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lycanthrop-ee · 4 years

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Sires and Sons

Chapter 2 of ? First chapter

A/N: Y’all know what time it is- I really don’t have much to say here except sorry for the cliffhanger ;)

Synopsis: When the twins split two years ago, Janus was tasked with raising Remus. His only help was the evasive and sullen Virgil- who he already had to wrangle like a stray teenager. The endless days in the Dark Side’s Mindpalace were broken only by monthly catch-ups with Patton, and the only thing that ever changed the stories that Janus used to get Remus to bed. This time, though, something was different: secrets were slipping through Janus’ lips- and past the divide between Dark and Light.

Ships: Moceit (probably just bg but I don’t actually know can you tell I’m a professional-)

TW: none! Let me know if there’s anything I should tag, though <3

Word count: 1303

As indirectly promised by the past statement on boredom, he was awoken by Remus’ tiny face four inches from his. When Janus flailed and sputtered, Remus explained himself.

“I was trying to stare you awake!” He looked at Janus expectantly. “Get it?”

Jan rubbed his eyes, letting out a tired sigh that turned quickly into a yawn. “Yeah.”

“You’re supposed to laugh, Jan. Also, I ate your graham crackers,” Remus said, crawling up onto Janus’ bed as though he was scared of being dismissed too early. The older side almost pushed him off, but decided it was too early in the morning to be irritable. He also supposed it could go the other way, but he was feeling somewhat generous.

“Do you want something, Remus?”

“I was thinking.”

“Sure.”

“I want to know what the king was like.” Remus’ voice was calm and curious, as though he had no idea what he’d just said. Janus stuttered as a deep panic clutched him.

“W- what?!”

“From the story?” The kid looked taken aback by Janus’ reaction, and after a couple moments of confusion it clicked. Janus let out a deep breath, blinking his bleary eyes tightly.

“From the story… God. Okay Remus, hold- hold on.” Remus looked scared, and Janus imagined how it would feel to have someone flip out on him like that. “I’m... sorry, kid.” He paused. “It’s early.”

“...Okay.” Confusion still rang through his voice, and the fact that he couldn’t explain gnawed at Janus as he stood from his bed, stretching. He told Remus to wait as he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He stood before the little side, and couldn’t help smiling at the kid’s bright face. Apparently Remus’ Vitamin D deficiency hadn’t yet reached his young features- it was still startling, even after all these years, and it stung him when Janus realized it was probably because his skin didn’t have anything to miss. This dark house was all he remembered.

“Can I tell the story over breakfast?” He spoke tiredly. The kid nodded, and they stumbled from Jan’s room together. The older side’s face twisted as a creeping feeling came over him. “...Re. How long were you watching me sleep?”

His playful unease wasn’t helped in the slightest by Remus’ incessant giggling.

“The kingdom’s castle was full of cheer most days, with the tiny princes running around and whooping as the pâtissier chased them good-naturedly. Even so, there were fears and trials in the shadows of each royal’s mind.”

Remus was immediately interested.

“The baker’s job to float the mood of the castle weighed on him- every unpleasant feeling that crept to him was ignored and buried, only rearing its ugly head when he was alone. Eventually, the power of these mood swings had begun to startle him- and thus he elected to avoid those too. To this day, the emotions festered and bred deep in his stomach, collecting like a land mine waiting to detonate. He would rather die himself in the explosion than spread the damage over the people around him.

“The advisor had a similar problem. He existed for his intelligence, and only that. His brain is what brought him food and housing, friends and family. The glasses that perched on his nose were merely superfluous- he didn’t often need physical sight to advise the King- but he had accepted them as a luxury that may help his performance through quality of life. Irrespective, the advisor was human, and he had needs and thoughts outside of his work- the most prominent of which was his heart. It was mentioned earlier that only rarely a smile could be coaxed from him- and here is the reason. The advisors heart was fully functioning, pumping the correct amount of love and happiness through him- but with those feelings came fear.

“The biggest cause of fear in him was being forgotten- ignored. Losing his job and the love that he felt for it, losing his... coworkers. He couldn’t afford off days: what if there was an important decision for the King to make and he wasn’t in the right headspace? To avoid this situation, the advisor put all his energy into maintaining his facade- cool, smart, and calm. Like the pâtissier, he shuttled all other feelings away, hiding his fear and happiness both. He kept his eye on his only purpose, not seeing the unconditional love flowing towards him. His fear barred him from the truth- he wasn’t an employee, he was a part of the Royal family as much as the little princes were- as much as the King was.”

Remus had finished his bowl of cereal, sitting in his chair with legs swinging impatiently.

“What about the King? You told me you’d talk about him,” The child interrupted. Janus nodded.

“I was just getting to him, Re.”

“And what about the princes? Are they actually sad, too?” Janus huffed a laugh, sizing up Remus’ little, carefree face.

“No, not yet.” This was clearly not the answer Remus had hoped for, but he would accept it as it was time to learn about the leader of the Light Side.

“The King was powerful and just, humorous and kind. His nonformal air was complemented nicely with the wisdom of his advisor, and his kingdom adored him unconditionally. Of course, he would be nothing without his Royal Family- they balanced the workload of a King almost equally, all working ceaselessly to keep the King in good humor and health. In return, he gave them a lavish home, grand titles, and a loving family.” Janus sat back, and Remus was quiet too for a moment.

“...Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Janus’ eyebrows raised at the thinly veiled protest.

“...For now.”

It was almost a question as he said it, but it seemed to appease the child, who nodded solemnly and hopped off his seat. Janus dragged his hands over his face, tired already.

Remus had demanded that they go outside and play Kings and Princes- he’d insisted on being the king, tugging at Janus’ heartstrings as he agreed. On the way home, Remus’ tiny hand fit into the adult’s lightly scaled one- there was no reason to keep it gloved anymore, it’d be months before Patton’s next visit- and the young side spoke again of the story he’d quickly become attached to.

“Why don’t the characters ever do anything? You just talk about them.”

Janus considered his answer.

“I’m not sure what they’d do.”

“They’d have to solve a problem of the King’s- or maybe go on a quest- or-”

Janus smiled as the kid rattled off a charged list of endeavors for the newly introduced crew, but his mind wandered.

The paths the Dark Sides often explored weren’t dreary in any sense, but the wooded hollows they were forced to stick to were quiet different from the sunlit corridors of the remote forests. The trees here were mostly coniferous, tainting the air with the smell of pine sap. There were less predetermined trails- they were unnecessary, as the trees were already well separated and the ground was covered in orange needles. It would’ve been easy to get lost had the door back to the Mindscape been set in any liniar location, but it floated around the the whim of those around it. Still, it was a pleasant place for long walks, and Jan often only conjured the door once Remus’ cheeks grew pink with fatigue.

It was getting about that time, too, when Janus pulled up short.

The door was visible through the trees, and around it two figures. One of which was familiar- short and curly-haired- and the other less so, but recognisable.

The smaller of the two turned, waving- and Janus could pinpoint the exact moment that Patton’s eyes fell on Remus.

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lilfellasblog · 5 years

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Lights Out

Summary: Logan's job consisted of many important things critical to Thomas' life. There was no room for error. He cannot make mistakes.

Until he makes a big one.

A/N: If you liked this, please reblog. It is the only way to help this fic reach a wider audience. This is a Tumblr ask! Thank you to the anonymous asker who waited patiently for me to write this, and then continued to be patient because I was trying out the queuing thing on Tumblr and accidentally made it so this posted here the next day. WHOOPS!! Sorry anon! You’re amazing and so kind and I REALLY hope you enjoy this fic!! I decided that since Virgil is usually the one getting hurt and needing comfort in these fics (esp in mine LOL), I wanted to switch it up for you so you could have something unique! And I figured that the central conflict in this story would also make it a little more unique for you! I hope you enjoy!

TW: crying, insecurity, self-doubt, negative self-talk, power going out and being left in the dark, mention of panic attacks, very vague allusion to a probably unsympathetic Deceit. If I missed any let me know!

Word count: 1864

AO3 here!

Fic Masterlist here!

Logan was hunched over his desk, in a posture admittedly not the healthiest but he could hardly be bothered. Thomas had three projects with outside channels and he had to update his Sanders Sides web series soon, even with the deal with Marvel. That, on top of meetings with his company, planning a video schedule for the second channel, and managing household necessities and bills, and one might find Logan rather frazzled.

(Thankfully, Patton had helped take over grocery shopping, meal planning, and cooking, only corresponding with Logan on the budget. It was one less thing Logan had to worry about.)

His forehead and back were tense, his eyes were terribly dry, and his mind was racing. His hands were shaking as he jumped from one task to the other, adrenaline flooding his system. Normally, he wouldn’t get to this point. However, with how scheduling with his company and outside individuals and companies for meeting and filming had gone, he’d been on high alert for almost two weeks now. Logan desperately hoped that the schedule would come together and Thomas would get a small break from filming and meetings; he’s seen the strain it’s taken on his Host and on the other core Sides, and they were running ragged as well.

Logan checked over the schedule Adri had sent them and compared that against the rest of the crew’s schedule.

Yes! Finally! This can work, I just need to mark this down and-

Suddenly, panic sweeps through the mindscape along with shock. Logan quickly rose up into Thomas’ realm to see… nothing. It was completely dark. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he heard Virgil rattling off possibilities that would inevitably end in their demise, Roman declaring he’ll slay any intruder that dares threaten them while offering to serenade everyone, Thomas trying to calm him and Roman down while he looked on his phone to see what was going on, and Patton tripping over things in the dark while he tried to comfort Virgil.

Logan was frozen stock still, realizing instantly what had happened.

I forgot to have Thomas pay his electric bill. The website was taking too long to load, so we were going to work on it another time when the website wasn’t so slow. This is my fault. They are upset and panicking because I have failed in organizing Thomas.

His heart shattered as he listened to Patton lead Virgil through breathing exercises.

I have caused my boyfriend unnecessary distress due to my incompetence. Such a simple oversight on my part. A foolish oversight. One that would not have happened were it another Side.

Roman was checking the perimeter of the apartment for intruders, hand on his sword while he sang Make a Man Out of You under his breath. Normally, he’d be belting out songs at the top of his lungs, which only went to show his level of distress. Thomas was realizing what had happened and looked at Logan, with only the light from his cell phone screen to see.

Thomas, Virgil, Patton, and Roman deserve a better Logic. I am clearly incapable of managing the simplest things, and now we have had our power turned off. Food will begin to rot, and we just went grocery shopping. This has impacted the budget. The increased stress of not having electronics will be incredible, and the lack of air conditioning in the Florida summer may cause health concerns. This is my fault, and my fault alone. I am incompetent.

Logan sank out to his room to figure out how to survive until the power came back on. He didn’t hear Virgil calling his name.

/////

Logan had been staring at his desk morosely for a half hour, shoulders hitching and silent tears dripping down his stoic face as he observed the chaos his desk had become.

I cannot manage Thomas’ schedule. I cannot manage his bills. I cannot manage his household needs. I cannot focus to even begin to help Thomas manage while the power is out. What good am I? I am no good. I am useless. A useless, dysfunctional Side who only makes Thomas’ life more difficult. I make him unhappy. I make the others unhappy.

Logan’s felt his chest tighten and a painful lump form in his throat. His face began to crumple despite his best efforts. Just then, several tentative knocks sounded at his door.

“Come in Virgil,” he called, managing to keep his voice mostly calm.

Virgil opened the door and walked in slowly, assessing the situation. He knew Logan rarely got this upset over something, and to tread carefully.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked lightly.

“Your knocks are tentative, compelled by your concern to make sure you’re not interrupting someone. Regardless of how upset you may be or your level of need, your first concern is always the convenience of others. It is admirable to a point, though foolish after that point.”

Virgil huffed out a laugh. “Thanks L.”

“You are welcome.”

Virgil’s face softened at Logan’s factual response and his complete overlook of sarcasm. That was always one thing that could calm Virgil; Logan wouldn’t keep anything from Virgil or misunderstand something he said. Logan took what Virgil said at face value and spoke to him in a direct manner. There was no guessing his intent or the “true” meaning of his words, no chance to get it wrong, no chance to accidentally upset him because he didn’t read between the lines correctly…

Virgil shook his head to clear those thoughts from his mind. There was no use dwelling on the past, and it wouldn’t help Logan now.

He cautiously walked closer to Logan. “I saw how fast you got out of there. Couldn’t see your face too well though. How are you holding up?”

“My spinal column is intact.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Talk to me babe.”

Virgil patiently stood next to Logan in silence for several minutes, letting Logan gather himself and his thoughts, breath still hitching with the occasional sniffle. Emotions did not come easily to Logan, so processing them and figuring out how to express them were two challenges that required his full attention without interruption. And as much as Virgil wanted to comfort his boyfriend already, if Logan felt he didn’t express his feelings properly or felt that something was unresolved, there would be no making him feel better.

Finally, just as Virgil’s anxiety began to grow, Logan spoke.

“My job encompasses many things. I am the language center of Thomas’ brain, I manage his work schedules, and I assist in the management of household chores. Notably, this includes ensuring bills are paid on time.”

Logan paused, and Virgil didn’t dare say a thing.

“If Thomas had a more functional Logic, he would not have forgotten to pay his electricity bill. We were in the process of paying it, but I decided that the website was taking too long, and therefore we would return to the task at another time. Not only did I fail to notate that in our budget, I also failed to set a reminder to check the website at a later date, and I did not remember to ensure we paid our bill.”

Logan’s voice began to wobble as he stiffened his back, attempting to control his expression. “As a result, Thomas’ health may be at risk, we may have to throw out food, which will impact our budget, there will be a late payment and reconnection fee which will also impact our budget, there is increased stress on all of you, you nearly had a panic attack, Thomas will have to work exclusively at the office, and his sleep will be disrupted.”

Logan choked back a sob, his voice coming out thick. Virgil felt his face growing hot and pressure building behind his eyes, threatening to make him cry. “I am an incompetent, useless, harmful Side. I do not perform my job adequately, and as a result you all now must suffer for it and attempt to successfully think of how to survive until power can be restored.”

Virgil waited a moment to see if Logan would continue, audible sobs choking off in Logan’s throat. When Logan didn’t continue, Virgil put a hand on the back of Logan’s chair.

“Can I give you a hug Lo?”

Logan sniffled and nodded as a sob finally escaped him. Virgil pulled Logan up out of his chair and had to catch his intellectual boyfriend as he collapsed into Virgil’s chest. Logan was letting out heart-wrenching sobs, self-hatred and grief echoing around the minimalist room. Virgil held onto Logan tightly, rubbing his back and swaying them, his own tears flowing down his face at hearing his boyfriend so anguished. They stood there for 10 minutes, until Logan’s sobs began to peter off.

The genius pulled back slightly. “M-my apologies, I did not mean-”

“If you apologize for needing to cry, I am going to physically fight you!”

Logan let out a watery laugh, which mended some of the cracks in Virgil’s heart. Virgil wiped away his own tear tracks, then reached up and gently swiped his thumb over his lover’s sharp features before returning his hands to Logan’s shoulders.

“Babe, how many times have you helped me come down from a panic attack?” Virgil asked rhetorically.

“Since I’ve known you, 867 times.”

Virgil was stunned into silence for a moment. “...holy shit. Okay, and how many times have you helped redirect the three of us so we could actually be useful for Thomas?”

Logan smiled wryly. “I believe that number is beyond my reach.”

“Smartass. How many times have you helped Roman refine a script?”

Logan frowned and tilted his head. “I’ve done so for every script, you know this.”

“I know. And how many times have you helped Patton work through and accept his feelings?”

Logan hummed in thought. “309 times.”

“Logan, we’ve all fucked up on our jobs and needed your help. You’ve managed to carry that, plus your own responsibilities, really fucking well. You’re allowed to fuck up every now and then. Let us help you for once. Please.”

Logan sighed in defeat, unable to resist the pleading look in Virgil’s eyes. “Very well.”

“Hey, L.”

“Yes, darling?”

Virgil stepped closer to Logan, their chests nearly touching. “You do so much for us. One mistake doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you human. And no one's mad at you. Not Thomas, not Roman, not Patton, not me.”

“Technically, I am a metaphysical human.”

“It makes you a metaphysical human. Come on, you’ve been working yourself to death lately. Let me take care of you for once. How does a back massage, some tea, and some cuddles sound?”

Logan smiled softly at Virgil, the smile meant only for his boyfriend. “I would love nothing more than to spend this evening with you.”

Virgil smiled back and kissed Logan, slow and sweet. He didn’t stop until he felt some of the tension melt from his boyfriend’s shoulders. And he didn’t stop taking care of Logan that night until he was asleep, fully relaxed, on Virgil’s chest.

#sanders sides #analogical #logan sanders #virgil sanders #fanfic #thomas sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #deceit sanders #unsympathetic deceit #tw deceit #crying #kissing #fic #fanfiction

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haloud · 4 years

Text

the light isn’t fading

ao3

Everything is wrong.

Michael’s eyes can’t focus and he doesn’t know if he’s just more drunk than he ought to be, if he’s been drugged, or if he’s just dying. He didn’t think he’d had that much; for most of the night he’d stuck to beer, and the acetone’d stayed stowed away. Anyway, this doesn’t feel like normal drunk, this feeling like he won’t be sure if he’s upright or if he’s crumpled on the floor until he tries to take the next step.

There’s nothing holding his atoms together; there’s nothing holding him in place; he’s left without so much as an instinctual trust in gravity.

He could say something to Maria—if he’s been dosed with something here, in her bar, she’ll make sure there’s hell to pay, and she’ll call—who to call? Liz and Valenti, maybe? Like they know his body better than him. And he doesn’t know anything at all. But Maria is working a bar ten deep, and her smile has been tight and stressed all night, and if Michael can just make it back to his truck he can try and sleep this off and he’ll be—fine.

It’s more muscle memory than anything else that carries him weaving and stumbling around tables and chairs and people out into the parking lot of the Pony. If he can just make it to his truck, he can collapse in the back and curl up in a ball until the world stops spinning. Each step is torturous. The gravel ripples and peaks under his feet like choppy waves and his legs almost give out at the knee and ankle every time he tries to move. It would be a relief to fall through and drown with his lungs full of rock and sand. He always said it would be Earth that killed him, and the thought is funny enough that he barks out a too-loud laugh, though he has to clamp his mouth shut after one before he vomits all over the ground.

The familiar shape of his truck wobbles in front of him, and he reaches out groping to grasp the side of the bed. The metal should be freezing after sitting out in the night but his hands are already so cold it barely registers. Everything inside him feel watery and rotten and he just wants it to—

He drags his jacket tighter around himself with his right hand. He can’t seem to make the left do anything, even though it doesn’t hurt, even though he’s had—time to—he’s gotten—even though Max—

Anyway.

He drags his jacket tighter around himself like that might warm him up, and he should reach for a blanket to stop his shaking instead, but the thought of moving is too much for his scrambled brain to handle. He’s safe and still in his truck, now, even though everything is still spinning, but he’s safe enough to close his eyes against it. The vertigo fucks ruthlessly with his ability to pull anything to him with his TK; like this, he’s as likely to send it flying into the next county.

All he can do is huddle in the corner of his truck bed, head on his knees, hands shaking from the cold and the jittering nausea, gasping sour little breaths that don’t do nearly enough to get oxygen to his system, and pray for it to—

Stop, he thinks, a one-word mantra, and then he wonders if Max and Isobel—if they’re like this too. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, but he can’t read anything on the screen, and it hasn’t buzzed in hours since he posted up at the Pony and—he should have called for Maria before leaving, because she’s good and she would help him but he doesn’t want to do that to her, not when he’s already—when he’s done enough. She may have wanted him to stick around as a—friend—and threatened to make his life hell if he threw her over for another bar, but that doesn’t mean he has the right to ask her to take care of him.

Isobel and Max. Are they okay? Are they like—this—too? If they need him and he’s not there, if whatever this is has kept him from feeling either of them cry out then how will he—what will tomorrow be like if they’re—he’s lost them both already, then had them, then lost them, in an uneven cycle that never lets his grief grow a common orbit, and now, and now that things are starting to settle, if they’re calling for him and he can’t feel it he doesn’t know how he’ll go on.

Can they feel him? Can they feel the dissolving in his chest, the awful wrongness in his skull? A little part of him, the part that’s sick and plaintive and crying, wants one of them to come like no one ever has, any time he’s been hurting. He thinks they probably can’t feel him. Some combination of trauma at formative stages has him cut off or something. He’s thought of ways to test it but never come up with anything that didn’t involve hurting himself, and he’s never been willing to go that far, and even if he was now he doesn’t have the strength left anymore.

Is this how Isobel felt with that serum in her veins? Michael couldn’t feel her like Max could, so he has no idea, not even the vaguest shadow, of what that coldness was like. He has no one to feel him now, and it’s a razor’s edge of comfort that if he has to feel this at least he’s not leaving it imprinted in anyone else’s neurons, in anyone else’s veins.

He wants. There’s only one comfort that’s ever meant anything at all, and if the world is upside down, with no way to know when or if he’ll be getting any better, Michael wants only one thing, one person, even if it’s selfish, he wants Alex there with him, wants to be held against Alex’s chest, enveloped by the smell of him, lulled to sleep by the electricity under his skin.

But Alex wouldn’t want to see him like this. And Michael would never ask that of him.

He takes a deep shuddering breath and curls his hands—though the left doesn’t do much more than a stiff twitch at the fingers—into his thighs with bruising strength. Ride the wave. He’s never been sick but he has been hungover and he has puked up his guts in the ear-ringing heart-pounding aftermath of an extraterrestrial outburst, and he got motionsick the first time Isobel pulled him into her mindscape. He can do this, if he counts his breaths and tries to sleep. Worst that’ll happen is he gets woken up by a car alarm or by someone from the bar telling him to take a hike, and then he’ll call, he’ll call someone, he’ll make his fingers work on his phone and try his best.

“—in. Guerin!”

Maria’s voice pierces the awful sluggish haze in his brain. He opens his eyes the best he can, still squinting, trying to make his eyes make sense of what’s in front of him. Maria is kneeling on the bed beside him, and she reaches out to grab his face, tilting his head from side to side, and he stays limp and lets her.

“You’re not drunk,” she says. “What the hell happened to you, Guerin?”

“Sick.”

“Sick? Can you even get sick? You look awful. I’m calling Isobel, I’m calling—someone.”

“Maria…” He tries to protest, but she shushes him. She doesn’t seem to know where to put her hands; they flutter around his face for a second, glance through his sweaty hair, then one hand finally settles in a death grip on his knee as she fishes her phone out of her pocket.

Don’t call, he wants to say, but what else is he going to do. He certainly isn’t getting anywhere under his own power anytime soon.

“Michael’s sick,” she says, sans greeting, “He’s in the parking lot—no, it’s only like midnight, how long do you think it takes to get this sick from drinking, and anyway, all he had was—I don’t know, but,” she reaches up to push his hair off his forehead, but this time he doesn’t even try to look at her, “He looks bad, Iz. I don’t know. Yeah. Ok. Ok, you call Max, and I’ll call Alex. Ok. Get here quick, Iz.”

Maria’s voice, the tinny sound of Isobel on the other end of the line, the noise spilling out of the Pony and into the night, the occasional passing car—Michael’s head is too jumbled, too heavy and slow even to differentiate one from the other, and all of them make him want to cover his ears and curl back into a ball, and the idea of that many people, of Maria and Iz and Max and Alex and all of them hovering over him has him—he wants to cry, almost, and more than anything else wants to escape, wants to find a dark place to hole up until this passes, where everyone will forget him, where no one will try to ask what’s wrong.

Alex, he thinks, and wants.

He buries his head back in his knees, dislodging Maria’s hand, and she moves it to rest on his back. He flinches, feeling too raw beneath his clothes, and that touch jerks away, but she won’t leave him, that’s not Maria, but if his tongue wasn’t two sizes too big for his mouth he’d ask her to walk away to call—because his stomach rolls at the thought of hearing Alex’s voice, with longing and with dread.

All he wants is Alex, the steadiness of him, a fixed point in a melting universe, the opposite of an oasis because it’s everything else that shimmers like a mirage. But for Alex to see him like this, he doesn’t know—

“I’m with him right now,” Maria is saying. “Yeah, the Pony. Wait, really? Okay. We’re in his truck. Hurry.”

The world tunnels after that, stretched and black and seasick.

Next thing, he’s conscious enough to wrangle the sensation of the road beneath the tires of his truck, tucked into the corner of the bench seat, pressed up to the freezing steel of the passenger side door and shaking, shaking hard enough to rattle his teeth. Fists stuffed under his arms, body hunched around his core, but he still can’t get warm, and he’s always been warm, and everything is wrong.

The person driving—it might be Alex, but Michael wouldn’t put anything past the acid, fogged-up world, and he knows his mind well enough to know that under emergency protocol Alex is bound to be the first thing he hallucinates—doesn’t say a word, just keeps their foot on the floor, hurtling them down the wavy street, the headlights cutting a migraine swath through the blackness until Michael closes his eyes and stops fighting vertigo. It doesn’t matter who it is beside him. If his brain tells him it’s Alex, he’s going to close his eyes and let it be.

He doesn’t make it to wherever they’re going before his stomach finally rejects the bucking, choppy ground, but at least he manages to aim for an empty bag instead of spewing all over the inside of his poor car.

A big, broad hand splays itself over his back, chafing his burning, oversensitive skin through his shirt, and Michael whimpers through his gagging, hunching his shoulders up against it.

“Okay. Okay. Let it out. Come on, come on.”

It sounds like Alex too, and Michael cuts the effort he was putting into guarding himself from touch, dropping the tension out of his shoulders and letting Alex scrape him raw.

Spitting one last time, Michael rasps out, “Alex.” He only manages the one word, just two syllables, but in the end, it’s the only word that matters.

And Alex says, “It’s me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Stay,” Michael tries. Everything is upside down and inside out, and it may be 2020, he may still remember that much, but he can’t remember if that’s a thing he’s allowed to ask these days.

Alex punches out an exhale. The creak of his hands on the steering wheel sounds five times louder than it should. “I’m here,” he repeats, “I’ve got you.”

Michael lets that lie, leaning back into the seat with his head between his legs.

He loses time, and not to sleep, somewhere between the road and stopping. Opening his eyes feels like running a marathon. Every inch of his skin feels like he’s been run over by ants. He can tell he’s getting worse.

Alex says something, but the words get jumbled up between his ears and his brain. Michael presses his cheek against the icy window to keep his brain from cooking, to get some systems back online.

“—at the cabin. If you have to, but I’ll—no, absolutely not, the car—whatever, but there’s not enough room, and he’s my—”

His voice gets quiet, then a moment or so later, Michael’s door opens up. He’d hit the ground if it wasn’t for Alex’s arm slipping under his arms, dragging him toward the door. The stairs are a puzzle. Alex can’t carry him, so he has to go ahead of him, step by step, so he can grip his forearms bruising-tight and help him, near-dragging, up each agonizing step. The bruises this method leaves on his shins are nothing compared to the fire in his bones.

By the time they get inside, into the air conditioning and the Alexness of being in his cabin, Michael is nearly dead weight. He ragdolls the second Alex puts him on the bed, and it barely registers as he strips off his shoes and socks and prods and pulls and drags him under the blankets. His eyes flutter as Alex lays a cool hand across his forehead and utters a low curse.

Skip, and Alex’s hand is back pressed between his shoulders and a small glass of acetone is under his nose.

“I don’t know, I don’t know what else to give you, and Kyle doesn’t either but Liz says this shouldn’t hurt.”

Michael tries to take a drink but mostly it just ends up in the corners of his mouth and spilling down his front. The second swallow goes a little better, but he waits and he waits and it doesn’t hit his bloodstream like it ought to, just sits caustic and still in his empty stomach. He moans, low and miserable, and Alex gathers him to his chest.

“God.” Alex says on a short, sharp exhale. “Don’t. Don’t do this to me, Guerin. Please. Oh god.”

His lips are cool against Michael’s sweaty forehead, and that’s—that’s not okay, Alex has to be okay, he shouldn’t be so cold, or maybe Michael is just too too hot. If he is, as least he can keep Alex warm.

He knows, he’d have to be more unaware than he is to not know, that it’s bad for Alex to be so close, that he could catch whatever is happening to Michael. But Alex’s arms are like steel to Michael’s fever-weak muscles. Pushing him away would be so, so hard, so hard he has to gasp at the thought, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“’Lex,” he manages, “’M sorry. You shouldn’t…”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Alex says back. His voice rings out like a gong, that absolute certainty in every word even though Michael can feel the quick, cool pulse of his breath against his cheek, a step away from panic.

“Love you,” is what trips out of Michael’s mouth, when what he means is that Alex is so strong, and he’s sorry that he’s putting him through this, he’s sorry.

“You get to tell me that when you can get every syllable out.”

“Love you,” Michael insists, and then Alex’s breaths are more like sobs, and his eyelids are too heavy to hold open.

Michael forces his eyes open several hours later. There’s a thin border of sunlight edging the thick, heavy curtains. His shirt is gone, and the sheets have been changed around him; he has a vague, swimmy memory of sweating it through in the night as his fever broke and broke and broke and his body raced to keep up. He also remembers voices, remembers being swaddled up in the sound of voices, but there’s no one with him right now.

Alex has been here, though. His favorite mug is on the bedside table, dregs of old tea gumming up the bottom. Buffy, Alex’s grumpy dog, is lying on the chair in the corner, and one of Alex’s jackets is draped over the back of that chair. Michael reaches out for it, but his powers are still as weak as the rest of him, and one of the sleeves barely flutters under his influence.

But he wants it. He’s cold. The blankets are nice, but not as nice as it would be to have something of Alex’s wrapped around his body, to be able to smell him on the collar like he can smell him on the pillow. Everything in this room is Alex up and down, so drenched in his presence that the décor, the drab colors, the nondescript decorations, it all falls away because all Michael cares about is the way Alex has touched every atom of this place.

Michael folds himself upright, swaying badly, making him clutch the bedside table to keep himself from crumpling back to the bed. The world is staying still, and that’s something; he can take a step without the floor tilting away from his feet, but his muscles are so kitten-weak and watery that after a single wobbling step he sinks down to walk on his knees, just in case. The last thing he needs is to crack his head open falling over; his head hurts enough as it is, and he’s already driven Alex from his bed—he doesn’t want to make him clean up blood as well. Especially if whatever this is is in his blood already. God.

It takes years to reach the chair, but as soon as Michael has the fabric in his grasp, it’s like a tiny fraction of the weight lifts off his chest. He’s too tired and achy to interrogate why that is, why the slimmest suggestion of Alex’s presence is enough to soothe him. He has to tug the end of the jacket out from underneath the dog, and she opens one eye and levels him with the most judgmental look he’s ever seen from a dog.

“So I’m not on top of my game,” he mutters to her. The heavy sigh she heaves does not make him feel any less judged.

His prize in hand, he drags himself back to bed and curls up as tight as he can get, hugging his knees to his chest so as much of him as possible can be swaddled in the circle made by Alex’s jacket. If only he could make himself smaller and smaller, so all of him would fit in the pocket.

Still grasping for whatever comfort he can get his hands on, Michael tugs the blankets up around himself, making a little nest for himself out of Alex’s bedthings. He doesn’t realize until he’s buried up to his hair in fabric that he has, probably in the middle of the night, completely destroyed Alex’s nice, neat, military-tight bed, not only by being gross and sick and sweaty all over it, but also by moving around so much he’s stripped it down to the fitted sheet and gathered all of it around him.

He swallows down the thickness and soreness of his throat, half sickness, half misery. It’s not that—Alex won’t be mad, he doesn’t think, not about something like that, but if he’s disappointed—if Michael has inconvenienced him, if he’s just given him more work, one more thing to worry about, even if it’s just a chore as simple as making the bed, he doesn’t want—

It’s good that Alex isn’t here right now, even if Michael’s chest is aching, pining for him, for a warm and steady arm to cradle his head while he drifts off back to sleep. All it would be is another imposition. Alex doesn’t need that in his life, not when there’s so much to pull him in a hundred directions already. Wherever Alex has gone, whether it’s into work or just somewhere else, Michael hopes that he’s getting some time off from having a sick alien kicking him out of bed.

Being sick is fucking awful. How do humans do this all the time? He wants to crawl into a ditch and lay there until the world ends, and he’s never been less in the mood for hyperbole. There’s lead in his bones heavy enough to send him through the bed and all the way through the floor.

The bed dips, and Michael sticks his head out of the blankets to see Buffy haul herself up and, with a dignified huff, she lays down with her head on his thigh, and goes back to sleep. Gripped with the absurd urge to burst into tears, Michael snuffles a laugh into the crook of his arm, presses his leg back against the dog’s solid weight, and follows her lead, asleep within moments.

He has this dream, this recurring dream, where he’s on the highway on a summer night, bare feet cut up by the rocks and blistered from the hot asphalt. Max and Isobel are walking ahead of him, but when he opens his mouth to call out to them no sound comes out, and even if it did, he can’t remember their names. All he knows is that he needs to get to them, but even though every step he takes tears at his broken skin and jars in his bones, he never gets any closer, until they’re swallowed up by headlights in the distance, and Michael is alone under a black, starless sky.

When he wakes up this time, he isn’t alone.

His arm is sprawled out across the bed, the only part of him sticking out of the tight ball of blankets he’s created, and a hand is fixed around his wrist, fingers pressed firmly into the delicate underside, right over his pulse. He doesn’t feel Buffy beside him anymore.

God, his body aches. He feels disgusting, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die anymore, so that’s a relief. Has he been asleep for five hours or five weeks? He kind of hopes it’s that second one, if only so that maybe his siblings and Maria will have forgotten to be freaking out about him and he can slip back into their lives unnoticed.

“Michael…”

Michael forces open his gummy eyes, and Alex is there, beside the bed; his eyes are closed, but his spine is so straight he can’t possibly be asleep. Michael stays as still as possible so as not to disturb him, just in case.

His face is unlined and placid, but wan, grayish under his normal tone. The stress is screaming from his every pore, and Michael swallows at the warning swell of a returning nausea. His other hand is a loose fist sitting on his thigh; his body is still as a statue, his chest barely moving with every breath. Then, all at once, he exhales, his shoulders dropping, and his eyes open, focusing on Michael’s hand.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Michael replies, tongue stumbling over itself to apologize. “About your bed. If you—or I can call Isobel or something—drive me home, I’ll get out of your hair.”

The words stick in his throat like a clinging burr, but he coughs them up anyway, ragged and bloody. He won’t get in Alex’s way. That’s one thing he’s never, ever wanted—to be a burden. And now here he is. Maybe, if nothing else, he can con Alex into letting him keep this jacket for a while, since Michael doesn’t know where his own has gotten to.

Alex’s mouth presses into a firm line; his brows tilt forward. “I’m not kicking you out, Guerin.”

“You don’t have to. I’m just offering. I’m not exactly the fountain of good times I usually am right now.”

“Do you really think that’s all I care about?”

“I don’t know! It’s just—late, probably, and if you have to work tomorrow—” Fuck. Work. Michael swallows again. Fucking standing all day to work is going to be hell, if it’s even physically possible. But he can’t afford to miss it. He’s been trying to wean himself off the level of acetone he got used to consuming, but tomorrow’s shaping up to be an off the wagon day.

“So? If you’re not better tomorrow, or if you’re,” Alex’s throat bobs, “worse again, we can call Max or Isobel up to sit with you. I’m not abandoning you when you’re sick, Guerin.”

“Don’t call them.” The words fly right out of his mouth. It’s bad enough with Alex, and he’s, well, Alex. Max and Iz, they don’t need to see him this weak. Michael doesn’t want them to. “I can drive myself in the morning, assuming my truck is here. I’ll get out of your hair—”

“Stop. Stop saying things like that.”

“Like what.” His head isn’t on quite straight. Maybe he’s losing threads of the conversation, but Alex’s stress grates on every oversensitive nerve like foil between his teeth. This is why he hates being taken care of. He’s an ungrateful sonuva and ends up hurting the people who want to help when it’s no one’s fault but his own and all the gummed-up parts of him that never learned how to function with regular maintenance. It’s better if it’s just him on his own, white-knuckling it until he rides out the storm.

Alex shakes his head sharply; his hand jerks from the bed half-up like he was going to run it through his hair, but then it snaps right back down to Michael’s wrist. Michael turns his hand in that grip to feel the callouses on Alex’s palm on that thin little patch of skin where his veins are closest, and the motion has Alex squeezing him tighter.

His eyes squeeze so tight shut too, though. He takes a couple of harsh breaths. “Fuck. I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” Michael croaks. Unfair. It’s not fair for Alex to dump gasoline on him when he’s already feeling like wet ashes. He can’t burn at those words right now, can’t light them up to make sure he’s got a scar to remember the moment by. He’s trapped right here, pinned to a board; he’s got nothing.

“I can’t,” Alex repeats.

“Don’t make me beg, Alex.”

Those words, as pathetic as they felt on Michael’s tongue, at least get Alex to look him in the eye—a sharp, short look, before his eyes fall away again, fixing somewhere in the vicinity of Michael’s sternum. Speaking is starting to drain energy right out of him. He’s too warm, but just clutches the open sides of his stolen jacket for dear life, like someone might reach over and rip it off of him.

Alex’s hand grasps upward, curled around Michael’s forearm now, strong fingers digging into the muscle underneath the sleeve. “No,” he says. “No, don’t. I. You’re.” He licks his lips. His brow furrows, tight and dark and angry. “You’re.” He tries again. “Taking care of people. I’m no good at it. Knowing what you need is even harder. I always get it wrong. But I need to. Take care of you. It’s the only thing I need right now. The past couple days have been…”

“I don’t want to be taken care of. I didn’t ask for it,” Michael protests. It’s a weak attempt, and Alex knows it from the lift in his eyebrow, but he doesn’t comment on the fragile underbelly of Michael’s words, just strokes his hand back down to Michael’s again.

“Neither of us did. Or have, ever in our lives. Maybe it’s time to try something new? Could be fun.”

“Can you handle my kind of fun, private? Might be too much for you.”

Alex’s mouth finally quirks up into a half-smile at Michael’s goading, and that’s the closest thing Michael’s had to a victory, so he’s going to take it and run.

Alex says, “You want to spar with me while you’re bedridden? That’s a very bold prospect, Guerin.”

“Better that than the other thing, where I lay around acting pathetic.”

And just like that, Alex’s smile is gone. “It’s not pathetic to get sick. Don’t—say that about yourself, because I know you’d never say it about Isobel, or Max, or Liz, or Maria—”

Or me, he doesn’t say, and Michael wishes he would. Because it’s true. If Alex suddenly got sick—if Michael had to watch him struggle to walk, to breathe, suffering and hurting and no way to stop it or make it any better…he wouldn’t be able to sit calmly by the bed. He wouldn’t be able to joke afterward. He wouldn’t be able to do anything but hold Alex to the bed and be alive with him for hours and hours and hours.

Clearing his throat, Michael says, “Does anyone know what could have happened? I don’t really remember…Liz or Valenti get in here to do science on me or anything?” He touches his tongue to his chapped lower lip, worrying at the stinging skin there.

“No.”

Alex shifts closer, his elbows resting on the side of the bed, Michael’s hand pulled into the warm cradle of his chest. He takes a second to place a soft kiss on Michael’s knuckles, and Michael lets his eyes fall shut.

Alex continues, “You were keeping down fluids, and the acetone seemed to help boost your ability to fight it off somewhat. Or at least it helped you sleep.” He kisses Michael’s hand again and says quietly, “None of us wanted to. Without your consent…the medical stuff. Kyle was ready, if you took a turn for the worse, but it didn’t come to that.”

“You…” Michael has to clear his throat again before he can speak. “You…thank you.”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you—already being weak, and you had to be scared; I couldn’t stand the thought of you waking up halfway through, and—” His voice breaks off, eyes over-bright. Michael rubs the hand in his, reassuring, grateful.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

Alex’s eyes flick up to meet his, and Michael holds the gaze for as long as Alex lets him, trying to communicate all the full, desperate gratitude in his body. He doesn’t comment as Alex blinks away unshed tears.

Alex straightens his shoulders a bit and says, “As for what could have happened, we’re working on it. Maria is worried sick; she feels responsible.”

“Not her fault. Whether I was drugged or there’s a superbacteria that can get aliens now or it was the position of Jupiter’s moons or some shit.”

“She’s also afraid this means there’s something wrong at the Pony. We’re doing a top to bottom search after hours. Liz has already tested the beer you drank, and it wasn’t tampered with at all. It could have been anything.”

“Iz and Max? Did they have any symptoms?”

Alex shakes his head. “Puts a bit of a damper on your astrological phenomenon theory.”

“Damn. I really thought those moons were out to get me.”

Laughing at his own joke makes him cough a chest-rattling cough, but it’s worth it to see Alex’s face light up with a bit of a smile.

“Where are they, anyway?” Michael says. “I kind of thought Max would be serenading my sickbed or something, to be honest. Or that might have been a nightmare of my fevered mind.”

“He was here for a while, but he got called into work. Isobel stayed longer, but she went home with Maria so she wouldn’t have to be alone. You might give them a call; they’ll be sad they weren’t here when you woke up. But I’ll warn you,” Alex’s smile goes thin and strained, but at least it lingers on his face this time rather than slipping away like oil. “Your family isn’t very happy with me. I basically kidnapped you.”

“You can kidnap me any day.”

“That’s a dangerous statement to make.”

“Mm, I sure hope so.”

“Stop being flirty. You look like roadkill.”

“You sure know how to make a man feel special.”

“Well, I can’t have you out-competing me.”

The easy patter of their words stutters to a halt. Alex’s smile is gone for real now, and it takes half the energy Michael’s been able to muster with it. He shivers a bit, and grabs to pull the covers back around himself.

“That first night,” Alex says. He looks back into Michael’s eyes, but the effort seems to weigh a hundred pounds on his shoulders. “That first night, you said that you…that you love me.”

“Yeah.” Michael takes a shaky breath. “I do. Saying it lucid now, too. I love you.”

“I didn’t say it back. I couldn’t. I’ve thought so many times about how I would, how I’d tell you, but when you said it to me, I couldn’t…and all I can think about was how,” his voice breaks, and Michael shakes off the duvet to reach out with his other hand, which Alex takes, “that could have been the last thing you ever said to me. And I didn’t even say it back.”

“This is gonna sound shitty,” Michael says. He’s still staring at Alex; Alex is the only thing it’s possible to look at. “But I wasn’t really thinking. I said it more for myself than anything else. I wasn’t thinking about how it would affect you, to hear it like that, when I haven’t said it to your face before. But just so you know. I do. I love you. Whether or not you say it back.”

A desperate laugh escapes Alex’s mouth. “How can you just—so easily? I feel it; I go to say it, but I just can’t. I’ve been faced with an entire life without you again and again the past couple days, and now I have you here as a captive audience, and here I am dancing around it. What am I afraid of? It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Michael’s pulse rabbits in his chest. “Alex. It’s okay.”

“It’s not! You deserve to hear it; you deserve to know, just like I know. That I’d do anything. That I would’ve done anything. Given anything. Because if anything’s going to destroy me, It might as well—”

They inhale at the same time, sucking all the air out of the room, and reflexively, helplessly, Michael jerks on his hands, pulls him in, struggles up half-sitting so their shoulders brush.

“—If anything’s going to destroy me, it might as well be for you.”

“Alex,” Michael breathes. He breathes, the air of him, the body heat, the electric charge, the connection that’s been humming between them since childhood, reforged into a wire strong enough to hold Michael’s bones together. It’s the only time he’s ever wished to be Max—to be able to show Alex all this, fill him up with light until there’s no doubt left in his soul.

Alex leans forward, crawling half onto the bed, so he can push his forehead to Michael’s like he’s trying to crawl inside him, his eyes squeezed shut, their hands still tangled up crushed between them.

“Michael, Michael,” he whispers, so Michael holds him until he quiets, falls into Alex holding him in turn, and the two of them rest like that, Alex seeking every part of Michael that’s breathing and beating and alive.

#malex #my fic #michael guerin #alex manes #emetophobia cw #some good ol hurt/comfort yall

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xephinatheeleven · 6 years

Text

Sleep-Walking: 8 of 8

Word Count: 4,320

Summary: Part 8 is finally here!!!!

Warnings: Panic, fear

Pairings: Platonic Only!

———

Upon checking in on Thomas, Roman and Logan had been relieved to find everything sorted out. Their host, through the valiant deeds of Joan and Talyn, had not caused any issues that were irreparable. They had prevailed in their quest of keeping the online personality from any social media, on which he could have vanquished his fan-base with his unjust actions and opinions.

Apologies and thanks had been exchanged after an explanation of the hardships had been given. Upon hearing of them, Thomas requested a convention including both Patton and Virgil at the nearest opportunity. The differing traits promised to comply with his wishes before returning to the mind-palace, where they would wait to tell the tale of their victory to the other two.

Minutes turned to hours, and one after the other slipped into the past with no word from their companions. Slowly Princey began to worry that something disastrous had happened to them, “Logan, how long are we going to sit idly by waiting for Patton and Virgil?”

“I have been wondering about where they have gone as well.” The intellectual straightened his glasses, “I don’t think there is any issue however; the two of them are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”

The fanciful aspect stood from where he had been residing on the sofa, a sense of worry resting like a heavy burden on his shoulders, “do you think Deceit has returned and harmed them in some way?”

Logic shook his head, not looking up from his book, “I seriously doubt that. Deceit may be powerful when it comes to swaying Thomas’s judgment, but I don’t think he is capable of taking on both of them physically.”

The Prince couldn’t shake the nagging concern that there was something more sinister going on, as if something had gone wrong, “even still, should we not at the very least try and find them?”

The distant look in the eyes of the rational facet made him appear that much more thoughtful, “I don’t think so. We wouldn’t want to interrupt them.”

He was becoming exasperated with his colleague, “yes, but it didn’t take Virgil this long to talk with either one of us.”

“No, but it would seem that Patton’s fears were a bit more severe than our own. Correct me if I am wrong, but to my knowledge, neither of us had the same sort of panicked reaction to our apprehensions.”

The academic’s overly-placid view did nothing to calm his nerves, only causing frustration. He couldn’t just stand by; he was a knight, and if there was even a chance that the others were in distress, then it was his sovereign duty to find and assist them. “Be that as it may, I’m still going to search for them; if they need my help, I will not fail to oblige. You may join me if you so please, but you cannot keep me from trying.”

The whimsical persona was already heading for the corridor when a sigh from Logan caused him to halt, “fine. I can't have you getting lost in the mindscape alone…I’ll come with you.”

Roman had no idea as to how long they had been wandering the halls, and he’d lost count of how many turns they had made. One thing he was fairly certain of however, was that they had traversed this area already. It didn’t help that as time passed, he became more concerned. He was pretty sure Logic felt the same, but he didn’t voice it. He wished he had Anxiety’s skills of perception as they came upon another intersection; each direction seemed the same to him, but he was sure that there was some minor detail that he was over-looking.

The analytical side was leaning against the right wall, “Roman, I am almost certain that we are lost.”

He glanced down each of the corridors again; he had to find some way through them, “we can't just give up. Besides, if we are lost, how do we know the others aren’t?”

His friend’s tone was a clear indicator of his annoyance, “Virgil spends quite a lot of time in these parts of the mindscape, and so I think we can safely assume that the others are not lost.”

The creative trait couldn’t stop the thoughts and ideas that flooded his head, “do you think that they found a more dangerous part of the mind-palace and got themselves injured?”

They started down the left passageway, but that wasn’t cause for the intellectual to lose his tongue, “once again I shall remind you that Virgil knows more about these areas than the rest of us. The odds of him getting into a risky situation are next to none; which are diminished further if you think he would take Patton anywhere near such a place.”

“There is still a chance though,” The Prince had felt more comfortable dueling with the dragon-witch than he did roaming the darkened halls. “He doesn’t know every inch…they could be trapped!”

Logan, as he had many times prior in their adventure, sighed at his suggestion. “Virgil would never take Patton to any place that he wasn’t certain he couldn’t find their way back to the commons.”

The two of them made another turn, which did nothing to help them gain their bearings, “perhaps Patton ran off and Virgil went after him, and they got lost that way.”

The factual aspect shook his head, becoming more irritated as they walked, “Patton is afraid of being alone and abandoned, so I highly doubt he would leave Virgil’s side, especially not in a part of the mindscape of which he is unaccustomed.”

“Virgil said it himself, fear is a strong motivator…maybe Patton was worried something had happened and tried to come find us.”

The logical facet came to an abrupt halt, his arms crossed, “Roman this is all preposterous. I know that we disagree on quite a number of things, but I think we both know that the others are perfectly capable of dealing with difficult situations, and getting out of them if the need were to arise. If Patton feared that anything was wrong with us, he would merely request that Virgil escort him back to the commons.” He glanced around at the dim-lit corridor, “you are right about one thing; fear is a strong motivator, that’s why we’re wandering about like this. You also seem to forget that we are the ones who are lost, the others could easily have returned to the main part of the mindscape by now and be wondering of has happened to us.”

The visionary character held the level gaze of the other, his worry boiling into exasperation. “If you are so certain that there is nothing wrong with the others, and of our own ordeal, then what do you suggest we do?”

The academic stayed silent, sweeping his eyes around the area one more time before replying, “it is something to consider, but we may be able to solve both of our predicaments at once. From what I have noticed, no matter where we were when we were summoned, we always reappear in the common-room after leaving the real-world. If we were to go there now, not only would we be able to find our way back, but we could also have Thomas summon the other two. That would also allow for him to speak with all of us as he asked, therefore we would be solving that issue as well.”

The solution seemed so obvious now that it had been laid out before him, “what are we waiting for then? Let’s go!”

Without another word, they synced out of the mindscape and appeared in their usual places. If Joan and Talyn were still over, they were nowhere to be seen, but the host of the sides jumped up from where he had been sitting on the sofa when he saw them, “Logan, Roman!” He let his eyes flit to the empty spots where the other two would normally reside, “where are Patton and Virgil?”

Princey was quick to respond, wanting to find them as soon as possible, “we don’t actually know…we've been looking for them for at least an hour, but we haven’t been able to track them down.”

“As a matter of fact, that is part of why we are here,” Logic’s words were rattled off at an even quicker pace than usual. He must be more concerned than his creative counterpart had given him credit for, “since we were unsuccessful in our attempts to discover their whereabouts, and they have been gone longer than we expected, we thought the best course of action would be to have you summon them here. If you were to do so, you could speak with them, and it would solve our dilemma with their disappearance.”

The online personality took a moment to decipher the teacher’s rapid speech, his eyes wide. “If you two want me to, I’ll summon them…are you sure we won't be causing an interruption though?”

The whimsical trait attempted to push back the worry that was threatening to blind him, “we’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be interrupted…and since we can't find them, I think it would give us some peace-of-mind to know that they are okay.”

Virgil snickered as he spoke, “pancakes are great…what I don’t understand is Logan’s never-ending obsession with Crofter’s, and putting that on them, and-” He was cut off by the familiar tugging sensation that meant Thomas wanted him in the real-world, and by the looks of it, Patton was being summoned too. Glancing over to the clock above the fireplace, his heart skipped a beat, it was no wonder the others wanted their attention, they had been talking for nearly three hours. Time had passed much faster than either had expected, flying by once they were engaged in genuine conversation. The others were probably worried that they had gotten lost or hurt from being so far into the mindscape, which wasn’t nearly as dangerous as they perceived it to be. Locking eyes for no more than an instant, it was clear that the eldest aspect shared in the understanding of the worry the others must feel. With that they left the dream space to meet with the ones who were already waiting for them.

When they showed up, the youngest facet didn’t miss the looks of relief that Logan and Roman wore, but it was Thomas’s voice that filled the silence. “Patton, Virgil, it’s good to see you…I think some of us were becoming concerned at your disappearance.”

Morality’s words closely followed those of the YouTuber, “we didn’t mean to worry any of you, kiddos. We were just talking and time passed quicker than we’d thought.”

Logic gave Princey a glare that clearly carried the message, I told you so, to which the fanciful attribute gave a mocking look. “Is it so wrong of me to be concerned with the well-being of my friends?”

Even the cold, stiff tone of the second-eldest couldn’t hide the alleviation shining in his eyes, “no, I am merely making an expression conveying that I was correct in thinking that there was never any cause to worry.”

There was a playful manner in how the Prince leaned forward slightly and lifted his head, “oh of course…says the one who was talking at the speed of light before they were summoned.”

Anxiety jumped in before the argument could continue, “other than knowing we are okay, is there a reason we were called?”

Rather than one of the other personifications, it was Thomas who answered his question, “yes. I wanted to check in with all of you and see if things have improved from the last time we all met.” He suddenly took on an aura of shame that confused him, “I just hope we didn’t interrupt anything important.”

The darkly-dressed side shrugged, but he couldn’t keep the laughter from his tone, “if you consider a conversation about pancakes important…then sure. If not, I finished working with Patton over two hours ago.” The trait in question nodded in agreement, giggling at the sarcastic statement.

He let his gaze pass between the two who had been in the real-world longer as their host smiled, “good. I was hoping that was the case-”

The online personality was cut off as Logan turned to face them, “actually the degree of importance of your conversation hinges on what kind of pancakes you were referring to when Thomas summoned you.”

Virgil couldn’t help but smirk, and he knew what the reaction to his reply was going to be before he even said it. “We were just talking about putting Crofter’s on pancakes…nothing too important-”

“FALSEHOOD!” They all started laughing at the outburst of the normally-composed aspect, who apparently noticed the shift in attention as he cleared his throat and regained his professional demeanor. “I mean…it is a meaningful matter, but it’s in the past now. It’s just comforting to know that the two of you are in good health. The question I now have is of your whereabouts; we searched for the better part of an hour, and still couldn’t find you.”

The darkest facet finally stopped laughing, but only just as understanding took over, “We were in my dream space, but I see what happened. You two tried to come looking for us because you were worried…and then you got lost in the mindscape and couldn’t find your own way out, so you came here and asked Thomas to summon us, didn’t you?”

The creative and logical figments shared a dumbfounded glance, but it was the prior who found his voice first. “I don’t know why your…frequently correct…statements and questions still manage to take us by surprise. How did you know that?”

“Logan said that you were looking for us, and to be looking for an hour…you would have had to go further into the mind-palace than either of you are used to. One thing I know well is that those corridors are a labyrinth if you don’t know where you are.” The observant manifestation felt almost prideful at the stunned gazes he received, “also, they aren’t as dangerous as you think they are. They’re just a bit dark because they aren’t used enough to warrant changing the light-bulbs.”

“Well you guys can discuss not-so-scary hallways later,” Thomas let his eyes rest on each of them, “As for now…I can tell that you all are on better terms with one another, but I want to know how today went. I know there was a lot of tension surrounding the events, so I hope they went well.” That was a question that the other sides would have to answer, and their opinions would be completely subjective. A jolt of worry suddenly coursed through Anxiety, he hadn’t expected a report or analysis of his counseling from the other three.

The father figure stepping forward broke him from his thoughts, “I for one am actually feeling better…” He trailed off turning to face their host, “I haven’t had a chance to apologize for what happened earlier…I didn’t mean for anything to happen to you…I’m sorry, son.”

The online personality gave him a saddened smile, “there was no harm done, so don’t let it get to you. You're back now and that’s all that matters.”

The others nodded in agreement at the statement, and thankfully Patton appeared relieved. More than likely, that would be a topic that the negative trait would have to go over with him in the future, but for now he looked comforted by the approval of his family. “Thanks, kiddo…as for the rest of the day, I have to say that Virgil helped me more than I thought I was able to be helped.” He glanced to Roman and Logan, “and I’m sure he did the same for you two.”

The whimsical aspect held himself in less of a rigid poise, “I have to say that I was impressed by the ideas that Virgil came up with for me as well. They were far more fitting to my personality than I’d expected.” He smiled mischievously at the darker persona, “he’s also a surprisingly good singer.”

The anxious facet had been right, he was never going to live that down, but he didn’t have time to formulate a response before Thomas did. “What are you talking about? Did you somehow get Virgil to sing?”

Morality giggled, “Roman didn’t…I did. Virgil actually resorted to singing to get me to come out of my room.”

“I can show you if you want!” The enthusiastic comment made him freeze as his imaginative counterpart reached for his phone.

“I should have guessed you would record me,” even though he grumbled the words, he made no attempt to stop the video from being shown.

As the Prince tapped the screen he spoke once more, his voice maintaining the good-humor he had. “If you outright tell me that I’m not going to let you live something down, I need to get my proof that it happened.” He moved over to their host who was waiting with anticipation, and a moment later the video began. Quiet at first, but he heard the tone of his voice and buried his head in his hands. The fight-or-flight reflex longed to get away from the on-looking eyes as it got to the improvised verses.

The recording cut off just after the eldest slammed into him and Anxiety dared to look up, which he wasn’t sure if he regretted when he saw the compassionate awe in the eyes of the YouTuber. The feeling was only enhanced by the glances that passed between the other three attributes. “I know I’ve heard you sing before, but that was really sweet, Virgil. How did you come up with those lyrics on the spot like that?”

His head was still lowered in embarrassment from the praise Thomas gave; still, he couldn’t ignore such a direct question. “I am named after a poet…but other than that, I was willing to try anything at that point. To be completely honest…I didn’t know I was capable of improv.”

Patton was the next to draw his attention, “well it worked, kiddo, and you did a really good job coming up with that. It certainly meant a lot to me.” The others gave their own forms of agreeance, but it was obvious from his smile that Roman was going to ask him at every turn to join in his karaoke.

Their host was still grinning with a warm gaze before turning to Logan, “so the others seem to be doing well, what about you?”

“I personally found Virgil’s approach to be most helpful. Not only were the techniques he gave useful in almost every situation, but he gave me an array of them as well. The most remarkable inclusion however, was the clever use of location and metaphor. For example, he counseled me in the library, and I know he didn’t do the same for the other two. As for the metaphor, we were nearly done with the conversation before I figured out that the seemingly irrelevant topic of a book was actually insightful to my concerns. That’s not to mention he was able to stop me from panicking.” Logic wore an expression of appreciation as he nodded in the direction of the negative side, who was still reeling from all the compliments. All of them seemed to be pleased with his work, putting the worries he’d felt that morning to rest.

“He helped me out of a panic-attack as well!” The kind trait clapped happily while giving his input.

The YouTuber beamed like a proud parent, “if all is well then-”

“Wait,” all of them stopped, facing Princey after he cut Thomas off, “what about you, Virgil? Please don’t take this the wrong way…but you are the embodiment of anxiety, how do we know that you don’t need the same help that we do?”

Even in knowing that the others had read his notes, which held a list of his own fears; he was taken aback by the question. The observant facet hadn’t expected them to bring up his own worries, especially not with them being overshadowed by those of the others. Still, Roman had managed to do so, and in a shockingly tactful way.

The look in the eyes of his visionary companion wasn’t lost on the darkly-dressed emotion, he was afraid that he had come across as offensive, when in reality he was sort of touched by the gesture. “I appreciate the concern, Sir Sing-A-Lot, but going over all the ways to help you guys may have been just as helpful to me.” The confusion that blanketed the others spurred him to continue, “I may be able to take some of my own advice. I actually didn’t realize it until I was working with all of you, that many of the tactics I taught might just be useful in my case as well. I can pick up a book and read or watch a musical to calm my nerves, use grounding techniques more regularly, or even try something as simple as talking with you guys.”

The four sides looked around at one another fondly; a sense of familial bonding having been strengthened from the whole situation, and it was only enforced by the contribution of their host. “I’m glad to see that you all are doing better today…but I have to say that it means a lot to me to know that all of you are learning to listen to each other more, and help one another through tough times like this.”

It had been nearly a month since the ordeal with the sleep-walking had occurred, the Prince was no longer injured, and Virgil had kept his promise to start having movie nights with him. They had even begun inviting the others to join them, which ended up making the experience even more enjoyable. Most importantly however, was the progress that they had all made in the time since that dreadful night. To say that they were all happier and more productive was a major understatement at best.

Patton had been the one in need of the most assistance; even still, it had only taken him a few days to get to the point where he could be left alone for short periods of time, and those had lengthened as he worked more and more with his fears. Now, he still asked for their reassurances frequently, but overall he was much more comfortable in knowing that the others would always be there for him. That being said, Anxiety had noticed him fidgeting with the bracelets he’d given the paternal trait when he was nervous or when he came to ask for help. He thankfully hadn’t been plagued with another panic-attack, but the two were still working together every few days.

Logan had been the next in line with the severity of his fears, but just like with his moral counterpart, he’d improved significantly. Even when he wasn’t working, the youngest aspect had noticed him using the breathing and grounding tactics regularly. The academic had come to the realization after a few more sessions of counseling, that he wasn’t neglecting his responsibilities at all; in fact he was going above and beyond what he needed to do. Part of the issues he was experiencing were actually stemming from being overworked and lack of sleep. The intellectual also found while he was working on that, nearly every mistake he made was resolved so swiftly that the others were almost never aware that they had even occurred. The discovery didn’t make him prideful, but it did boost his confidence and self-esteem.

Roman had been further ahead than the other two in his concerns, but he had work that still needed to be done. He had come to terms with just how much the others needed him however, and that most of the opinions they had of him were positive. Those that weren’t were discussed in private, and a compromise would be found with hardly a disturbance at all. If anything, he still needed the occasional reminder about how common imperfections were, and that it was okay for the creative facet to have them. Other than that though, he was doing well in conquering his phobias, and had reached a point of maturity in which he didn’t feel defeated when he had to ask the gloomier figment for advice.

As for Virgil, his continued counseling of the others had helped him to come to terms with many of his own issues. Joining his colleagues in their activities such as Princey’s movie nights, Logic’s studies, and Morality’s baking had further proven that he was necessary. It had also succeeded in getting him out of his room more, and showing him that his mere presence didn’t cause others to miss opportunities. The darker character couldn’t help the feeling of warmth he had from watching the others improve over time, which in turn helped his own worries even more.

The problems surrounding the sleep-walking were all but gone now, and no one else had gotten hurt. The other sides had even taken to making him to get more sleep during the day, and watched over him during that time to make sure that his own somnambulism didn’t result in injury. Every now and again, one of them would stir in the night, and the fight-or-flight reflex would simply join them in the corridor, gently coaxing the sleeping figure back to their bed.

With everyone facing their fears instead of suppressing them, there was a new sense of peace that filled the mindscape. A feeling that all of them could partake in, and despite their clear improvements and the joy he found in them, Virgil knew that there would never come a day when he or any of the others wouldn’t be needed.

—–

TAG LIST:

@a-snoway-afternoon

@jay-wants-to-be-a-paladin

@julia6181

@lovelyyoonglebear

@lucifer-in-my-head

@opalwings915

@wewillsurvivethistoo

@the-psycho-pie

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LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT ME TO DO TAG LISTS FOR OTHER STORIES!

—–

Links for Tumblr

Part 1:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173343639844/sleep-walking-part-1-of-8

Part 2:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173455778169/sleep-walking-2-of-8

Part 3:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173456061404/sleep-walking-3-of-8

Part 4:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173519794834/sleep-walking-4-of-8

Part 5:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173591178399/sleep-walking-5-of-8

Part 6:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173644540469/sleep-walking-6-of-8

Part 7:

https://virgil-the-dark-strange-son.tumblr.com/post/173719462339/sleep-walking-7-of-8

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royalprinceroman · 6 years

Text

Totally Illogical

So… I saw (and read!) so many simple one-shots with the prompt from @logically-asexual (this post here) in which Virgil has to be comforted after watching Roman ‘die’ on stage at a production. While I can see (and absolutely adore) this relationship here, my mind kept telling me something.

What about Mr. Literal? The one who takes everything super seriously? What about…Logan?

Basically this is me saying “I see your Prinxiety and raise you Logince.”

Please enjoy~

Word Count: 2,295 Fandom/Pairing: Sanders Sides // Logince Tag List: @availe, @anxious-patton, @introverts-assemble, @pattonspuns (This is my general tag list, not for my other fic The Corruption of Creativity - let me know if you like to be added or removed to this list!)

Logan had so many things he’d rather be doing at the moment.

Thomas’s schedule for the following month still needed to be ironed out completely as well as sorting some of the newly found knowledge that was flowing in at a decent rate, thanks to the new astronomy class Thomas had been taking.

But no, Logan was currently being dragged by the arm into a theatre. Patton wore a big smile on his face as he looked around the building – even Logan had to admit how amazing it looked. When Roman went all out in his room, he left no stone unturned. The theatre was something out of a movie that took place in the 1950s: large lights flashing everywhere, gold and red trimmings around all of the entrances and so… many… people.

Roman didn’t hesitate to add so many humans into this part of his world. So many discussions, pushing and shoving. As the romantic and fanciful side, the prince did nothing half way. Logan felt like he was actually in the real world with Thomas, not in the mindscape. It was pretty intimidating and part of him felt actually happy that Virgil had been called to assist Thomas with something. This would’ve been pretty overwhelming for him.

“I’m so happy Roman decided to invite us to see this!” Patton squealed as the pair found their reserved seats towards the front of the theatre. “I can’t wait to watch him perform.”

Logan shrugged, taking his seat. “I’m not sure. There’s only so much of this professional make-believe I can stomach at once.”

Patton frowned, and lowered his gaze to the logical trait. “Oh come on Logan… lighten up a bit! I know it’s not your “thing” but just enjoy it for Roman. He’s been working on this for so long, you know?”

That was fair to say. Roman had been planning this performance for weeks. He had rattled off a lot of information just a few nights before at dinner, but Logan had kind of blocked him out. It wasn’t on purpose of course; his mind was just preoccupied with more… concerning issues.

Abruptly, the lights dimmed and a single person walked up onto the stage in front of the closed curtains and began to speak. They told of a prince, who abandoned his kingdom, to save his subjects from his own father. To do so, he had to traverse mountains, valleys, and many more obstacles to gain a mystical staff to overpower and take down his family. A typical story of a hero, Logan noted.

The introduction ended and the curtain parted, showing the stage as well as Roman in a prince garb more suited to a Disney prince than what he normally wore, which was surprising.

As the story passed, Logan found himself oddly immersed. Normally he would critique the obnoxious acting and over usage of dramatic effects, but Roman was… pretty amazing. Logan hadn’t ever really considered how talented and how 'at home’ Roman was on stage. The words flowed from him with such conviction, as if he really was a prince trying to save his homeland. His emotions were very genuine. The prince had also chosen the seats for Patton and Logan well; the logical trait had a full unobstructed view of the stage which only helped cement how real it seemed.

About halfway through the play, the King appeared on top of a tall mountain, giving him a very authoritative vibe. His sneer down at the audience was dark and Logan couldn’t lie that he felt a shiver go down his spine.Why did this feel so unnecessarily real? It was a play. Just a play.

“That son of mine… how dare he do this?!” the King snarled, throwing his cape around his shoulder. “I will not tolerate any kind of disobedience! Servant, come!”

A very meek young boy came running up to him looking even smaller than he actually was just because of how large of a person the King was. “Yes-Yes sir?” He asked.

“It’s time for my son to learn his place in the world. It is time for the poison.” the King said darkly. “Ricin is more than suitable for him – a miserable death for a miserable boy.”

Ricin?

It’s now time for the impossible to occur. Logan thought, crossing his arms and legs.

Up until that point Logan had been able to look past the stage and actually into the story but now his logical reasoning was taking hold in his mind. Ricin was a very dangerous poison for sure, however there was no way everything after this could be anywhere near realistic, especially with the amount of time it took for Ricin poison to take affect. Logan couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed – even though he preferred realism, sometimes just a bit of fantasy was okay. He’d never let Roman know that fact.

The play continued to its climax, the meek boy from earlier meeting up with Roman’s character and befriending him. As the play continued, Logan paid a bit more attention to Roman.

It was strange.

Roman’s acting was impeccable for sure, but there was something else. His skin had started to take on a bluish tint, but he hadn’t even left the stage once in nearly 45 minutes. Beads of sweat had begun to appear on his forehead, and his breathing was extremely labored, his voice taking on a breathy tone. None of the other characters seemed to notice.

Logan felt his heart skip a beat and he gripped his own arms tightly.

What if, because Roman is such a 'extra’ person, he actually created the poison? What if he was putting himself in harm’s way for accuracy?

The play continued on as the Prince arrived back to his kingdom with the staff needed to slay his father and save his people. His skin was even bluer at this point, Logan noted, and Roman still hadn’t left the stage. It couldn’t have been makeup – when could it have possibly been applied? Logan abruptly realized that he was sitting on the edge of his seat, his left leg bouncing wildly.

“My son! How are you planning on getting rid of me…” the King taunted. “…in your current state…?”

The prince looked at his hands and arms, and scoffed, a smile appearing on his face as a bead of sweat fell down his cheek. “…you think I don’t know you’ve poisoned me?” The king’s face fell; his eyes narrowed. “Father, I know you’ve been trying to get rid of me ever since I’ve started this journey and I don’t have much time left….”

Logan’s eyes widened. He could actually see Roman’s skin getting bluer with his own eyes. You stupid illogical fool… you actually did this, didn’t you? His mind began to race.

“This staff will speed up time! It will cause you to age and you will die!” The prince shouted, pointing the staff at his father. “…in doing so, the poison will spread through my body faster and I will die as well! But this world will finally be free from your tyranny!”

Suddenly an abrupt wind took hold of the stage and a blinding light came from the staff head, enveloping the king in a red glow. Logan raised his fingers to his mouth – the king’s skin was aging right in front of his eyes. Wrinkles appeared and the skin began to sag horribly as age took hold. The king screamed, his agony echoing throughout the theatre.

How is this real? What is going on? Logan thought as the king character disappeared behind a very tall mountain towards the back of the stage.

The prince dropped the staff and it clattered loudly, bringing everyone’s attention to him. His skin was nearly completely blue at this point. Roman walked towards the mountain, his legs wobbly. He coughed into his hands, the force shaking his entire body. Blood and mucus covered him but the prince seemed none too worried. His face was pained but he wore a smile across his face. Roman turned to the audience.

“My kingdom… will be safe. They will prosper…” he trailed off. His right hand gripped his chest as his left hand covered his mouth as he coughed more blood. “…I am…happy.”

Suddenly his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, collapsing completely onto his chest. His hand was outstretched towards…Logan.

Logan met gazes with Roman as the prince’s eyes glossed over. The music that had been playing in the background swelled as the curtain began to close. The audience began to applaud loudly as the music came to an end. Logan felt everyone around him stand to continue clapping at the amazing performance they all just saw, Patton included.

The logical trait looked at his hands and all he could see was Roman’s last expression before the curtain closed. He tried to reason with himself – it was a play… it was just professional make-believe. The blue skin was makeup (but it had appeared without anyone applying it) the sweat was just water (but where had it come from) the blood and mucus was just more makeup (but it had been coughed up on the spot… the iron smell could not be ignored).

“Logan!”

He jerked his head at the sound of his name, turning towards the source: Patton.

“Hey… are you okay?” Patton questioned, his eyes full of concern. “…Logan… are you…” The moral side sat back down in his seat, reaching his hand out towards Logan. “… are you crying?”

Logan immediately shook his head in denial but instantly felt a small drop roll down his face.

Why am I crying?

What is this burning in my chest?

What is happening?

Why…?

This is… totally illogical.

“Oh my…” Patton put his hand onto Logan’s which was on his still bouncing knee. “…was that a bit much for you? I have to admit Roman did a fantastic job with this performance. I was really impressed by our creative kiddo!” Patton said with a smile.

Logan just stared at the floor, Patton’s words helping to ground him.

“Patton! Logan!”

Both men turned towards the left side of the stage to see Roman jogging towards them. Logan realized at that moment that the entire theatre was empty save for the three of them. The creative side jumped down from the stage to the floor to their seats in the second row.

Roman wore a huge smile across his face, the beads of sweat still on his forehead and the bluish tint to his skin still there. The closer he got.. the faker it looked. Logan stood along with Patton as Roman stopped in front of them. He pushed his hand through his bangs to get them out of his eyes.

“So… did you like it?” Roman asked eagerly, his voice still breathy. “I went with a more dramatic story this time and tried to lock in as much realism as possible. I wasn’t sure if it would really come across that way so-” Roman abruptly stopped talking as he felt Logan’s hand touch his own. “…what’s up, Specs?” The prince asked. He noticed how Logan’s eyes had a slight redness to them. “…are you alright?”

Logan didn’t answer as he inspected Roman’s skin. He rubbed his fingers across the bluish tint on Roman’s arm, inspecting his fingertips to see that the blue was in fact a type of paint. Logan then turned his attention to Roman’s forehead, inspecting the sweat. In Roman’s hair was a small strip that looked a bit like a balloon with pin pricked holes in it, clipped in place by a couple of bobby-pins. Then Logan looked closer at the sides of Roman’s face where some of the blood had dried. Upon looking closer, it definitely looked more like chocolate with a bit of red dye mixed in.

He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Logan laughed. It started light and airy before just a boastful laughter that shook him to his core. Of course it had all been fake – it was a play for goodness sake! He felt tears rolling down his face but Logan couldn’t care less. How totally illogical he had been while watching. Of course Roman hadn’t died. Of course he was here with them.

Patton and Roman looked at each other and both smiled sheepishly before looking back to Logan.

“I am… a very ridiculous fool.” Logan replied after taking a shaky breath, ignoring the tears still rolling slowly down his face.

Roman shook his head. “I don’t think that’s true, Logan. I know you don’t like these “professional make-believe” shows… but your reaction is definitely what I, as a performer, strive for.” The prince grabbed Logan’s shoulder and pulled him into an embrace.

Logan’s eyes widened in shock of the sudden physical contact but the warmth felt… nice. Roman was here. He didn’t die on stage. Logan was enveloped in a familiar smell. It was the scent of rain and forest, the familiarity of his fellow trait who was still here. Logan felt Patton join in on the hug, the scent of sugar cookies and lavender filling his nose. The two pulled away from Logan, and Roman put his hand on the logical trait’s face, rubbing away a stray tear.

The three of them just stood there with each other, taking time to chat to calm the atmosphere.

Logan returned to his room in the mindscape later that night, realizing something very important. He had found a new appreciation for performance and a new appreciation for the romantic trait in a way he never thought he would.

Sometimes things were illogical, like professional make-believe, but that didn’t make it wrong to enjoy them.

#sanders sides #ts fanfiction #ts fanfic #logan sanders #roman sanders #logince #my writing #my fic #this could've been better #but yeah this is what you get #i just had to write it #very ooc but i don't care at this point #vigilantvirgil writes

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purplepatton · 7 years

Text

shatter your skull, fight pain with more pain

He realized now, much too late into the game, that the small throbbing had grown into a full blown headache. His only real consolation was the knowledge that he still had time to prevent the headache from morphing into a migraine; a small chance, but a chance nonetheless. (OR it's movie night and logan gets a migraine) (my first ts fanfic this is exciting. I hope you guys enjoy it, it's based off my experiences with migraines - and fun fact I wrote this with a migraine. thanks to @my-chemical-anx for reading this before I posted this and catching a typo! you can also read this on my ao3 - http://archiveofourown.org/works/11822100 ) ------------------ It had started off subtly enough, an ache behind Logan’s eyes that was barely noticeable. He was in his room, sorting and updating his flashcards when he was missing something. It was a soothing and mindless task, perfect to help him relax after the stress that came with filming a video. Tomorrow they would edit the footage they gathered and have it up on schedule. If there was one thing Logan loved, it was schedules. When he was halfway through his stack, there was a knock on his door and it swung open to reveal Patton grinning at him. “Hey, Lo!” He took in the flashcards spread across the floor. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” “Not at all.” Logan said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m assuming you need something?” Patton walked over and sat down across from Logan. He picked up a card and squinted at it before putting back with a smile. “Roman finally picked a movie and sent me to get you.” Logan shook his head and began to gather his cards into a neat pile. Movie night, a weekly occurrence in the mindscape, had become synonymous with Roman’s controlling behavior. The creative side had taken it upon himself to make movie night - in his words - perfect. (“What it that, pocket calculator?” Logan looked up from the DVD player and lifted the movie case so Roman could see it. “A documentary concerning the moon and it’s future with Earth.” “A documentary doesn’t count as a movie.” Roman snarked from where he lay draped across the loveseat. “First of all, a movie is a story or event recorded by a camera as a set of moving images and shown in a theater or on television; this documentary is a theoretical analysis of the events surrounding the moon in a few hundred years and therefore counts as a movie. And secondly, I thought it was my turn to pick what we are watching?” “Oh, come on kiddo!” Patton jumped in. “You might enjoy it!” “It can’t be worse than Patton’s movie.” Virgil added, not looking up from his phone. Patton raised an eyebrow at the darker facet. “You and I both know that ‘Air Buds’ is a great movie.”) Logan pushed himself to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in that one position. An hour? Two? His legs were sore and it felt good to stand up. Logan followed Patton out into the hallway, the latter chattering away. He did his best to pay attention, but the ache had grown to a dull throb right in between his eyes, and it drew his attention away from Patton, who didn’t seem to realize that his conversation was one sided. The commons was brightly lit, a stark contrast from the low lights in his room, and they made him squint until his eyes had adjusted. The other two sides had already found their places; Virgil was balanced on the arm of one couch, headphones around his neck and expression unreadable while Roman sat on the other couch, remote in hand. Patton slid next to Roman and Logan took the empty seat near Virgil. “Glad you could join us,” Roman said with a toothy grin before starting the movie. The all-too familiar sounds of “When You Wish Upon A Star” filled the commons. Logan closed his eyes and sunk back against the couch cushions below him. The added sounds of the movie grated against his ears, assaulting his senses. Everything was too much, and it made the throbbing in his head worse. He realized now, much too late into the game, that the small throbbing had grown into a full blown headache. His only real consolation was the knowledge that he still had time to prevent the headache from morphing into a migraine; a small chance, but a chance nonetheless. Logan pulled a water bottle into his hand, using the meager amount of energy he had to avoid getting up and disturbing the other three sides, all of whom were engrossed in the movie. He unscrewed the cap and drank it in a few gulps before refilling it again. He did this multiple times, drinking and refilling whenever the water was gone. He lost count after the fourth time; it was merely a method now - drink, refill, repeat. Logan was vaguely aware of the sound of the movie rising into a crescendo, a song no doubt. He could hear Roman singing along and the low humming coming from the direction of Virgil when a pain shot through his skull. Logan froze, clenching the water bottle in his fist before another stab of pain hit him. The migraine had arrived. Abandoning all attempts to be quiet, he leapt up, startling Virgil who nearly fell off his spot on the arm of the couch, and dashed into the kitchen. He threw open the cabinets and began to search for the Advil, thoughts bouncing around in his head. Where did he put the bottle last? When was the last time he used the Advil? Why did he think not drinking anything beforehand was a good idea? Even thinking hurt, each word hitting him like a bullet. His hand curled around the small Advil container and he pulled out two pills, swallowing them dry. “Logan, are you okay?” The voice came from behind Logan and he jumped, not expecting it. The container fell and hit the floor, the pills inside rattling around noisily. Logan dove to the floor and snatched the container up, trying to silence the noise. He looked up and saw the three sides outline in the door, Patton looking concerned, Virgil looking boh parts nervous and irritated, and Roman looking confused. “I have a migraine.” The reaction is immediate. “Logan,” Patton said, and Logan can hear the concern in his voice. “Is this because you haven't been drinking water? You know you have to.” Logan waved Patton off in response, not having the energy to explain that no, he didn't drink enough water because he forgot and yes, he knows that a lack of water triggers his migraine. “I'll be fine.” He says instead, his eyes shut to block out most of the light. “I already took Advil and need to sleep it off.” He didn't mention the pain rolling through his skull; he didn't have to. He's gotten enough migraines that the other three sides know how they affect the logical facet. Hands grabbed his shoulders and helped him up, leading him to his darkened room. Before Logan collapsed into his bed to try and rid himself off the migraine, he scribbled a note to himself: Remember to drink water.

#ts fanfiction #thomas sanders #fanfic #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #katwrites #my first fanfic #i'm terrified #and excited #hope you like it

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