavy lines that have no purpose or meaning. Remy does not punish him for not responding. He just takes out a knife, running his fingers against its dull edge. He says words, things that have a sense of meaning and purpose behind them, but Virgil does not hear them. He waits and waits for Roman to return, for something to bring more clarity to his situation.

Roman does not return back. Instead it is a harried Logan who thanks Remy for keeping Virgil company and does not say why Roman did not return.

Part 2: More is Thy Due Than More than All Can Pay

That night, Virgil sneaks out.

The castle, like many old structures, is imbued with Ether. The lifeblood of the gods flows through its every nook and cranny. It is said there is a sentience to it that even non-Blessed have felt. The Castle knows its purpose–it is meant to keep unwanted intruders out. It will not let in those who will bring harm to its inhabitants. Such is the reason that there hasn’t been a successful assassination on castle ground for centuries.

Virgil can barely sense the Ether flowing through it now. It is so faint, he is not sure if he can trust that it is nothing more than the Ether of His Eminence, crafted and manipulated to imitate its more purified form.

He comes across the entrance to one of the lesser used castle towers. It is a familiar sight to him. When he first came to the castle as Patton’s apprentice, he used to sneak off there during nights wrought with insomnia. Now he seeks out its solace as an escape for the anxiety gnawing in his chest.

He rushes up the steep stairway, ignoring the growing ache in his legs from such exertion. But when he reaches the top, there is someone already there.

Roman sits there, his arms wrapped around his knees. His head is tucked into his chest, face hidden from view. Virgil wavers on the stairways. He should not hesitate. The choice is simple–he should flee before Roman is made of his presence.

Virgil does the exact opposite. He creeps closer, keeping his footsteps silent on the stone floor of the tower. He is about a foot away when he realizes he doesn’t know what to do. So he does what Patton would do. Virgil taps Roman’s shoulder, causing him to startle and turn to face him.

“Virgil?” Roman whispers, his face blotchy from tears.

He reaches his arms out as he tilts his head. Hug?

Roman latches onto him immediately and continues crying as Virgil awkwardly pat his back.

“I shouldn’t have ever insisted on leaving the castle. You wouldn’t have had to save me and go through all of that. Gods, Virgil you have every right to hate me and I don’t blame you,” Roman babbles, leaning his head against Virgil’s shoulder, “I hate myself.”

Virgil is reeling. He doesn’t understand what Roman is saying. No, no His Eminence told him he’d been taken because he was—is—weak. He doesn’t remember saving Roman. He pulls away from Roman to get a look at his face. Roman holds still, barely making eye-contact with him. Virgil opens his mouth.

“W-whaafgk—" He goes into a coughing fit, “W-w-w-wagfk?”

It is low and raspy, barely decipherable but still it is a word communicated through voice. He wants to elaborate more on his question, but his vocal chords freeze up. Because oh gods—he spoke. He shuts his eyes tightly, letting go of Roman completely. He shakes, and he is certain the world has ended because he spoke. Not once, but twice now through his hands and his voice. He has been able to be strong for a long while now–why is he allowing himself to falter now?

A hand touches his shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch. He leans into it. A soft voice whispers reassuring words to him.

“You’re safe now, my dark and stormy knight. I will not allow harm to ever befall upon you again, I swear it.”

He calms down, once he realizes that Roman hasn’t died because he spoke. He thinks—no, he knows it has to be Roman here with him. It shouldn’t be real. Because if it is real then it means everything that has been in the castle has been real. The food, the textures, the people. Everyone is too kind. But most importantly, Not-Roman never cries. It is Virgil who always cries.

Not-Roman is always placing the blame on Virgil. He always hates Virgil’s guts. He’d never claim it is his fault and that he hates himself more than anything.

Roman looks at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You asked me ‘what’ earlier, right?”

Virgil nods.

“Do you…not remember what happened before they took you?”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor. Roman squeezes one of his hands, causing him to look up. The Prince’s gaze is determined and resolute.

“You deserve to know.”

Roman starts telling him, and as he listens, Virgil remembers.

There is a day where Virgil happens to utter the words: “This is a dumbass idea and you know it.”

These words are directed towards the Crown Prince, who scoffs in response, “Oh hush, Mordread, it’s a brilliant idea and you know it.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“We’re not going to get caught!”

“Yes we will. We will get caught by the guards or worse yet, you will be murdered outside castle walls and subsequently your father will have me executed for being an accomplice to your murder.”

Roman groans. He is digging through his wardrobe, tossing garments left and right. He then very intentionally flings a blouse into Virgil’s face, “Listen, I am sick and tired of wasting away inside this castle! If I have to spend one more day here, I am going to die!”

“Then perish,” Virgil says wryly, picking up the blouse off his face, “tell me, why have you come seeking my help?”

“Well, Patton and Logan are obviously too busy in their duties to assist me in my endeavors–” “Wrong, you knew Logan would say no because it’s illogical and reckless meanwhile Patton wouldn’t do it because he’s too much of a rule follower for the most part.”

“Do not interrupt me!” Roman cries out, jabbing a finger in his direction, “I could have you hung for your insolence.”

There is once a time in a not so distant past that sentence would’ve struck some amount of fear into Virgil. Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow at it.

“Alright, fine, yes you are right!” Roman admits, “But please Virgil–a good prince needs to know the happenings of his kingdom. How can I do that behind a stone wall?”

“C’mon Princey, we both know it’s more than that chivalrous bullshit,” Virgil rolls his eyes, “out with it.”

“I’m curious what it’d be like to…not be Prince Roman,” The Crown Prince laughs sheepishly, “I mean, not be the Crown Prince? I couldn’t fathom such an idea of a world without my fabulous self!”

Roman twirls in a circle, practically giddy.

“But—” He nervously wrings his hands, “It would be nice to interact with my citizens without the formalities. Plus, with this disguise, I’ll be incognito!”

He wraps a shawl around his shoulders, doing a poor job of concealing his identity.

“What do you think?!”

Virgil withholds a chuckle.

“First off, is that a tablecloth you stole from the dining halls? Second, you’re not going to fool anyone with anything from your wardrobe. Everyone around a ten mile radius is gonna know you reek of royalty.”

“Oh? Can I take your words to mean that you’ll help?” Roman asks.

Virgil freezes. He isn’t actually going to help him, is he? The idea is ludicrous—there are so many reasons why and how it could go wrong and yet–well.

He can’t help but think back about how Roman dropped his bravado façade for a brief moment. Not enough to fully admit his insecurities. But just enough to reveal them to Virgil. Roman and Virgil don’t get along well—they had a rocky first meeting. Virgil assumed he was your typical pompous noble. Roman assumed Virgil would stab Patton in the back the first opportunity he received.

They have come to tolerate one another since that first meeting. Roman still refers to him by demeaning nicknames and disdain. Virgil still fires back at him with his biting sarcasm. But it is much better than before where the two couldn’t be left alone in the same room without starting an all-out brawl.

Roman has lived most of his life behind the castle walls. The time he has spent outside has been during parades or celebrations, where everyone has been on their best behavior. Or on hunting parties, in the forest where the common people are not allowed to hunt. He doesn’t know what the real world is like.

Still, Roman has enough brains to seek out Virgil rather than execute his plan by himself. Roman’s plan, as idiotic as it is, isn’t entirely without its’ warrants. It'd be good for the Prince to see what his people say when not in the supposed company of nobility. But most importantly, he trusts Virgil.

There is also the other fact that Roman is stubborn. Once he gets an idea stuck in his brain, it’s hard to convince him otherwise. If Virgil says no, he’ll definitely find a way to do it by himself. By the looks of the dinner cloth shawl, that does not bode well. But if Virgil says yes, he can ensure Roman’s safety. He’ll protect him.

“Ugh, alright. I live to serve, my liege.”

“Wait, you mean you’re–”

“--actually gonna help you with your crazy stupid idea? Yeah, I am. Let’s just hope neither of us regrets this.”

“Oh no regrets will be made, trust me!” Roman says, clasping Virgil’s hand, “this is a great favor you are bestowing upon me and as such, I promise to repay you tenfold.”

“If we’re going to go through with this,” Virgil says, holding onto Roman’s own hand firmly, “there’s a few rules you need to promise me you’ll abide by.”

“Such as?”

“Rule 1, outside these walls–you’re not the prince, you’re a lowly commoner. You have to believe that because otherwise nobody else will believe that.”

“Oh that is easy–I’m a natural born actor.” Roman boists.

“Rule 2, what I say goes. You listen to me out there–or else this is not going to work. And Rule 3? The minute something threatens your safety, we go back. Got it?”

“I swear by my mother’s gravestone, I will uphold your terms and conditions.” Roman says, his hand cradled close to his chest.

And well–Roman does listen. Throughout the walk through the hidden passageways of the castle and out into the bustling marketplace. When Virgil determines that they should leave for the castle before too many people take notice of the missing Crown Prince, Roman does not protest. All in all, it is rather...underwhelming how nothing went wrong.

In the passageway that leads back into the castle, Roman lets out a laugh. There is a grin stretching wide across his face, one that is a little too haughty in Virgil’s opinion.

“Look!” He proclaims, “We’re fine! Back without a scratch! What do you say to that?”

Virgil snorts, “You’re still a moron, you know that?”

“Ah!” Roman sprays a hand across his chest as if struck by an arrow, “While I am offended that you’d speak so lowly of me, the kingdom actually did not fall apart within the few hours of my absence.”

“Yet.” Virgil says, “we still have yet to return properly to the castle.”

Roman just hums, his glee untempered by Virgil’s coarse words. Somehow, someway, it is almost endearing. Despite the crown prince’s frequent open displays of emotion, Virgil has never seen him this happy before.

So when Roman asks him a few days later for an excursion outside the castle walls, he does not have to twist Virgil’s arm too hard on it. Until two outings turn into three and four, and they keep on going out. Virgil grows way too complacent, until the Ether calls out to him in warning one evening. It is a bright evening of a festival that has no purpose other than to be an excuse for good spirits and laughter.

It does not take long to decipher the Ether's meaning. There are several individuals that are trailing them, following their every move. One of them wears a distinct silver gauntlet–a silver gauntlet Virgil knows all too well. He does not know how they know of their presence, but it does not matter. They need to leave, now.

“Roman, we need to go. They’re here.” Virgil hisses.

“Who? I don’t see—”

“Shh! We go now. Rule number two, remember?” He grabs hold of Roman’s hand and tugs him along in a zigzag pattern.

“Hey—what’s wrong?” Roman yelps

“Danger.” Virgil answers, and leaves it at that.

He thinks they have lost them. But really, he should’ve known better. As they duck into an alley, they spring upon the two. Virgil does the only thing he can do—magic.

It is barely his second year as a mage’s apprentice and his connection to the Ether is weak. But he has to try—even if it kills him.

“Og Omeh!” He shouts, placing a hand upon a startled Roman’s chest.

His hand glows and with a bright flash Roman is gone. Virgil is left, collapsed at the foot of the Haldoofse, their pursuers. The spell has taken every ounce of his energy –but Roman is safe and that is what all that matters right now. Virgil has kept his promise.

One of them picks up Virgil by the shirt.

“What’d you do?” The man demands.

“Abracadabra.” Virgil mumbles, spitting blood in his face.

The man doesn’t like that. He raises his fist and then before Virgil can react everything fades to black.

Virgil cries in the midst of Roman’s own account of the events that happened. Roman thinks it’s his fault, but Virgil refuses to accept his apology. He keeps shaking his head. He does not have the words to tell him. They remain stuck in his brain, swishing around.

He saved Roman—he isn’t weak after all. But he still feels weak. If he’d refused to help Roman at the beginning, then he’d never been in danger in the first place. He’d grown too complacent in their numerous outings. His captors were right—he does deserve to be in that prison cell.

He doesn’t understand why the others freed him. Suddenly things feel too big, too open. He shouldn’t be here. Open is bad. Open means freedom and he doesn’t deserve freedom. He yanks his hand out of Roman’s grip and runs down the stairs.

“Virgil, wait!” Roman calls out, attempting to follow after him.

Weak as Virgil still is, adrenaline is a miracle maker. He races down the windy corridors until he discovers a small broom closet. He opens the door and closes it, dousing him in darkness. He scrambles away from the door, until his back hits the wall of the closet.

He breathes heavily and waits for Roman to open the door and drag him away. But he doesn’t want to leave. Warm soft beds and visits to the gardens aren’t for people like him. He does miss his journal. Virgil has taken to running his fingers against the raised edges of the cover. It helps ground him in times of panic.

Roman doesn’t open the door, though he can hear his voice in the far-off distance. The Crown Prince does not know he is here. He breathes a sigh in relief. Virgil sits and sits in the darkness. He does not think he falls asleep yet when the door does open, it jostles him from slumber.

“Virgil, are you here?” Logan.

He does not respond. He tries not breathing, but it only results in him breathing noisier. There is light streaming in from the doorframe. He is certain Logan knows he is here. Yet he does not attempt to drag him away from the closet.

Logan instead sits by the doorframe.

“Roman did not mean to frighten you by bringing up bad memories.”

Virgil says nothing.

“He is upset that he caused you such anguish. He is concerned about you being lost and hurt somewhere—Patton and I had been as well.”

He hesitates, before slowly crawling forward. Logan, concerned? The Royal Advisor often proclaimed how he wasn’t affected by such sentimentalism. But there is a soft look on Logan’s face. He does not make a big deal of Virgil showing his face to him. Though his lips do twitch upwards.

“I am pleased to see you are unharmed.” Logan informs him.

Virgil shrugs.

“It is not yet lunchtime, but I am certain we can find something to eat in the kitchens—”

He offers a hand towards Virgil, who shrinks back. Logan’s expression morphs.

“Do you not want to go to the kitchens?”

Virgil shakes his head. He doesn’t want to go to the kitchens or the garden or the library. Not even to Roman’s quarters and his soft bed. He does not know why Roman gives up his bed to him. He doesn’t know why any of them would love him after what has happened.

Logan studies him for a moment. It is not in a cold, callous demeanor like he has seen when They use his face. But more of a quiet, considerate one.

“Would you like to go back to Roman’s quarters?” He adds on, “We can arrange food to be brought up to the quarters.”

A slow shake.

“No?” Logan asks, puzzled, “You want…you want to stay here?”

Furious nod.

“Why?”

Virgil’s lips part—but all his thoughts come careening to a halt. He cannot speak, whether it be through words shaped by voice, hands or ink. He instead stares at the ground, unsure how to tell Logan why he belongs here and not outside.

“Here.”

Something rectangle is pressed into his hands. He looks to see it is a small brown leather journal. It is the perfect size to fit into a breast pocket and half its pages are filled already with Logan’s messy shorthand. There is a reed pen resting where there is blank paper. He glances up towards Logan, confused.

“I wish to help, Virgil,” Logan begins, “but I don’t know how to help if you don’t tell me—or in this case write to me about what’s wrong. Why do you want to stay here?”

Virgil frowns, his fingers curling around the writing instrument. Writing is bad—but that is only because he thought he’d hurt his friends. He’d thought this hadn’t been real but just a ploy by his captors. But this is real—isn’t it?

Virgil doesn’t know what to think anymore. He is a leaf blowing aimlessly in the wind. He is a ship lost at sea. He is a broken compass. What is up is down and what is down is up. Two plus two equals five. Dragons are benevolent, and unicorns are malevolent. The cow jumps over the moon and the dish runs away with the spoon.

If he writes, surely something will go wrong. It’s what the tightening of his throat, threatening to cut off his oxygen, tells him. But that is wrong—the thought, not the actual writing. He has refused to write to protect his friends. But Logan is his friend and he is with him right now.

If he wants to help Logan, doesn’t that mean he should answer his question?

No, he has to know that this is Logan and not His Eminence. Something that Logan possesses, that His Eminence would not know.

Shakily, he draws dots. Meaningful dots, with a line that connects through every single one of them. The Locutus constellation–the very one tattooed on the real Logan’s back. He shows it to Logan, pointing between him and the drawing.

Logan looks at it. He looks at Virgil. His Logan is smart, he figures it out without asking any questions. He turns around, raising up his blouse to show the beautiful ink etchings that stretch across his back. It is on skin that is blemished with irreversible blotches of an illness that nearly took Logan’s life long before Virgil met him. Both things that were always, always, always absent among the welts and cuts and broken bones that Not-Logan would endure.

He starts writing. His hand is shaky, and the words look like chicken scrawl, but they are words nonetheless. He doesn’t look at Logan as he hands it back to him.

I bEloNG hErE. It’S WhAt I DesErVE.

Virgil’s cheeks are wet. He is crying. He does not realize this fact until Logan uses his thumb to wipe away his tears. The journal is abandoned on the ground in the favor of comforting Virgil.

“I do not know what they told you, but I do know whatever they said, it is all falsehoods,” Logan tells him solemnly, “No human being deserves to be treated the way you were. You are entitled to basic human decency. You deserve adequate amounts of food, water and freedom. Most importantly, you deserve love. Do you understand?”

The words take a while for Virgil to process. He knows that His Eminence told lies–He’d execute ploys and tricks, anything to get Virgil finally break and tell Him what He wanted to know.

Where are the castle’s weak points? Does the Court Mage have any lovers? What is the Crown Prince’s fighting style?

The list goes on and on.

Virgil knows He lied and tricked and deceived him—and yet, he still believed the biggest lie of all; he deserved it. His Eminence told him he was there because he was weak. He was there because no one would miss a charity case of a mage’s apprentice. He was there because he deserved it.

But none of that is true.

It takes until Logan’s words for him to realize that fact.

Logan never lies. He likes cold hard facts. He says what’s on his mind—to the point that he’s sometimes too blunt with his words. Virgil thinks that maybe he can trust Logan’s words. They don’t magically fix all of his doubts and fears. But they help.

Virgil nods his head, hiccupping.

Logan envelopes him in a very loose embrace. He places his hands gingerly over Virgil’s back, prepared to draw back at the slightest hint of Virgil being uncomfortable. But Virgil leans into the hug, resting his head against Logan’s chest. They stay there until they hear the distant voices of Roman and Patton.

They are still looking for Virgil.

“We should go to them.” Logan says, breaking away.

The royal advisor stands up and offers his hand yet again to Virgil.

He takes it, after a moment’s hesitation.

He doesn’t see Roman for a few weeks after the incident. Patton and Logan both say that the prince is busy with his royal duties. Virgil doesn’t believe them. Especially with how their eyes dart away and they quickly change the conversation.

They start leaving him alone for short intervals of the day. As much as Virgil appreciates not being under constant surveillance, a panic arises from being alone. He feels safe in the others’ presences. When they are with him, it is easy for him to remember that they are here and that they won’t abandon him.

Once, Virgil liked being alone. He enjoyed long stretches of solitude. There is a peacefulness to it, listening to nature’s sounds or the noise of your own heartbeat. But that is then, and this is now. Now being alone brings back memories of the cell.

He’d liked being alone in his cell. Being alone meant His Eminence wasn't there to torment him. That was good. But just because it meant Virgil was away from Him didn’t mean he still didn’t suffer chained in a cell, with no food or water.

The nightmares are back. Nightmares where he screams and screams but no one comes and saves him. Worse, They show up to taunt him and make him think he’s brought harm to his friends. Sometimes, they make him doubt again if being in the castle is a dream and those nightmares are truly his reality.

So, no he doesn’t really like being alone.

Oftentimes, if it is not official royal business, they will let him tag along. Patton has taken him down to the room where he keeps all his magic scrolls and supplies for potions. There, Virgil sits in a corner as Patton conducts his work. The mage explains it to him as he goes, and Virgil listens raptly.

The two have been working on trying to relight Virgil’s connection to the Ether that has been extinguished. It took a lot of coaxing on Patton’s part to get Virgil to try again. Because what if he cannot ever use the Ether again? How can he be the mage’s apprentice then?

Nothing has occurred yet, despite numerous attempts. Virgil has grown disheartened at each failure. Patton keeps faith.

“Virgil, you performed a high energy spell and then you went malnourished for nearly a year,” Patton says firmly, “It is going to be a long while before you recover completely. And that is okay.”

It’s hard to believe that, especially when the Ether remains mostly silent. But Patton believes in it, and so he keeps trying for his sake. Because Virgil trusts him.

Virgil is alone, drawing, in Roman’s quarters. He does not know where Roman sleeps. Virgil has never asked the others that question. Nor does he question who it is that quiets him after a nightmare and lulls him back to sleep with lullabies.

(He already knows it is Roman. It has always been Roman who comforts him with a lullaby. Because neither Patton or Logan sing. Patton whispers soft reassurances while Logan distracts him with the names of the constellations. But he is half-asleep when it occurs, and the prince is always gone by morning.)

He is working on a drawing of a thunderstorm. Virgil is working on the shading when there is a rhythmic knock before the door opens. He tenses, scanning his surroundings for potential escape routes and makeshift weapons. He exhales slowly when he realizes it is only Patton.

“Hello Virgil!” The mage chirps, as he strides over to the bedside. He is hiding something underneath his cloak. It is bulky and cube-shaped. A box of some sort? A gift, perhaps? He notices Virgil’s inquisitive gaze and chuckles.

“I got a surprise for you!”

Virgil smiles nervously. He knows that Patton’s surprises are good things. Like flower-crowns or cookies. But the uncertainty still haunts him.

Virgil hasn’t attempted communicating with words since that moment with Logan. Strangely, the others have not pressured him to communicate, thankfully. What he does instead of words, is nod approvingly towards Patton revealing the surprise.

Patton grins, and reveals what’s underneath his cloak. It is a plain wicker basket with a lid. Something rustles from within the container—something alive.

“Go on, open it.” He encourages Virgil, holding the basket towards him.

Virgil places his fingertips on the lid, takes a breath, and then pulls it off. A pair of glimmering green eyes peers up at him. They are big and round and so, so curious. Virgil gapes at the sight for a long while—long enough for the being to get impatient and let out a pitiful wail.

“Go on,” Patton encourages, “she doesn’t bite—much.”

Virgil lets out an amused huff, before he reaches into the basket and picks up the creature. Now that it is out of the dark interior of the basket, he can see it more clearly. It is a black kitten—old enough to be independent from its mother. A ribbon is loosely tied around its’ neck. Its’ purple. Virgil’s favorite color is purple.

A slow smile spreads across his face as he pets the kitten. That can’t be a coincidence, right? He looks over to Patton for clarification, his eyes flickering to the purring kitten in his lap and back to Patton.

“The kittens are ready to be weaned from Lady Mittens,” Patton explains, reaching out to scratch underneath the kitten’s chin, “and I thought maybe this little lady could keep you company whenever Logan, Roman and I are all busy.”

Virgil freezes, his hand levitating inches above the kitten’s fur. The young feline is discontent with this, batting its paw at him to continue. He ignores it, as he blinks rapidly. It doesn’t stop a few stray tears from falling, however.

Patton knows he struggles with being alone. But rather than making fun of him or call it silly—he found a solution to Virgil’s problem. With this kitten, Virgil no longer has to be alone anymore.

Patton misinterprets the tears completely.

“It’s okay kiddo if you don’t want her! I am sure she can find—”

A finger presses against his lips, causing Patton to stop. Virgil withdraws his finger and the two stare at one another. Virgil breaks it first, an odd guffaw rising from his throat. He carefully deposits the black kitten onto Patton’s lap. The kitten makes little fuss about this, purring with content almost immediately.

‘No.’ Virgil signs, snapping his index and middle finger against his thumb, ‘love kitten. Love you.’

“I’m so glad!” Patton sniffles, throwing his arms around Virgil’s neck. The kitten squeaks in protest of being squished between the two. Thankfully Patton withdraws within seconds.

“You can name her, you know. I called her Blacky but since she’s yours now, you can choose a new name.” Patton says, petting the kitten to assuage it.

Virgil considers it for a moment. His eyes drift to the unfinished thunderstorm sketch in his journal. He thinks of the patron goddess of his home village and her signature weapon; lightning bolts.

‘Taran.’ Virgil decides.

Patton’s eyes widens at the name. The name of such a ferocious god seems odd for a harmless kitten. However, in his home village, to name an animal after a god is to invite their blessing upon you. Virgil doesn’t know how much he believes in that.

But he can’t argue that the distant rumble of thunder that happens moments later is just a coincidence.

Part 3: Toil and Trouble

Divine blessings or not, Taran’s own presence is its own blessing to Virgil onto itself. She is a reminder of the others’ love for Virgil. Being a growing kitten, she sleeps a lot. But during the hours Taran isn’t sleeping, she is energetic, demanding pets and pouncing on insects.

Caring for Taran gives Virgil a sense of purpose, a responsibility to uphold. It’s small yet significant for him. Logan goes on a long ramble about it—Virgil doesn’t catch all of it. But Logan essentially thinks the kitten is good for Virgil’s health.

It certainly keeps Virgil busy and on his toes, making sure Taran doesn’t get places she shouldn’t be. Such as in the present where he is chasing after the black streak that is Taran. He’d snuck out of his room, taking Taran along with him. He planned to go up to the tower, in the hopes of finding Roman once more. Just as he has done for the past week to no success.

It is doubtful he’ll discover Roman up there again. But he has to try. He has no hope of running into Roman during the daylight. The castle is massive and certain parts are restricted. It has been made clear that Roman does not want to see Virgil. Maybe not directly with words, but through action alone.

He is not content with that answer. Virgil has never been one to respect rules without question. He has always been the one to doubt things, to rebel subtly but rebel all the same. Even more so, he cannot understand why Roman is avoiding him.

Virgil thinks back to the last time he truly saw Roman. It’d been after Logan found him hiding in the broom closet. While Patton fusses over Virgil’s wellbeing, he stands there silently. His eyes bloodshot, his outfit rumpled—unbecoming for a prince. He doesn’t make eye contact with Virgil at all. He averts his eyes to the ground instead.

He leaves as soon as he can. And outside the hysteria of waking up from nightmares, Virgil hasn’t seen him since.

Virgil thinks about the state he found Roman in at the tower and the words he said to him.

“Gods, Virgil you have every right to hate me and I don’t blame you—I hate myself.”

Roman, the haughtiest prince in all of the nine realms, hates himself. He told Virgil he has a right to hate him as well. Virgil, for all his own self-loathing, knows there is some truth to the prince’s words. It is Roman who insisted on the escapades outside the castle walls. But it hadn’t been for Virgil, then Roman would’ve endured the same torment Virgil had gone through.

Virgil would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he could spare Roman or the others from enduring that dungeon.

He thinks that Roman is hiding from him because he thinks Virgil hates him and doesn’t want to see him. Or rather, he thinks Virgil should hate him. Virgil does want to see Prince Idiot and tell him personally that he doesn’t hate him. He never could.

So he continually keeps visiting the tower and hoping for Roman to show up. He starts taking Taran with him. Usually the kitten falls asleep in Virgil’s arms halfway to the tower. But tonight is different. Taran’s ears prick forward at a sound not audible to Virgil.

Before he can do anything, the kitten wiggles out of his arms and takes off running.

Virgil stares, aghast, before the panic sets in and he races after the kitten. Because oh my gods, what if Taran gets hurt? What if she disappears and never comes back? What if she dies?

His breathing picks up, and it is not due to exertion. Trying to keep track of a black cat in the middle of the night is almost impossible. Virgil is almost certain he is going to lose sight of Taran. The cat ducks into a room and he stops.

There is a faint light coming out of it. Someone is awake and oh gods, Virgil is going to have to go in there, isn’t he?

Virgil could leave Taran in there. She is not an unusual sight in the castle, after all. There are several cats that roam the castle's parameters, keeping it free of mice, rats and other vermin. It is doubtful that the person would harm Taran.

He is worried for Taran’s safety regardless. Yet there is no way in hell he can confront another person like Remy who isn’t Roman, Patton or Logan. They are safe. Strangers are not. They’re dangerous and unpredictable. He refuses to interact with them, even with one of the others by his side.

As he deliberates a few feet away from the partially opened doorway, there’s laughter that comes from the room.

“Well, aren’t you charming?”

Virgil nearly collapses with relief. He knows that voice, even if it’s been a few weeks. It’s Roman. After all this time, he’s finally managed to find him. It is all thanks to Taran--though god or kitten, he does not know who to sing praises to.

He barges into the room without a forewarned knock. The sudden entrance startles the prince. He whips out his saber on instinct, cradling Taran in the other hand. The act of aggression causes Virgil to stop within a few paces of the doorway.

“Virgil,” He exclaims in a hushed whisper, sliding the sword back into his hilt, “what are yo—you scared me!”

Virgil doesn’t make any indication he heard Roman’s words. He’s too focused on Roman’s attire. He is not dressed for bed or in his prince regalia, but armor. Gauntlets, breastplate, the whole works. It is not his royal armor either, but that of an ordinary guard’s. There is a burlap sack beside him that is suspiciously bulky.

He doesn’t know what Roman’s planning. But by the guilty look on his face it can’t be anything good. Because unless the castle is under siege, there is no reason for Roman to be dressed in armor in the dead of night.

“Virgil, please, I can explain—”

But Virgil refuses to listen this time. He will not let Roman be in harm’s way from one of his crazy schemes ever again. He storms over there and takes hold of Roman’s gloved hand by force. He pulls Roman off in the direction of his own royal apartment.

The crown prince is taller and weighs more than Virgil. He has always been physically stronger than Virgil, who excels in other areas such as speed and stealth. Roman could easily break free from Virgil’s grip with little trouble. But he is too stunned to even attempt protesting.

When they reach his quarters, Virgil takes Taran from his grasp. He places the cat safely on the ground. Taran stretches before trotting off to go find a resting spot. Virgil then turns his attention back on Roman. He tugs at one of his gauntlets, wanting it off.

“What are you doing—” Roman protests at last, “I have to go, it’s for your sake Virgil—Ow!”

Roman cries out as Virgil stomps hard on his foot. Virgil who desperately wants to cry out how stupid that is. How could it possibly be for Virgil’s sake, if the last thing he wants is to see is Roman hurt? But the words evade him. Even though he knows he is in the company of friends he is—afraid.

Fear clenches at his throat and refuses to release its’ grip. What is once helpful in survival is now hindering in life.

He instead lights the candle by the bedside and writes something in big, blocky letters. With each letter his stomach threatens an upheaval. He ignores it, tapping the journal repeatedly once finished with the message. Roman leans over to inspect it.

“Don’t go,” Roman reads out loud. He looks up at Virgil, “But I have to go, Virgil.”

Virgil’s response is to push Roman, causing him to fall onto the bed. The prince attempts to rise but gets knocked flat on his back again by Virgil. He climbs into the bed beside Roman and clings onto his left arm. It’s too dark for him to use his journal or his hands to sign and so he hopes his actions are enough to convey their meaning.

Taran, apparently upset to be left out of the cuddling party, leaps onto the bed. She curls up at the base of their feet, purring loudly.

“You’re not…you’re not going to let me go easily, are you?” Roman asks, whispering so quietly Virgil wonders at first if he imagined them.

He shakes his head before realizing the light is too dim for Roman to see him. He leans closer to Roman as an alternative, holding onto him tighter. Roman lets out a defeated sigh.

He shifts, placing an arm around Virgil to embrace him.

“If you so wish, I will stay with you for the night.”

Virgil does, and so Roman stays.

There’s so much he needs to know from Roman. But now is not the time. For now, he is content to coexist peacefully by Roman’s side. Knowing that he is here, safe with Virgil, is all that matters. He falls asleep with his head on Roman’s chest, hearing the steady thrum of the other’s heartbeat.

When he wakes up in the morning, that heartbeat is gone. Instead, Virgil is left clutching at a pillow that is decidedly not Roman. All signs of sleepiness dissipate at once. He flings off the covers, as his eyes scan his surroundings of any signs of Roman. None. There is none.

Because Roman said he’d only stay the night, didn’t he? Virgil hadn’t thought too much of it at the time. But He should’ve done so. Because Roman is a dolt and did what he wanted to do anyways. Something white catches his eyes. It’s on his night stand. A white letter addressed in a fancy cursive script.

V I R G I L

He stares at it, breath hitching. With a shaky hand, he reaches down and grabs it. Taran meows, rubbing her head against Virgil’s leg. She probably wants something to eat. Virgil ignores her. He doesn’t want to unfold the piece of paper. He knows he’s not going to like whatever Roman has written.

But he hates uncertainty more than anything, and that ultimately wins in the end. The paper crinkles as he opens it up. His eyes dart across the piece of paper. Left to right, left to right, left to right. He reaches the end and starts over. Repeatedly.

“Dear Virgil,

It is my obstinance that has caused you unimaginable pain that you never should’ve had to endure. For that, I am deeply sorry. I cannot live another day knowing your tormentors still go unpunished. I have left to right that wrong.

Sincerely,

Roman.”

Teardrops fall onto the paper, marring the ink. The words swirl together until they’re nearly unintelligible. But it doesn’t matter. Virgil knows the words by heart already. He knows what they mean.

Roman is gone. Roman left him. Roman is dead.

Virgil isn’t stupid. He has gone to face His Eminence alone, by himself. There can’t possibly be any scenario where Roman doesn’t die. He is going to die, not before being beaten and bloodied. His Eminence is rather fond of slow, suffering deaths. Virgil has heard the screams of the other dungeon occupants.

He doesn’t want this. He could care less about vengeance. All he wants is for Roman to stay. Stay here, with him and the others, in the safety of the castle. But Roman is gone.

When Patton and Logan find him, he’s rolled up in a ball on the bed, hyperventilating. He clutches the paper tightly in his hands. Taran meows worriedly at him. They deduce rather quickly that he has heard the news.

Patton places a hand on his shoulder, causing Virgil to stiffen.

“Virgil, breathe.” He says.

Virgil tries. But the air feels too thin like he’s going to suffocate—

He can’t do it. Can’t, can’t, can’t!

“C—ca--c--” Virgil tries, grasping for breath. But he can’t even say the word “can’t”. How ironic.

A weight settles on the bed to the left of him. Logan.

“In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.”

What?

It takes him a moment in his state of panic to realize what that means. Logan patiently leads him through it. Even when he fails it repeatedly. Patton squeezes his shoulder, encouraging him to keep trying.

Eventually his breaths become steady again and Virgil is exhausted. He has woken up barely an hour ago and he is ready to fall back asleep again. He slumps against Patton, who massages his back. Virgil lets Logan have a look at Roman’s letter.

It takes Logan some time to decipher the tearstained letter. When he does, he reads it out loud for Patton. By the time Logan finishes reading it, three of them remain huddled close, and not a word is exchanged between them.

Patton and Logan explain later that day to Virgil when they launched an attack on Haldoofse that resulted in Virgil’s rescue, His Eminence had not been among those captured or killed by the King’s army. Assumingly, Roman had gone looking to seek vengeance against Him.

“The King’s best knights are out searching him,” Logan informs him, “they’ll bring him back before he does something stupid.”

Despite his confidence, Virgil knows Logan is just as worried as Patton and him. He can tell by how Logan clutches his hands together until his knuckles are white.

Virgil can’t stay put, however. He needs to find Roman. He needs to be the one to haul him back by the ear. He can do it. Virgil knows all about how to track down someone who doesn’t want to be found. He needs to do it—he can’t fail Roman again.

He does not tell Logan nor Patton about these thoughts in his head. He knows they’d reject the idea immediately. But Patton is intuitive, he’s smarter than anyone gives him credit for. He looks Virgil in the eyes and takes hold of his shoulders.

“Please, don’t go after him, Virge. We can’t afford to lose you again.” Patton tries smiling, but it’s too wobbly and more of a grimace than anything else.

Virgil sees those blue eyes, dulled with that unspoken sadness, and he can’t do it. If he leaves, then it means Logan and Patton will possibly lose not one but two of their friends. Virgil hardly thinks he is as valuable as the prince. But for whatever reason the others thought he was worth risking death to save him. The most he can do is to live and be there for them.

He can’t do that for Roman. He has made his choice. But he has to be there for Logan and Patton. For now.

Part 4: Blood Will Have Blood

Blood, there is so much blood. Gods, it won’t stop pouring out. Virgil can’t move—there are chains holding him still, restraining him. He can’t move—he is stuck in the cell again. Dark, dark, dark—the sun is gone. Yet somehow he can still see the figure slumped lifelessly in front of him, crimson stains on their armor. This is a…dream, right? This can’t be reality.

“Oh, but this is reality.” A voice says, causing him to flinch.

Had he said that last thought out loud? He can’t remember. Maybe His Eminence can read minds—that thought terrifies him. No, no that can’t be true. That’d mean all his efforts to not talk have been in vain. His mind has always been a safe haven. He could think and think whatever he wanted, and He’d never know. The idea that He trespassed into his safe haven horrified him. It’d mean His Eminence is just toying with him after all this time. It means he has always been a plaything for His amusement.

As if in response to that last thought, His Eminence laughs. It is a loud, manic laugh. Virgil flinches. Never has he so desperately wished he is deaf to avoid ever having to hear that awful sound ever again. He twists his face away from the horrific sight in front of him. Away from the cackling. He doesn’t get away with it.

Someone roughly grabs ahold of his chin and forces him to gaze upon it again.

“Looook,” His Eminence hisses, “Look at what you did.”

“I—I didn’t do it,” He protests, those wretched words freely pouring out of his lips, “I’d never!”

“Oh?” His Eminence tilts His head in mock ponderance, “So our beloved prince just happened to run into his own sword?”

White hot anger pierces Virgil’s stomach. He’d never hurt Roman or the others. Never, never, never. His Eminence knows that. That is why He hates Virgil. But with that anger is fear. As the two are oft linked hand-in-hand in joint matrimony with one another. Which is why he so vehemently denies it.

“No, I’d never—” His throat closes up with emotion but he presses on, “No, you did this—you killed him!”

His Eminence laughs again at him, that cruel, despairing noise far from what laughter should sound like.

“Me? I did nothing. You on the other hand?” Hjs Eminence smirks, “look at your hands.”

Virgil shakes his head. No, he won’t listen. He knows how this will end. But he can’t stop himself. He looks down at his hands—no longer encased with chains. Instead of metal chains, he sees blood. The fingers start trembling, but he can’t feel them. Are they really his hands—do those bloody, bloody hands really belong to him?

No, they can’t—he wouldn’t hurt Roman, it’s not real—it can’t possibly—

A hand squeezes his shoulder. He squirms, trying to escape its’ hold.

“Virgil!”

He freezes. He knows that voice. Patton. Virgil gasps, looking around. There’s no more chains, no more blood and no more Ro—he is awake. Or at least he believes that he is awake. This reality is at least more comforting. Patton is there, Virgil’s head rests on his lap as the mage massages his scalp. The touch is gentle and grounding. He is outside somewhere with Patton. He can feel the warm breeze and hear birds sing nearby. But where outside?

Virgil opens his mouth, words at the tip of his tongue. But the image of bloody hands causes his mouth to slide shut.

“I’m here, I got you,” Patton whispers, reassuring him, “You fell asleep and had a bad nightmare but it’s over now. You’re safe with me in the gardens.”

The gardens. Virgil remembers now. Patton had insisted that Virgil was in need of some fresh air. Patton was right, as he typically is. Virgil had been holed up in the crown prince’s quarters, having no motivation to leave it. Instead he has spent his time pacing the rooms and scribbling in his journal.

Sleep has not been a friend to him. It hasn’t been a friend for a long while. He has accepted by this point that nightmares will continue to plague him. But without the prince’s lullabies or rather—the prince himself, the nightmares have evolved.

Everything he closes his eyes, he sees Roman. Lifeless. Eyes glassy like dolls. Crimson red staining his white satin tunic. His arm outstretched, towards Virgil. He dies with a smile on his face. He dies, his last words reassuring Virgil it is okay. It isn’t okay.

Sometimes Roman knows that. He doesn’t die smiling. Instead he angrily blames Virgil for his death. Virgil thinks he prefers these dreams over the others.

His mind has crafted a hundred deaths for Roman, each more gruesome than the last. Each and every one of them Virgil’s fault. Sometimes he’s back in the cell, chained and unable to move. Other times he’s in that alleyway with Roman and unable to magick him away from the Haldoofse. But no matter what, it is always Virgil’s fault in the end that Roman dies.

Virgil can’t sleep. He tries avoiding it as much as he can, as futile as it is. The images of his nightmares lurking in the back of his head, sleep or no sleep. He is exhausted. The world is blurry, and his head hurts and he can hardly concentrate on anything. His journal pages have been reduced to squiggles.

He can’t sleep, but he must sleep to function. Logan and Patton have tried their best to help him. But nothing much can be done with his nightmares. Even Patton’s sleeping potions can’t prevent that.

Virgil shifts his gaze towards the sun, noticing it is significantly closer to the horizon than before. He had to have been asleep for about an hour or two. That would be the longest amount he’s had in the last few days. He wishes he hadn’t slept at all. He feels even more drained than before.

It has been nearly a fortnight since Roman left. It has seemed like years to Virgil, especially in his sleep-deprived state. The kingdom’s finest knights scour the lands in search of him. Still, there is no news whether he is alive or dead. For now, the majority of the kingdom remains blissfully unaware. They think he has simply gone on an extended hunting trip. It is the perfect season for hunting. The weather pleasant, the prey plentiful. It is, however, an illusion that will not last for long.

He hears a muffled sound and he looks up at Patton, who is still playing with Virgil’s hair. Patton is saying something, but it is too soft for Virgil to catch.

Virgil looks at him, confused, mouthing, ‘What?’

He still can’t talk. It isn’t like he is physically incapable of the action. His vocal chords are still intact. Yet nothing comes out, as if Ursula the great sea-witch herself snatched his voice away. He can only really speak in dreams. Bad things always happen when he speaks. Bad things that linger in the back of his mind and keep him from speaking when he’s awake. He knows it’s irrational. He knows they’re not real. But what if he makes them real?

He’s shaken from those thoughts when Patton repeats his words, this time a little louder.

“I said that we should probably head back inside,” Patton says, trying to muster up a grin, “let’s see if we can coax Logan away from his studies to join us for dinner, hm?”

Virgil sits up, offering a small nod.

Much like Virgil has shut himself away in his room, Logan has done likewise with his work. He is Roman’s personal Royal Advisor, positioned to become his right-hand man once he becomes king. As such, Roman’s father, the King, has ordered him to be in charge of recovering Roman.

Virgil sees very little of the King for someone who occupies the same castle as the royal. Even from before, this holds truth. But this is not an anomaly. The King has always preferred to be as far removed from the servants and the common people as possible. He hardly attends the royal council meetings, instead sending a representative in his stead.

“Of course he sends you in his stead,” Roman rolled his eyes once at a meeting, “couldn’t be bothered with actually showing up once in a while, did he?”

There were a few stifled gasps, Virgil included. Only the cocky, bullheaded prince could get away with saying such things.

“The Divine King does not need to meddle in such lowly matters himself,” His representative responded in a droll manner, “Please do try to show proper respect to your father, Crown Prince Roman. When one day you are in his position, you will understand how precious the Divine King’s time is.”

Roman’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he held his tongue. All throughout the meeting, he hardly spoke. Virgil caught him at times, glaring when the representative wasn’t looking.

As Patton and Virgil reenter the castle, they pass by two female servants. One with blond hair, and the other with ebony hair. They do a short curtsy towards them, a common act of reverence towards nobility. Virgil doesn’t think much of it. He is often trailing after Patton and Logan, both who are considered nobility.

Logan had been born into the nobility class. He grew up knowing Roman practically since birth. Whereas Patton, like Virgil, had been a peasant. His parents are farmers and he himself had the destiny of being a farmer until his link to the Ether was discovered. The title of court mage is of nobility, meaning he became nobility when he took up the title.

“Lyla, Aurora, you don’t have to curtesy for little ole me!” Patton says, attempting to wave them off.

A smile graces Virgil’s lips, a rare sight these days. Of course Patton knows these two servants’ names. He is good at remembering every person’s names that he comes across. Or making friends with everyone he meets for that matter.

“We know.” The blond-haired one says, glancing towards Virgil. He does not know why. Is there something distracting about his appearance?

He doesn’t have time to reflect on it. Patton quickly excuses themselves and they continue on their way. They walk through the stone passageways, lined with tapestries depicting battles long gone. Until at last, they reach Logan’s quarters within the castle.

Patton knocks in his patented rhythmic fashion. Two knocks, a pause, followed by three quick knocks in succession.

“Come in,” Logan says from within.

Patton bursts through the door, Virgil following behind.

Logan is sitting at his desk, papers and scrolls cluttering it. He is writing something, his back facing away from the two. Patton gets a sly look on his face. Virgil watches as he walks up to Logan, carefully to keep his footsteps light.

“Guess who?” Patton says, his hands covering Logan’s eyes.

“Patton?” Logan says, a soft warmth to his voice.

“Yup! And Virgil’s with me as well!” Patton removed his hands, allowing Logan to turn and look up at the two.

“Ah, Virgil. It’s good to see you up—up and about.” Logan says, yawning mid-sentence.

Virgil catches himself yawning as well. Patton follows suit. None of them have managed to achieve a full night’s sleep these past few weeks. There are dark circles hidden beneath the spectacles of the other two. Logan appears worse off than Patton. He sways in his chair, eyes bloodshot.

Virgil narrows his eyes, marching forward to pluck the feather quill from Logan’s hand. The royal advisor lets out a muffled cry, reaching for it. Virgil hoists above his head, away from Logan and hands it to Patton. He shoots Patton a desperate look, urging him to say something.

“Logan, Virgil and I came here to see if you’d like to join us for dinner…but I think you need more than that. I think you should take a break—until the morning at least.” Patton says, pressing his lips firmly together.

“I appreciate your concerns, Patton, but I cannot give up—not like before—“ Logan lets out a strangled sound, and he turns his head to look away from the two.

Virgil and Patton exchange looks. Virgil’s eyebrows are furrowed with worry. There is concern shining in Patton’s eyes. But there is also something other emotion flitting across Patton’s face. Virgil can’t discern what it is, and it bothers him.

Patton steps forward, “I’m not asking you to give up. We will find him, Logan. But Virgil and I aren’t going to let you destroy yourself in the process. Please, Logan, you can’t help like this. A person needs sufficient food and rest in order to perform their duties well.”

“You are using my own words against me,” Logan croaks, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes, “but…I suppose I see your point.”

Logan doesn’t admit often when he’s wrong. It irks him. For him to come close to it is a sign of his exhaustion.

“I’m glad,” Patton says, “You are important to us, Logan. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Well I am not sure--” Logan starts, before crumbling underneath Patton's’ gaze, “Er, thank you Patton and Virgil. It would be...most inopportune to lose either of you as well.”

At the mention his name, Virgil startles. He doesn’t expect for Logan to acknowledge him. Patton did all the talking after all.

“Of course,” Patton says, smiling thinly, “now let’s get out of this stuffy study and get some food, hm?”

They take dinner in Roman’s quarters. It is mostly silent, other than the clinking of cutlery. All of them are on the verge of using their bowls of soup as a makeshift pillow.

Halfway through, Patton lets out a strained giggle. Both Logan and Virgil shoot him a questioning look.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was imagining what it’d be like if—if Roman was with us right now.” Patton says, voice cracking.

Virgil leans over and squeezes Patton’s hand gently. A small gesture of comfort. It is not a reassurance that Roman will return. Virgil can’t promise that. No one can. But it is Virgil showing Patton he also wishes Roman is there with them.

Logan huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Knowing Roman, he’d be making a fuss about the carrots in the soup,” Logan halfheartedly grumbles, “Despite my lectures, he did—he does not seem to comprehend the importance of carrots or vegetables in general.”

“You say that as if you wouldn’t eat Madame Crofter’s jelly for the rest of your life.” Patton teases.

Logan’s cheeks burn red from embarrassment, causing Virgil to snort in amusement.

“I—in any case, when Roman returns, perhaps a fitting punishment would be forcing him to eat nothing but carrots for a week.” Logan says, in an attempt to avert the topic away from him.

The conversation continues after that, but Virgil drowns it out, focusing on one word: When. Logan said “When Roman returns” not “If Roman returns.”

Did Logan really believe that? Logan “I’m Always Serious” Golic? Logan who always berated Patton and Roman for their flights of fancy? Logan who always advocates for logical, sensible thinking?

If Logan believes Roman will return, maybe Virgil can as well. Virgil badly wants to believe the next time he sees Roman, he'll be riding atop a white horse and not inside a white casket. Virgil knows better. He’s lived enough to be wise to the world’s tricks.

Reality is harsh and cruel and oh so unforgiving. It sets you up into thinking your fairytale ending will happen, only to snatch it away at last minute’s notice. Until the next thing you’re aware, you’re imprisoned in a dungeon and you’re never getting out—

No. He refuses to dwell on that right now. Virgil gazes down at his half-empty soup bowl, his appetite deserting him. Patton and Logan are still talking. Patton glances at him, concerned. Virgil doesn’t look back. He’s still thinking.

Maybe Logan doesn’t truly believe Roman will come back. Perhaps it’s only a charade, to keep Virgil’s and possibly Patton’s hopes up. Both Logan and Patton treat him at best a small child. They tiptoe around certain topics, incredibly careful in their interactions with him.. He is damaged, he knows this. But he can take the truth. If Roman is dead, he’d prefer to know rather than live in an illusion where Roman could either be alive or dead.

Virgil wants to use words to demand Patton and Logan to tell him the truth. He doesn’t do it. Instead, he sits and thinks how the others must’ve felt about his own disappearance. The others didn’t give up on him, even when he’d believed they did. He can’t imagine having to experience something like this a second time. Logan and Patton are better than Virgil will ever be. They have a continual faith that things will be alright. A faith Virgil cannot even hope to possess.

Someone places a hand on his shoulder. It pulls Virgil out of his reveries and back into reality. Weeks ago the sudden contact would’ve startled him. But Virgil recognizes that warm, gentle touch and knows he is safe.

“Hey Virgil,” Patton says gently, moving his hand to tuck a piece of Virgil’s hair behind his ear, “Are you finished eating?”

He nods, mouth twisting to form a yawn.

“Okay, we’ll send it away then.” Patton says, not at all angered that Virgil hadn’t finished his meal.

A servant comes and collects their dirty dishes. Logan rises from his chair, presumably heading to his bedchamber for the night. At least, he starts for the door but freezes midway through. Patton doesn’t move either. It appears none of them are eager to leave each other’s presences.

“Sleepover?” Patton suggests, his smile lacking its usual spark.

Logan’s face scrunches together. He inhales deeply, words already formed on his tongue then stops. Why, Virgil doesn’t know. Something causes Logan to change his mind. Patton’s wide, pleading eyes, perhaps. Or maybe he’s too tired to put up a fight he’s likely to lose.

“I will participate, as long as Virgil is alright with it.” He says.

The chair creaks as Virgil leans away from their questioning gazes. He should say no. The last thing he wants is his nightmares to disturb the others’ chances of a good night’s rest. He should say no, and yet, he doesn’t. His selfish desire for physical affection wins in the end.

Virgil nods yes, and he doesn’t regret upon seeing Patton’s smile grow wider.

The three of them don’t even change into sleepwear. They barely make it to the bed before they collapse. Logan and Patton fall asleep before Virgil. He can hear the steady sounds of their breathing. Patton’s head leans against Virgil, an arm draped across Virgil’s chest. Meanwhile Logan’s back presses against Virgil’s side. He is encased between the two, and he does not mind it at all. It is comforting, grounding even.

Still he lays between the two, wide awake despite his exhaustion. The bed is supposed to be Roman’s. The whole spacious bedroom is rightfully Roman’s. Virgil is hardly deserving of such lodging.

Yet, he understands now why Roman insisted on him staying here; guilt. Roman thinks Virgil deserves a royal’s quarters more than he, the rightful prince, deserves it. The fact the King allowed it is astonishing. But then again, when Roman gets an idea stuck in his head, it’s impossible to persuade him otherwise. Virgil knows this from personal experience.

Unsurprisingly, his fatigued mind is incapable of thinking about anything but Roman. Hot tears spill down his face.

Damn Roman for having the audacity to be more than a snobby, selfish noble. He never imagined wishing that until this moment. A snobby, selfish noble would be safe, behind their castle walls. Not traversing the kingdom, unguarded from its’ perils.

Instead, Roman happened to be a nearsighted, selfless fool. How dare he place his royal birthright in jeopardy for the sake of vengeance? He is the King’s only child. If he fell, the throne would fall to one of his cousins. If they chose to squabble over it, it’d mean anarchy for the whole kingdom.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. Virgil isn’t worth the whole kingdom. An apology is all he needed. Not this impossible task Roman has placed upon himself.

Roman wrote he couldn’t stand remaining idle while Virgil’s tormentors went unpunished. But how could he not realize they couldn’t bear to live in a world without him? That after everything, Virgil could hardly live with himself knowing he’d been—that he’d been the catalyst to Roman’s…doom.

Virgil closes his eyes, his consciousness growing fuzzy. The world swirls into a black hole of nothingness. He’s asleep. Not entirely. A fray of his consciousness stays awake. Just enough for him to hear muffled voices, a soft kiss pressed upon his forehead then nothing. The part of him that’s mostly asleep thinks it’s a dream. A pleasant one, compared to the others. But then the bed grows cold, and that sends warning bells to his brain.

He opens his eyes to find Logan and Patton gone. Just like Roman. Heart in throat, Virgil tears the bedsheets off of him. He abandons the bed, standing up as he surveys his surroundings. It is still dark; the sun has not yet rose.

He refuses to look at the nightstand. He will not read another letter claiming their actions as right and just when that’s bullshit. A noise erupts from outside, startling him. Footsteps. Loud and heavy, belonging to the palace guards. There are shouts. A commotion like this can only mean one thing; there is a threat against the castle.

Assassins? An enemy kingdom invasion? The remaining Haldoofse launching a surprise attack? Virgil doesn’t know nor does he care. The only thing he cares about is making sure Patton and Logan are safe. He refuses to let another person face danger because of him.

Virgil goes for the knife hidden underneath the bed frame. The knife the others have no idea exist. The knife Remy had bestowed upon him.

The knife at his disposal, he heads to the door leading out of the quarters. Something brushes against his legs, and he whips out his knife to see two glittering irises. It’s Taran. The feline looks unimpressed at his knife, her chin held high.

He puts the knife away. With a shaky hand, he reaches out and pets Taran. She responds by headbutting his legs some more, purring. It appears Taran came to send him off. Whether it is god or cat, he does not know. It is reassuring all the same. He withdraws his hand and opens the door. He makes sure Taran doesn’t dart out before closing it shut.

Virgil stays away from the light of the hallway torches, keeping to the shadows. The halls are silent. Too silent after the ruckus from earlier. With each step, he could be a step closer from engaging with an enemy. He hears rapid footsteps and holds back, behind a wall. It’s an enemy—it has to be.

As the person rounds the corner, he tackles them. He holds his knife underneath their chin, ready to slash—

“Virgil?!”

He pauses. Even with the hallway lit by torches, it is dim. Yet there is no mistaking Logan gaping up at him in shock. It’s more than just that. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. Logan never cries. Never.

Virgil’s anger from earlier gives way. He removes the knife away from Logan’s throat, unpinning him from the floor. Logan lays on the ground, making no attempts to move. Virgil frowns, reaching out to caress Logan’s cheek. His thumb gently running across the tear-stains. Logan surprises him by leaning into the contact.

Logan is not a very affectionate person. He will offer physical comfort, knowing others reciprocate better to it. Rarely does he himself seek it out. He primarily shows and seeks love in other ways; words rooted in comforting logic and acts of services towards others.

He’s only seen Logan actively desire physical affection in times of duress. Something is wrong. Virgil withdraws his hand, causing Logan to whimper. His eyes widen in horror at the pitiful sound that emanates from his mouth.

“I—I apologize—”

Virgil doesn’t let him finish that sentence. He pulls Logan away from the ground and into a protective hold. Logan lets him. He clings to Virgil, sobbing. Virgil scans the hallways, straining to hear any possible intruders sneaking up on them. But the halls remain silent.

Virgil hums, rubbing Logan’s back. Words still fail him, but humming is okay. He hums, the melody sounding suspiciously familiar. As if he’s heard it sung to him by a certain prince. The soft lullaby appears to calm Logan down, his sobs petering out into small sniffles. Eventually Logan is breathing normally, slumped against Virgil. For a moment, Virgil thinks Logan has fallen asleep.

Then Logan jolts, gripping Virgil tightly by the shirt. There is a wild, almost manic glint in his eyes. It’s far from his usual calculating, reserved demeanor.

“Virgil,” He says lowly, “Roman, he is—he’s—”

Logan inhales deeply, collecting his thoughts. Virgil’s heart rings loudly in his ears. It is only a few seconds, the blink of an eye. At the mention of Roman, and what are merely seconds has transformed into literal years for Virgil. He knows what’s coming. There is no other explanation for Logan’s anomalous behavior. He knows what’s been coming for days. Still, it will hurt to hear those words spoken out loud. To know that Roman is actually de—

“—alive.”

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #remy sanders #sasi #kat writes #i am now using the tags to be self deprecating and i must say this: im so sorry heard no more anon i have let you down on this #btpomt au

35 notes · View notes

pencilpat · 6 months

Text

Sanders Sides College AU: Prologue

A short set-up for my college kid AU of the sides! This is a lead-in to Remus's arc, and a beginning-in-the-middle of a storied friend group. Very little mention of college for the beginning of a college AU, lol. Here are the character sheets for everyone!

2,660 words

CW: undiagnosed psychosis, distress and panic attack, implied neglectful parents, swearing, slightly unsympathetic Patton, drug mention, fight/confrontation

▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸▸

His head hits a wall.

His fist hits his head.

A hand hits something that is him but not him.

His body is barely his own. Teeth bared; he knocks his head against the oak wood of the floorboards, sprawled on his side with his back pressed tightly to the wall. A scream sounds in his skull and an accompanying one threatens to tear from between his clenched teeth. He grips his fist against his mouth, a restrained squeak leaving him as he clenches his eyes shut.

He shakes himself out, tries to sit up on shaking arms. A hand grabs his ankle; nothing is there. He curls in a ball with his legs against his chest, breathing, trying to breathe. There are Hands, black and wiry, strangling at his skin. Another sob threatens to rip his teeth open, when a different sound breaks the cacophony.

“Remus?”

His brother’s voice and knocking. At that, a sob does leave him. Even if this is part of the episode, he jumps at the chance to be comforted by Roman. He crawls on all fours towards the door, and falls against it, letting himself cry finally.

“Roman!” he cries his name, and his twin opens the door, slipping through as not to knock Remus on his ass. Roman is on him instantly, gripping his shoulders softly and muttering concerns. “Roman, are you here? For real?”

“Yeah- Yes. For real.” Roman hugs him to his chest, both shadowed by the lamp that provides the only light in the room. Remus collapses into his hold, trembling. “Are you okay? Mom heard you shout earlier, but she said not to- I came anyway, I am here, that’s that.” Roman hugs him tightly, his face creased through with worry.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Remus cries, perhaps a bit too loud as Roman startles against him. Roman’s hands are warm and solid compared to the wisps that coldly grasp at him. His breathing calms just slightly, panting instead of hyperventilating as he grips at his twin’s pyjamas. “Roman- Roman, I’m scared.”

“I- I know, Rem. I am too. But it’s ok, it’ll be ok, even if I’m scared, I can put it aside right now,” Roman soothes, setting a hand gently on top of Remus’s head – that hair usually brings him embarrassment with it’s tacky cut, but right now, that is just his brother. And he holds onto him tight, tight, tight. They are curled around each other, as though if Roman holds him tight enough he can hide him within himself entirely. The idea makes a shaky, high-pitched laugh worm its way out of Remus.

“Rom,” he sniffs, shaking knuckles red with how tight they hold him. “What’s happening? I don’t under-“ He pauses and gasps as a man’s voice whispers against his ear, jolting even closer to his brother. “I don’t understand! It’s been weeks, I know dad said it’s nothing, I don’t believe him. Please, I need it to stop.”

“I- I don’t know how to fix it. I’m sorry.” Roman says it like a pledge, as though it’s his fault somehow. Shadowed and curled, they look as young as they are at 18, Remus gaunt and hollow as he’s become over the past few months. Roman brings him food, and finds it untouched hours later. Roman makes the staff bring him food and water so often one of the maids scolded him, chastising that Remus doesn’t touch it anyway.

“We’ll… We’ll figure out what’s happening. Somehow, even if it must be behind dad’s back!” Roman says, with shaken confidence in the man supposed to care for him. “I promise I won’t let this go unchecked, ok? I love you.”

Remus breathes out shakily. “You sound like a movie character, prince charming. Love you, too.” Roman gasps in mock offence, immediately falling back into a faux rivalry at the signs of Remus calming down. He doesn’t retort in his own defense though, bumping their foreheads together at the light patch where they share a birth mark.

“You will be ok. Even if you have to have me bring you food forever. I’d do it, y’know!”

“I know you would. Bringing bread to the poor pauper, eh, princey?” Remus laughs properly now, sniffling away the last of his tears as his gripped fists relax slightly. He grins up at Roman, who smiles back at him tauntingly.

“Let me care about you without being insulting for once in your life, Rem.” Roman pulls out of their hug, sitting across from him on the floor, both looking small as children in the large bedroom of their parent’s manor. Remus rubs his own arm, feeling the tickling and gripping of hands subsiding.

“I’m not an idiot, Roman. I know you’d always take care of my ass.”

“No matter the cost! I promise.”

“Ok, drama king.”

---

Knocking on his door jolts Remus out of a trance. Hands tug at him, but he brushes them off into nothingness and dissolving shadows as he sits up and walks to the door. “In a minute!” He kicks aside a box and a few clothes to make a path for himself as he goes. The door opens onto two of his housemates, one being his twin, and the other being the newest of the bunch. Remus took to simply referring to them as “Pastel” to compliment the “Emo” of his and his twin’s final housemate, their childhood friend Virgil. Pastel has a very hardened look, uncanny on their soft face. Remus glances over their expression, trailing over to Roman’s, which is held taught and drawn.

“Er- Is something going on?”

“Um,” Roman goes to start, stumbling over himself. “Your- your dealer showed up again.”

“Ugh, seriously? I told him not to come to your house anymore, bro, I don’t know what to say. I’ll text him again but-“

“How much money do you owe him?” Pastel speaks up, their voice cracking awkwardly. Remus pauses and blinks at them. He quirks an eyebrow at them, taken aback. “Remus…” they speak as though a beartrap will sink into their flesh if they say the wrong thing. “I know that you- you need that stuff to feel ‘normal’,” the air quotes make Remus roll his eyes, but they continue undisturbed. “But I’ve asked so, so many times to at least not tell those creeps this address!”

“Patton, it’s ok,” Roman cuts in, setting a hand on their shoulder despite them towering above the both of them. “Really, Remus said he can text the weirdo again. I assure you, things will-!”

“Roman,” Patton says, a warning in their voice that makes Remus flinch; as demeaning and scolding as a father to a 3-year-old. “We- we talked about this,” Patton mutters, as though Remus isn’t right there. Roman glances at them desperately, then glances to Remus.

Remus laughs uncomfortably, scratching his calf with his foot. “What is this? What’s happening?”

Roman’s face pinches up again, a sharp breath leaving him. “Remus, Patton and I have talked about the- this whole issue with your dealers coming around. Look, I know… I know that you feel you need those things for your hallucinations, but- just what do you think would happen if they showed up when dad visits?!”

“Uh, they wouldn’t,” Remus laughs.

“You don’t know that! Gosh, it’s enough that you’re staying here under their noses! Remus, you’re going to get one of us hurt!” Patton’s fists are balled, and they keep shutting their eyes as though flinching at their own words. “You need- you need to take this somewhere else. I can’t have you putting Roman and Virgil in danger!”

“What?! They’re not in danger!” Remus is already shouting, even as he watches them both flinch. He holds his hands out to the sides in disbelief, staring open mouthed at his brother. Roman doesn’t counter Patton’s points though, just stands still with his lip trembling just slightly. “Roman? Roman, c’mon, they’re talking crazy!”

“Remus,” Roman pleads. “Look, you have a job and savings… You make enough to get your own place. You-“

“What are you talking about?” Remus shouts, high and strained.

“Please quiet down!” comes a taught, anxious yell from another room in the hall. Footsteps, and then the final roommate is peeking his face out at them. “Guys, it’s freakin’ midnight. What are you screaming about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, apparently how I’m a big boy now so I should fuck off to my own place so these two don’t have to look at me anymore!”

“Remus! That’s not what either of us said!” Roman tries to protest, not quite shouting but not quiet.

“It’s what ‘Pastel’ over here means,” Remus spits, venom dripping off what he used to use as a friendly nickname. Patton’s mouth slams shut and they tense up, their eyes watering.

“Remus, you’re scaring them,” Virgil warns, sliding up beside Patton to hold their hand. All Remus sees is a wall being formed. All he sees is three sets of stone-cold gazes shunning him out. He balls up his fists, heavy, hot breaths leaving him. He cries out, kicks the frame of his door with bare feet, and slams his door on their faces.

“You fucking promised!” he shouts through the door as he kicks the box from before into the wall. Roman flinches hard on the other side, drawing himself up like he might respond, before he turns tail and takes off towards the living room.

Virgil stares back and forth between him disappearing and Patton. “Geeze, guys, that was rough,” he whispers scoldingly. Patton is still tense, eyes closed and breathing uneven. Virgil notices, and holds their face gently, tutting at them. “Hey hey, you know shouting gets at you.” He leads them to their shared bedroom, only sparing one glance back to Remus’s door.

---

Remus seethes, laying face-first on the floor, panting into the nice carpets. He feels like puking. He feels like screaming more. He feels like killing everyone in this house- No, no he doesn’t. He shakes away the images of knives and blood beneath his hands, pressing his palms into the carpet to ground himself.

The only one left, tumbles and falls into the pile of dominos that represent everyone who decided he wasn’t worth looking at. Roman? Roman, his twin? Kicking him out? It’s not something he even considered, not once, not even when he began staying here under their parent’s noses. Their parent’s sneering, poked up in the air noses. He briefly pictures their smashed faces, before shaking that image away as well. He takes a deep breath. It’s that stupid Pastel soft kid – it has to be. They’ve twisted it somehow! His dealers aren’t even scary ones, they just sell weed! And- and a few other things, but they aren’t dangerous! Even- even if he’s starting to owe them in the thousands and that one with that dumb jacket has showed up outside their house about five times. Or ten.

Remus rolls over onto his back, staring hard at the ceiling. He drags a hand down his face. He is dangerous. He is putting them in danger. He can’t stop himself from punching his own forehead at the realization. Remus bites down on his knuckle, chewing at the skin. He’s always going to put people in danger, isn’t he. He groans and sits up, moving finally to his bed- or what was his bed. Who knows what idiot they’ll bring in to replace him. He settles heavily against his sheets, picking up his phone. He scrolls mindlessly through his contacts through blurry eyes.

Surely someone can let him couch surf. There’s Remy from the tattoo shop. They’re always nice to him, even if it is out of some weird pity. Remus bites down on his boney knuckle again, stressed. Remy already had three roommates, and he doubts they need any more with as much as they complain about the cramped space. He scrolls through two previous dealers, through random people he hasn’t spoken to in years and nameless numbers. At the very bottom of his numbers is a halfhearted Christmas wish from his mother, and a contact that hasn’t been texted in actual years.

He sits up slightly, brain turning. The contact’s name is just a green apple emoji and a heart, but he knows it instantly. He opens the texts, a chuckle leaving him as he reads through his high school self’s banter with an old friend. Her spitfire replies are all sent within seconds of his initial messages while his own replies sometimes have days between them. He smiles, slightly, cradling the phone without realizing.

He falls back on his pillow, sighing. The text box comes up, and he begins to type. Fuck, what do you say after three years? After all that happened?

Dooky: heyyyyyyyyy jan

Yeah, he can’t think of anything better. He presses send without thinking any further. He shakes out the anxiety with his arms, wiggling against the sheets that will not be his in the morning.

🍏🖤: Well, well, well.

Her reply is only a few minutes delayed, to his shock. He sits up straight in bed, hunching over his phone with a grin. She still has his number saved?!

🍏🖤: Virgil’s earworms finally wriggle out of your brain Carmona?

Remus giggles, nerves and excitement at speaking to her again behind the other’s backs clashing together in his brain like metal pots.

Dooky: if I tell u theyre getting rid of me too wld u believe me?

The dots come up, the typing bubble rising and falling for long minutes.

🍏🖤: What do you need Remus?

He can’t decipher her tone. Is she angry? She has every right to be. He takes in a shaky breath, brow furrowing up in stress.

Dooky: i need a couch to surf >x(

Yeah, casual and silly, just like in high school. She always loved how goofy he was. The bubbles don’t come up though, and he stares at the screen until it darkens. He gnaws on his lip anxiously, just waiting. Waiting for a deserved rejection. Waiting for her to assign to him the vitriol that their shared friend dished to her years ago. He’s so focused on the ‘maybes’ that her text scares him.

🍏🖤: Ok. You're a lucky man. I happen to have a free couch.

🍏🖤: Hope you like bedbugs and mold.

🍏🖤: Here’s the address.

He shriek-laughs with surprise and delight, and spams so many heart emojis at her that he’s sure she turned her phone off. Reinvigorated, he starts shoving things in bags and boxes. He has a lot of clothes, but enough bags and trunk space in his beat-up truck to get downtown with all his stuff. He pauses with a handful of junk half stuffed in a bag. He doesn’t want to see them. He stumbles on his own feet, staring at the door as though, just maybe, Roman will knock and promise to protect him. As though he’s 18 and not 21, as though he’s in that stupid manor full of people that hate him with a single comfort in his whole world. A stupid pauper being brought bread under his parent’s monarchy.

He sighs out a held breath. No. Roman won’t be coming to the door this time. And he doesn’t want to see him either way.

“Fuck this,” he whispers under his breath. He will wait until they’ve all gone to sleep, and he’ll be gone in the dead of night. Fuck this. The least he needs is another wall of dominos crashing in on his shoulders to crush him under their judgement. An old friend to fall back on has given him confidence, however shaky, and if these assholes want him gone then he will disappear like the Great Houdini. He puffs out his chest, and finishes his packing.

He chucks his entire life into the back of his rusted blue chrome truck, and he is gone. When his twin wakes up, he will be gone. Exactly like he wants.

#college au #sanders sides #sanders sides au #tss au #remus sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #my writing

16 notes · View notes

mysisypheannightmare · 1 year

Text

Malfunction

Word Count: 10530

Warnings: Hurt No Comfort, heavy angst, extreme crying (seriously, it’s A LOT), suicidal behavior/attempted suicide, multiple instances of self-harm, injury, biting, brief mentions of blood, choking/strangulation, difficulty breathing, extreme amounts of negative thinking, self-loathing, panic attack/anxiety attack, mental breakdown, pushing past emotional/mental limits, overworking, sensory processing issues, partial mutism/struggling through mutism, denied help when asked, insomnia, implied sleep-deprivation, stress, depression, anxiety, brief explicit language, other sides & Thomas misunderstanding the situation and reacting poorly (NOT unsympathetic)

Notes: Please heed these warnings. This is a long and intense fanfic that is essentially 99% pure angst. It is also mostly based on personal experience, so I don’t fully know how to tag some of it. If you have tag suggestions, please let me know and I’ll add it to the warning tags.

There is an additional note at the end.

And shoutout to @intrulogical for the perfect idea that sparked this fic! It really turned into its own kind of monster in the end...

If you're ready, please enjoy!

–

He really should have expected something to go wrong.

Logan had only been given a single day before the deadline to get everything ready.

Roman had come up with a new video idea, throwing out the old plan all because he'd had what he decided to call a "sudden stroke of creative genius" just yesterday. Logan had offered that they stick with their initial plan and work the new idea into next month's schedule instead, but Roman had refused. He’d been so insistent that the new idea couldn't wait, that he had slaved away in his own room all day to construct the new script, so all he needed was the proper research done and a quick look over for any typos...which, of course, would fall to Logan's department. Unwilling to hear Logan out about having to rearrange the schedule on such short notice, Roman left Logan with a pile of papers, notes, and a memo pad full of lyrics for a song he would be adding on top of everything, and there was very little Logan could do but, well, his job.

He had sighed, organized the papers enough to find the research topics he needed to collect data on, and got to work.

As he'd informed Roman, he had to completely rearrange his schedule for the day to accommodate the new, daunting task before him. Pushing aside his own priorities was simple enough, but he'd have to let the other sides know that he'd need to postpone his prior arrangements with them, and he'd have to find a way to make Roman's new plan work around Thomas' necessary evening and nightly tasks. With them filming first thing the very next day, Logan would have to be sure Thomas had everything set up and ready before he went to bed that night or they'd be behind schedule for the shoot, which would only make things worse.

Thankfully, Thomas had already expected this and needed little persuading, and Virgil was willing to step in and make sure Thomas double-checked everything before turning in for the night.

But then he had to keep reminding Thomas to get off his phone and sleep already so he wouldn't be tired in the morning, which kept distracting Logan from getting his research done.

Once Thomas had finally fallen asleep, Logan tried his best to focus in on the main topic Roman had chosen. While he kind of hoped Roman's sudden change of plans would at least include information he was already privy to, he could never be so lucky.

So, instead, he would be up all night, foregoing any sleep so he could learn as much as possible about the psychological nuances of obsession and passion, Roman’s apparent ‘genius’ topic idea. Collecting data and cross-referencing Roman's new script was time-consuming, but he was certain he could get most of it done in time for the shoot.

Logan glanced down at the clock. 12:18am. See? Plenty of time to get everything ready.

He flipped a page of the script to find dozens upon dozens of hand-written notes from Roman, some kind of last-moment addition where he wanted more detail about obsession included in a particular scene. Oh boy, Logan really was about to be in for a long night...

–

After having opened the thirtieth medical article on this topic, Logan wanted nothing more than to just close everything down and crawl into bed, consequences be damned. But, no, he had a job to do, so it didn't matter if he was tired.

He glanced down at the clock. 4:08am.

Okay, just another four hours and fifty-two minutes before Thomas was scheduled to get up. He leaned back in his desk chair and looked over at the stack of papers he still had left to review. He'd made it over halfway through already, and that likely left just enough time to finish the research and a quick glance-over for typos before Thomas got up in the morning. So, right on time, then.

His gaze drifted back to the article pulled up on his computer when his mind harshly reminded him that he would need to review his schedule before deciding he had the right amount of time left, as he couldn't ignore Thomas' direct tasks in the morning, no matter how much importance Roman placed on his script.

Welcoming the distraction from research for a bit, Logan opened his schedule and verified what had been moved and postponed to accommodate Roman's change of plans.

Thomas' morning routine was still intact, but there was clear overlap in the final prep time for filming and Logan's research window, especially considering he had to put off his prior arrangements yesterday evening with all the other sides so he'd have to be ready for any questions that may arise. And since they would be filming that morning, there were bound to be a lot of questions.

Logan sighed. Okay, so he didn't have as much time as anticipated, but that was fine. He could probably just pick up his pace for now to make sure the workload would be completed efficiently.

And that's when he noticed a missed schedule change from yesterday that hadn't been moved or postponed. In regards to some missing files that he hadn't been able to locate before the prior episode’s filming day, which had caused a whole uproar due to the lack of memorized information Thomas needed to rely on. He had set the time aside to verify the files' whereabouts for the day right before the shoot this time so he could be sure he had it and wouldn't lose it before the filming began, to keep Thomas from worrying about it for an extended period and to maintain Logan’s own reputation as being reliable to Thomas and the others.

But he hadn't done it. He'd completely skipped over it because he had prioritized it as a personal task, but when he rescheduled his whole day, he had set all his personal tasks to low priority or removed them so he would have adequate time for Roman's necessary script changes. But this one task hadn't been removed due to its importance, and yet he'd completely forgotten about it.

He stood up, wanting to go find the files right away, but the sudden movement knocked some of Roman's papers and notes to the floor and he hastily scrambled to pick them back up.

He set them back on the desk. The pile was only half-finished. If he paused the research now, it wouldn't be done before filming started. But if he didn't find the missing files, Thomas would find him unreliable! He had specifically asked Logan to locate the missing information, but Roman had demanded this research be done on time, too!

Logan looked down at his hands to find them shaking.

Odd.

He ignored it and sat down to look back over his schedule. Surely there was something else he could remove from his morning tasks to give him some extra time?

The only priorities were Thomas' morning routine, the preparations for filming, and being available to answer questions. Oh, that's right, he would have to be readily available for any questions from the others leading up to the filming start time, which meant he couldn't be back in the library storage locating the files at that time.

Well, scratch that idea then. But maybe he could power through the research during the questions time. Or maybe there wouldn't be as many questions as usual, giving him that tiny bit more leeway?

Or, perhaps he could create a list of frequently asked questions and answers for the others to quickly reference so that they wouldn't need to ask him-- oh no, wait, then he'd have to take time creating the list and making copies for everyone, so he'd only lose more time that way.

He looked down at the clock again. 4:32am.

He gawked. Had he wasted that much time on this already? How was he going to get anything done on time now?

His vision seemed to swim for a moment and he grabbed onto the edge of his desk to keep himself steady. What on earth was that all about?

He raised a hand to adjust his glasses, for some reason thinking that may help, only to notice he was breathing really heavily.

Well, that was rather impractical, he thought. He was metaphysical, and therefore shouldn't need to breathe. So why exactly was he breathing so quickly and heavily?

Oh, wait, right, that was called hyperventilating. Why was he hyperventilating then?

His mind seemed to race at the implication, supplying him with everything he'd deduced up to that moment - how he'd have to resolve the deadline problem in another way if at all possible, how there was so much he still hadn't gotten done yet, and how he definitely seemed to be overwhelmed at the moment.

That wasn't good.

He didn't notice that he was swaying the second time and fell right out of his chair and onto the floor, now aware he was quite nauseous and that his head seemed to be pounding with a growing headache.

Why was this happening? What was wrong with him??

This was very unusual, given he didn't often lose balance or display any symptoms of illness. It wasn't unheard of, sure, but it certainly didn't come out of nowhere like this, for no discerning reason.

He tried to bring a hand up to his face again, only to immediately fall forward and land flat on the floor.

His first thought was to try to sit up, but his energy seemed to completely disappear and he just laid there uselessly. This was such a waste of time, on top of everything he'd already learned about the schedule and his inability to properly redistribute necessary tasks... How could he have let this happen?

He wouldn't normally make such an enormous error, would he? No, something had to be wrong here. Some kind of glitch or malfunction he hadn't noticed until it had started to wreak havoc on him like this.

How could he have let it go unnoticed, though?

It wasn't until his glasses began to fog up that he realized he was crying, too, and once he noticed that, it seemed to increase by a ridiculous amount. What must have started as a mere trickle was now a faucet on full blast, and he could hear himself begin to sob loudly.

He somehow sat up just barely then, clutching at his head as he became even more light-headed and dizzy from that one simple action and all the noise he was making.

How could this be happening? Why had things gone so wrong?

Aware enough to at least take stock of what was occuring, he noted he was still hyperventilating while also crying, and before he could move onto the next symptom of whatever this problem was, he squeezed his eyes shut and started screaming.

Like the crying wasn't disruptive enough, his screams seemed to bounce off every wall around him, the floor beneath him echoing the clamorous cacophony right back into his ears, sounding so desperate and terrified.

Neither the sobbing nor screaming would cease when he tried to force it to stop, it just wouldn’t stop, and it only seemed to get louder and louder.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He must have broken something in his usual coding and this had been the result, or it was due to crossed wires or something coming loose. That was the only thing that could explain how horrible he was acting right now, and how awful this felt.

But it didn’t matter how it felt, he just needed it to stop.

He had to make it stop.

But how?

His mind was racing, trying to sift through the multiple mistakes he'd already made in less than a day, with many more in the past and soon to be more in the future ready to add on to the pile. The moment he tried to think of proposing a solution to the source of all this - the timing error - he couldn't get to the next step in weighing his options and the idea's many variables because his mind would suddenly flood in with more problems. It left his ears ringing and his jaw feeling sore from all his own crying and screaming.

How had he let this get so out of hand? What was he supposed to do if he couldn't think straight long enough to fix it?

What if he couldn’t fix it?

Surely this wasn’t just happening because he'd messed something up with his workload, even if that was obviously an unfixable mistake and meant that he had ruined everything and it’dl been all his fault... But the action had simply caused something in his brain to misfire and resulted in all this bizarre stuff, instead of something understandable, like a standard level of trepidation or a marginal amount of stress, just enough to motivate him to keep going.

This? This was not normal. And it was far from understandable.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to stop all the tears.

But the root cause of the issue was his mistake. So if he tried to focus his attention on fixing that specific part, maybe then he could fix the rest of it?

It was worth a shot!

He had no idea what other options he had left, though…

But maybe he could ask someone else for a new suggestion? If his mind was rendered temporarily faulty and he wasn’t capable of thinking clearly, maybe there was an answer he wasn't aware of that he could try instead? He'd just have to ask someone...

But who?

–

Shoving his fist to his mouth to quiet the incessant sobbing and possibly pause the hyperventilating, Logan had managed to get himself up on wobbly knees and then to his feet without falling over again. It was hard to keep quiet, as his mind seemed to fog over the moment he was standing and any thought that came through caught more crying in his throat. Once he made it to his door and got it open, he pulled both hands to his mouth, trying to force himself silent to keep from waking anyone.

He'd not bothered to check the time again, but with how dark it was in the hallway, he assumed not much time had passed yet. Perhaps he ought to have been grateful for that.

He stumbled as quietly as he could to the first door he saw upon exiting his room - Patton's.

Even though he couldn't really think of a legitimate reason to ask for his help with his mind so hazy, he figured Patton would probably be someone with an idea of what to do next, even if it didn't work. Logan just needed to try something, anything, at this point!

He removed one hand to knock on Patton's door, but it somehow managed to wind up slammed against the door instead, like he'd been throwing a punch.

What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe Patton could figure that much out?

If Patton couldn't come up with a solution to the scheduling problem, perhaps he could have some idea why Logan was suddenly malfunctioning like this?

He tried to knock again, and this time nearly completely whiffed trying to connect with the door. He really wished he could get this under control. He was so worthless like this, wasting time when he should have been researching.

Oh geez, the research! He clutched at his head, stress flooding in all over again. He hadn't even bothered to tab through the remaining pages to properly estimate how far along he could get before the deadline inevitably emerged.

Without warning, or at least none he'd been made aware of, the door in front of Logan swung open, revealing a very tired-looking Patton standing just inside, sans glasses.

Oh, good, now Logan could ask for his help and resolve the first part of this problem! But what about the malfunction? He still hadn't been able to stop crying, but crying was something Patton understood, right? It was some kind of an emotions thing. Was this an emotions thing then? Surely that meant Patton would be the exact side to consult about this!

Logan pulled away his other hand and attempted to speak, but all that came out was a jumbled mess of sounds and an obnoxiously loud sob.

He hadn't intended to be so noisy, especially since it was still so late, but he seemed to have no control over his volume, either. The tears only seemed to pick up at that thought and he tried to see Patton through them, but everything was just a blur now.

Patton wore an unreadable expression then, made even more impossible for Logan to decipher as his vision shifted and blurred behind all the unstoppable tears.

"Uhm, Logan, I..." Patton stammered out, looking at him with confusion. "I can't really understand you."

Logan shook his head, intending to try again, but the crying and sobbing were now back in full force and he tried to shove a hand over his mouth at the same time that he spoke.

"It's... The-- the time," he tried. "I need... P-please..."

He couldn't seem to get half of a word out before he was suddenly inhaling as much breath as he could, cutting himself off each time. The sentence he tried hadn't made any sense and the crying and hyperventilating only made it that much harder to understand.

This malfunction was ruining everything!

Patton frowned, and Logan shoved his hands over his mouth immediately, finally recognizing a sob was about to come moments before it did. The lack of air left him dizzy again, but he focused on Patton. Maybe he could at least have an idea of something to try? Anything, anything, please!

Patton sighed.

"Logan, I'm sorry, I just... I don't know how to help if I can't even understand you." He glanced away and then back, adding, "Just go and calm down first, okay?"

And then he shut the door.

Logan stood there, silent. The sobbing seemed to have stopped, possibly from how off-guard he'd been made from Patton's decision just then.

He hadn't expected that at all.

A hiccup escaped him, followed by another loud sob, and he rushed back to his room and slammed the door behind him before the screaming could start back up again.

What were his options now?

Patton had said to calm down, but did that mean he knew what this was? Was this normal? Were emotions always like this?

If Patton wasn't bothered by the display, then that meant something, right? Surely that indicated this was just how emotions worked... So maybe he wasn't broken, after all! He was still usable like this, he just needed to figure out how to shut the emotions part off so he could get back to being productive.

He just had to fix it.

He stumbled forward, trying to make his way back to his desk chair.

The other sides had emotions, too, but they weren't as loud and annoying as he was being right now, so that indicated there had to be an off switch, some way to maintain better control. He just needed to find whatever that was so this would stop being so disruptive and he could get back to work. He couldn't keep wasting everyone's time.

He had a deadline to meet.

The very second that thought processed in his mind, the screaming returned in full force. He tried shoving his hands over his mouth but the screaming persisted. He had to make this stop! There had to be something that would work!

He let go, looking around, hoping to find something that might help.

The quick movement jostled his glasses on his face, and he swung his hand up to catch them, effectively hitting himself in the side of the head. Without further thought to the action, he found himself balling up both hands into fists, now smacking himself on both sides of his head repeatedly.

Why was he doing this?

Why wouldn't this just stop??

Why wasn't there just a mute button or an off switch? Why was this system so complicated that there could be no simple solution to the mess it caused??

Hit after hit against the side of his head made the headache he'd noticed earlier grow stronger, the thoughts on his mind seeming to slow from their rampant and racing pace.

He managed to stop one of his hands before he landed another hit, and glanced over at his hand before sucking in a shaky breath.

Oh, right, the crying still hadn't stopped.

He was still uselessly wasting time.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to think, to focus. He lowered his hands, everything both inside and out of him seeming uneasy and tense.

Patton had said to calm down. Maybe he needed to start with that.

Oh wait, maybe he just needed to refocus on the task at hand? The research!

He wasn’t sure what he would typically do to calm down. He wasn’t sure he ever needed to calm himself before, as most flares of emotions or bizarre behavior would only spark and burn out quickly. There was no need to calm down before now. What was a method that should work?

Perhaps a menial task?

He stumbled over to his desk and sat down, trying to hold his breath at intervals to get it steady again. Was it ever steady? That didn't matter. He held his breath for a few moments then inhaled again, trying to get the hyperventilating under control as he leaned towards his computer.

He returned to the medical journal he'd been starting to read earlier (he stopped himself from checking the clock again to see just how long ago that had been), but he could barely see through the tears, everything blurring at the edges. He wiped at his eyes incessantly, trying to stay focused.

Just read. Get the information, add it to the notes as necessary, and get the job done.

He held his breath again, but a sob broke out from behind his gritted teeth. The moment the sob broke free, it would grow into a scream. The screaming-sobbing was so loud and annoying, still seeming to bounce off the walls around him whenever he thought to tune back in to notice.

It was normal, though, he had to remind himself. This was fine. He just had to focus on the research and it would go away.

This will work. It had to!

It didn't, though. He went on like that for nearly half an hour, having finally bothered to check the clock. He'd made minimal progress, notably from having to stop reading periodically because his vision was still swimming at times and he was repeatedly feeling lightheaded from constantly trying to hold his breath and failing.

Clearly, the screaming sobs and constant hyperventilating had to stop. If he could get those parts under control, he could keep focused and everything else would fix itself.

He resisted covering his mouth right away, mind now switching tasks to try to solve this issue for good.

There had to be a way to get his breathing back to normal.

The thoughts didn't immediately connect together but he looked down at his hand and, after another blink to clear the tears, he found himself biting into the back of it, hard.

The screaming now sounded muffled, but only just barely, so he bit down harder. His hand spasmed for a moment and pain shot through his wrist and up his arm.

He could taste blood. Gross.

He could feel his hand throbbing against his teeth, overtaking the slight buzzing sensation from his muffled cries against his skin. His jaw began to ache from holding it in place, but he ignored it.

This...wasn't so bad.

It was somewhat freeing, the pain in his hand warring against the overwhelming thoughts in his mind. He could sense the pushback, like the pain wanted nothing more than to win out.

He adjusted his jaw and bit down again, just as hard. The taste of blood flooded his senses alongside the searing pain.

And that was when he realized... the screaming had stopped. Oh god, and his arm hurt more than he'd ever thought possible, but the screaming had stopped!

He let go, and immediately saw the terrible bite marks and blood on the back of his hand. That didn't look pleasant, but at least it worked! He almost smiled at this small point of victory, but he lifted his hand and stared forward, ready to ride this rush to get back on track.

Unfortunately, it only took a few moments of trying to type before he had to stop because he kept dripping blood onto his keyboard, plus his hand was still randomly cramping and spasming from the pain, so he decided to get up and wrap his hand in a bandage for the time being.

The bleeding had stopped and was taken care of fairly quickly, but flexing his hand even just a tiny bit would send pain shooting up his forearm and down his fingertips, so he tried to stay aware of that as he stepped back towards his desk.

He noticed his mind seemed far clearer than it was minutes ago. From the decision to take care of his hand to the far quieter state of his room without all the screaming, he supposed Patton's suggestion really had worked.

He felt something drop on his uninjured hand and, upon seeing the drop of water, he realized he was still crying quite profusely, but clearly not as loudly and obnoxiously. He wiped away the incessant tears, but was grateful he'd at least managed to get the screaming part to stop. That was still progress, he assumed.

He sucked in a breath. Ah, he was still breathing bizarrely, but not quite as severely as he was earlier when he was hyperventilating. Definitely marked progress! That meant there really was a way to fix this, he just needed to try harder.

He took a seat and stared at the clock on his computer. 5:51am.

He ignored the pulsating pain in his hand that seemed to marginally increase as he ran the math in his head, seeing he only had three hours and nine minutes left before Thomas would be up and the research would be due.

He could hear the occasional light drips of tears as they fell onto his desk while he opened his research notes file on the computer to verify where he'd last left off.

And that's when he noticed, now that his mind was clear enough to see, multiple typos made in the last paragraph he'd typed.

Shit.

Without hesitation, the hyperventilating returned in full force as he scrambled to correct every typo he could find. As he kept clicking further back into the document, he found more and more errors, and it quickly dawned on him that he'd have to recheck the entire file and all the ones he'd written before it, too. With the submission deadline fast approaching, he knew there wouldn't be time. He was already behind, and they expected this to be done and without all these pointless errors!

What the hell was he supposed to do?

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears picking up again, and pain in his hand throbbing when he forced it into a fist and slammed it down on the desk. Fuck, that hurt!

He was supposed to have been making progress, but now things were even worse than they were before! He'd wasted all this time for nothing and he was right back at square one again!

He tried to catch his breath before any sobbing could return. The hyperventilating made him feel faint even faster than last time and he leaned forward, his eyes fixing on his bandaged hand. Why had that only worked for such a short while? Why had it worked at all?

He leaned down to try biting it again, but his hand was still already throbbing in pain.

Perhaps the other hand would be better? No, what if doing that hindered his ability to type fast enough or even at all? Small progress was better than no progress at this point, so there had to be something else.

He leaned back in his chair a bit, his mind starting to fog again.

Oh, no, that wasn’t good! He hadn’t even gotten anything useful done yet!

A jolt of pain ran up his arm and he reached up to cover his mouth again, knowing another sob was about to break out.

This wasn’t working.

The cry broke free anyway and rang loudly in his ears, the sound reverberating off the walls again, somehow still louder after all the short but cherished moments of silence he’d had in the meantime.

He slowly dropped his hands down to his neck, curling his fingers around each side. Without time to let a thought pass, he squeezed. Tight but not too tight, just enough to slightly hurt, just enough to get the breathing to stop for a moment, whether it was the hyperventilating or otherwise.

He felt a tingling sensation in his mouth, then the tingling traveled down to his chest. It was strong, almost overwhelming, numbing out the pain in his hand, and his mind provided no indication of what any of that should mean.

But then his chest heaved and he let go, sputtering. He grabbed at the tie around his neck, pushing and pulling it away, to help him breathe again. He felt at his neck with a few fingers and then pulled them away as the sensation against his skin began to sting.

He sucked in a breath and then exhaled....normally. Wait, that had worked? He was back to breathing normally again, albeit with large gulps of air at first, but no hyperventilating! He stared down at his hands, amazed that had worked so quickly, so efficiently.

He'd done it. This was the answer!

Staying focused, redirecting the pain when it overwhelmed him - it was a fast enough turnaround with minimal side effects that he could keep working!

It was perfect.

Even more enthused than his last bout of victory and progress, he leaned forward in his chair and went right back to work.

Based on the time he had left, he'd have to just power through into the questioning period to properly verify that the script pages and his notes of research were all submittable before the deadline, but that should be far more achievable now. Besides, he'd foregone sleep to do that plenty of times in the past without problem, and with this new process to keep his breathing maintained and steady, it should be simple.

Though his neck now occasionally ached, joining the continuing pulsing pain in his bandaged hand, Logan flipped another page of Roman's script, determined to get as much of this work done as he possibly could on time.

Some progress was still better than no progress, so he just needed to get close enough. Not that anything he did was ever enough, but he just had to accept that for now.

He pointedly ignored the clock again, and only paused every now and then to wipe away the tears that continued to trickle out for the next hour, silent and steady, as if he somehow held an endless supply within him. It was surprising he hadn't been able to stop, after all this time that had passed. He figured it had to stop on its own eventually, but more would always come.

Multitasking just a bit as he got near the end of the pile, he organized the files as he went, preparing them for the deadline. He readied everything he needed and tried not to allow any further delay. Forcing himself to stay on task, despite only the slightest pauses to deal with the constant silent tears, seemed to work.

His mind was still at odds with his goal here, but he couldn't deny that progress was being made. That was what mattered here, the rest of it was just a hindrance anyway.

And while he didn't feel calm, he figured that perhaps his misunderstanding of emotions had merely skewed his ability to recognize what that was meant to feel like. Maybe this was what was normal, and he'd finally achieved it? That should be a good thing. He should be satisfied.

–

By the time he was down to the last four pages of the script, just the barest pieces left, it was already well into the morning. Thomas hadn't woken up yet, as expected, and Logan considered his options as his new tasks were about to come due.

After he completed the last few pages, he would need to quickly review the full script as well as his own notes, checking for errors and typos. It shouldn't take too long, so long as there weren't too many mistakes. While he was doing that, he could remain available for questions regarding the shoot that would start in a couple hours.

The missing files were still missing, of course, but Logan had pushed that aside for now. Any time the thought resurfaced in his mind, he merely shoved it back down again.

He figured, if he could get everything else done first, he could try to find them just before the shoot started. It wasn't well thought-out, but even if it was, he knew everything would just spiral out of control again, so he was purposefully ignoring it until later. He could just do it later, surely.

He wiped more tears away. He really wished they'd just dry up already, especially since the other sides would come knocking any time soon and he didn't need them seeing him like this.

That choice was taken out of his hands, though, as Roman chose that moment to burst through Logan's door, announcing that he'd made some changes to his script overnight.

Logan grabbed the edge of his desk with his unbandaged hand, somewhat from genuinely being startled, somewhat to keep himself quiet, and pointedly stayed in position, not turning around.

"So I saw that there was this whole subsection about the passion of performance, right?" Roman had started to ramble a bit, and tossed down another copy of the script Logan had just spent the whole night working on. "And, right away, I was like, it has to be included so we have to have it in there!"

He laughed triumphantly, telling Logan he'd graciously made the needed notes last night and Logan could just throw out that part of the original script and just add the extra research in to the new part instead.

Logan had tried to speak, say just about anything in that moment, but his words shriveled to dust, leaving but a puff of air in their wake as they left his mouth. Nothing. Maybe that screaming had been a bigger problem than he'd even considered...

Roman then joked that it wasn't like Logan was busy, or anything, and walked his way back towards the door.

"Oh! Deadline's still the same, though, because we gotta be ready to film here in just a bit!" Roman oh-so-kindly added and then stepped back out into the hall before turning around one last time. "See you there!"

And then he shut the door.

Logan blinked, feeling the tears in his eyes still welling up and falling out.

He felt his shoulders hunch up but the pain he had relied on in his hand was gone, more numb than anything else now.

He bit his lip, trying to get ahead of this before it could get worse.

Okay. He breathed. He could do this - he could.

The deadline remained the same, but he still had some time left. He would only have to adjust for completion of the task, and completely obliterate any chance at all of ever finding those missing files, therefore making him unreliable to everyone, especially Thomas, but at least he’d get the script review done on time. That was technically better than both tasks going unfinished, right? One out of two wasn’t so bad, probably. At least, he hoped that was the case.

After another large inhale, his breath came out shaky again, and he barely held in a whine as the crying desperately attempted to come back in full.

No, not now! It was almost time to answer everyone’s questions as they got up for their own morning routines. He needed to stay focused and get everything done first. He didn’t have time to stop so uselessly again to deal with tears!

He glanced over at the clock. 7:06am. Just under two hours before Thomas would be awake.

With a dry swallow, Logan determinedly reached over to switch out the pages of Roman’s script, as instructed. Timing would be everything in these last couple hours.

He willed himself to be calm.

No more shaky hands getting in the way and keeping him unproductive. No more pointless crying, loud and obnoxious and keeping him from staying on task. No more rubbing his eyes to remove tears, constantly forcing him to pause his necessary duties.

These pointless distractions had to stop. Every second would count now.

It was quieter, though not silent. The tears were still coming, but only as a steady trickle. He could work with this.

Back to his research, he finalized which new additions would be placed where and tried to keep his mind as focused on that particular task as possible to block out any unwanted thoughts about how upset Thomas would be about the missing files once the deadline finally approached.

He couldn’t think about that now. He had to stay on task and get this done. That was what was most important.

Completing more of the research and turning more pages as quickly as he could manage in this state, he noticed he could hardly keep his eyes from drifting over to check the clock, and occasionally even the calendar posted up on the wall behind his desk, displaying the time Thomas would be prepping to film that morning in big, bold letters.

He blinked rapidly for a moment to remove some tears without having to stop himself from typing.

Timing was everything now, and as he turned another page, he wondered how much he could flex his schedule to try to guarantee his task completion. After all, he might be able to get away with only showing up just in time to begin his part of the shoot instead of getting there early to assist with the set up, as that would give him a tiny bit more time to prepare the script review. Would it be enough time to get everything done, like checking for the missing files? No, but even a few seconds could be made useful, he was sure of that.

So long as he didn’t squander them.

The problem, though, was that Thomas and the others expected him to be there early, as he always was, ready to coordinate Thomas’ setup for the cameras and verifying what equipment should be recording and when, so staying behind for the sake of grabbing a few seconds of extra time may not be possible if they ended up calling on him due to his absence.

He was meant to be considered reliable, after all.

He couldn’t let them down. But he also couldn’t let them down by not getting this research and review done thoroughly. There wasn’t a way to do everything right, but he had to do as much as possible for now and hope he somehow had a little more time left for the rest.

His eyes hurt as he tried blinking away more tears. He really wished he had found a better solution to all this.

–

A knock on his door was the exact signifier that the morning’s question period had begun. As Thomas was meant to be up fairly soon, his sides were all waking up and getting ready themselves, especially since they would be filming in just a short while.

Logan quickly contemplated his next course of action in regards to the barrage of questions he knew he’d be enduring over the next hour. Standing up and going to his door to answer each time would waste precious seconds that he could better use continuing to work, so he decided to stay at his desk and simply raise his voice when responding.

It also saved time in not having to make himself look halfway-presentable, as the crying had still not stopped. He would have to get it under control before filming started, but that was at the bottom of his priority list at the moment and would have to wait until the research was done.

The knock came again, followed by a timid, “Uhh, Logan? You awake?”

He tried not to roll his eyes at the ridiculousness of the question. Was this how they were starting the questions period, with inane inquiries he didn’t need to waste his time answering?

Of course he was awake. He hadn’t slept.

“I am,” he called out, not turning away from the computer as he finished up the next paragraph of notes and continued to ignore his silent tears. “What do you need?”

Virgil’s voice sounded clearer as he asked, “I just wanted to double-check, uhh… We’re starting right at 9:30, right?”

Logan realized Virgil must have opened the door to peek his head in, which is why his voice was louder, but he hadn’t heard the door click open. Worrying, but he’d ignore it for now.

He took a steadying but silent breath before responding simply and resolutely,

“Yes.”

His eyes fell on the clock again. Only 28 minutes before Thomas was meant to wake up, leaving a total of 52 minutes before the shoot began.

Logan heard Virgil mutter a thank you and close the door. First question done. Technically, this meant he was following his schedule correctly, so he should have found some satisfaction in that, but instead he found himself regretting it.

His throat felt tight and blinked away more tears, just barely feeling as one followed a past track all the way down his face and over his lips before dripping off his chin.

He resisted the urge to rub his eyes again, knowing it wouldn’t get the crying to stop anyway.

It was those damn missing files.

He wanted to just stop everything and go get them, but he knew he couldn’t. If Roman’s script wasn’t updated in time, everyone, not just Roman, would be horribly disappointed and it would also delay their filming day, ruining the rest of the day’s schedule, which could potentially push back the next day’s schedule, destroying the steady pace he’d set for Thomas to follow for the entire week.

All that work would be completely ruined, just because he didn’t feel like doing some more research right now! How pathetic. Why would he even consider stopping?

But he also knew Thomas would be upset about the missing files. He really didn’t want Thomas to be upset. Specifically, he didn’t want Thomas to be upset with him.

He squeezed his hands into fists. He had to just be satisfied with what he could get done for now. He knew that. He just had to accept it.

“Logan!” A loud, successive knock on his door rang out after the shout of his name, and Logan instinctively moved his hands up to cover his ears. No, wait, he couldn’t do that, he had to keep working!

He diligently moved his hands back to the keyboard to continue typing.

He called back, “Yes?”

His voice wasn’t as calm and clear as it was last time. He really hoped that he could maintain whatever level of control he’d managed to accumulate up to this point, or filming later was going to be awful. He really didn’t want to think about that.

He listened for the question.

No door opening this time. It was a question about the filming time again. Logan confirmed that, yes, they would be starting at 9:30.

He breathed as calmly as he could manage as soon as he heard the other side walk away.

There was something beating in his chest then. His heart, right. He had one of those.

It was beating so heavily, like it was trying to escape its confines.

Why was he reacting this way to some simple questions? He’d been expecting this - it was in the schedule! Why was he filled with… was this panic? He wasn’t sure.

He sighed, aggravated at his own uselessness, and turned another page over, blinking away more tears. Only a couple more pages left and he’d be completely done.

The end was finally in sight, and he would hopefully have just enough time to check it over again for typos and get himself ready before the shoot began.

Another knock. This time, he forced himself to not have a pointlessly-adverse reaction. He called out. They asked, he answered. They walked away.

See? He could do this. It was easy. His mind had all the answers ready, all he had to do was dispense them as needed.

Yet another knock. Yet another answer.

He turned over the next page.