#marv writes

Remus had his own, unique ways to get another side’s attention. Whilst he’d watched Patton wave and shout until someone looked at him, or laughed as Roman huffs and sulks until someone asks what’s wrong — he found those methods weren’t really in his arsenal. Hell, even Janus’ preferred go to of insults and snippy comments until someone fires back aren’t really his thing. He lends himself to something a little more… spatially unaware. His talents, best suited for the up close and personal.

Quite simply, Remus had a tendency to annoy people. 

A lot of the time he’ll focus these antics on his brother, but after all this time, he finds it’s not quite as fun to watch him shriek, there’s no challenge in it — not with a side as dramatic as Roman. A man who seems to scream at the top of his lungs upon even the smallest of frights. (How he completes his so-called ‘quests’ without bursting an eardrum, Remus doesn’t know.) He’s tired — bored, even — of leaving masses of spiders under Roman’s pillow and pressing his ear to the door to listen to him shriek. He’s lost all excitement that comes from stealing Roman’s clothes and parading around in them, deliberately spilling all manner of substances on them before returning them to his brother's arms with nothing more than an; “oops! Have fun cleaning those!”

Prodding Janus just gets him smacked, Virgil is frustratingly good at scurrying away before Remus even has the chance to formulate a plan, and Patton just gives him a nervous laugh and an anxious, “oh it’s alright,” to anything he does. All in all, Remus is near acherontic with boredom at the lack of attention he seems to be receiving. And he’s never been able to get anything close to a satisfying reaction out of Logan. 

Well, maybe once. But that had taken forever.

It was a challenge. And Remus never was one to back down from a challenge. A challenge is fun, it’s mentally stimulating — it’s something to do, isn’t it? He isn’t often granted an opportunity to just do stuff. He has to seize it when he has the chance.

Thus began his ultimate mission, Operation: Skillfully Heighten Inner Turmoil/Help Emotions Arise Dreadfully. 

Or: SHIT/HEAD for short. 

It had started small — despite Remus’ desire to dive head first into the deep end and truly rip shit up, he knew that when it came to Logan, he would have to work his way there. Who knows, he may even discover that it was the little things that bugged the nerd to no end! 

So, Remus began with little things. Just small, hardly noticeable annoyances. Nothing like what he used to do to Roman, or what he tried to pull with Janus. No, there were no tentacles, no blood nor guts. Instead, he waited until nightfall, and swapped Patton and Logan’s glasses. It hadn’t been that hard, he was well acquainted with the cover of darkness after all, he did his best work when the moon was high in the sky. 

How was he supposed to know that Patton and Logan had the exact same prescription?

Neither of them had even noticed. Even in the event that they had the same glasses, Remus had hoped that maybe Patton kept the arms of his spectacles a little loose, or that they were somehow permanently smudged with flour or general skin grease. But no, of course not. Logan hadn’t even noticed. And Remus had checked! He had hung around, clinging to the corners in the hallways, and the back of the couch, waiting for Logan to realise, waiting for his reaction. Nothing. Remus had received nothing. Oh well, at least he had gotten to experience the thrill of sneaking around. Besides, this endeavour was hardly going to be a challenge if he succeeded first try now, was it? 

On his second attempt, he took a half-step up, for him at least. It had been significantly more difficult to get his hands on Logan’s tie, but when he had managed it — well, he hadn’t really thought through what he was going to do. He had slipped into Logan’s room, once more under the cover of night, and barely paused to watch the sleeping side lest he accidentally woke him up. That being said, it was mildly amusing to see the man laying there in a sleep mask. Remus decided that if his ploy with the tie didn’t work, he’d go after the eye mask next. 

But Remus had snatched the accessory swiftly from where it sat hung over the back of Logan’s desk chair, and scurried from the room as fast as he could. He had paced up and down the hallway, deciding what to do. In the end, he had decided that nothing he could do to the tie would bug Logan as much as simply… not giving it back. And thus, it made its way under Remus’ pillow. He figured that no one would have the balls to look there, if they were even courageous enough to venture into his room. As filled with oddities as it was, he had a feeling the others would be far too scared to dare look under his pillow. Especially given his tendency to let bugs fester in the living room couch cushions. 

Unfortunately, the next morning, when Remus once more sought out Logan, ready to witness his irritation, he found the logical side sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a coffee, wearing a perfect replica of his usual tie. 

So he owned multiple of the same clothing items. Great.

There went Remus’ plan of taking the eye mask next then.

On his third attempt to rile Logan up, Remus cast away his baby-steps. It was all moving far too slow for him, he never did have much patience. Act first, think later, and he was doing far too much plotting. He saves his plots for Thomas, the others, they get his first ideas. His first ideas are often his best ones!

This time, Remus went for the jam. 

Yes, he could’ve been more sly. Sure, he could’ve left a trail of sticky residue right to his room so Logan would know the culprit. But he really wanted some entertainment. This was his reasoning for taking up residence on the kitchen counter, jam in one hand, waiting for Logan to emerge. 

And wait he did, Christ, did Logan take his time.

Remus was just about ready to abandon the whole plan, jump from the countertop and simply smash the jar on the glass, leaving a pool of currants and glass in his wake — when the door opened. In sauntered Logan, eyes fixed on a clipboard he was studying rather furiously. Remus grinned where he sat and kicked his legs out, banging his heels off the cabinets below him rather spectacularly.

It’s with a jump that Logan looks up, his gaze hazy and tired looking — the perfect circumstances to get a rise out of him. “Remus,” he says slowly, eyes softening as he tilts his head to the side, examining the spectacle before him.

Silently, still beaming wickedly, Remus twists the top off the jar. He sticks out the point of his tongue, still not saying anything, and digs his fingers into the jam. Where those damn fingers have been, even he’s not sure. They have a tendency to wander away from him at times… 

“Remus,” Logan says again, his voice cracking a tad. “What are you- oh, that’s repulsive,” he grimaces, walking to the other side of the kitchen to wretch the fridge open. He sighs, shaking his head a little. “Honestly, at least use a spoon.” 

Not pausing from shovelling the spread into his mouth, Remus froths. “Nah, I like the flavour it adds! Extra seasoning!” He pointedly licks each of his fingers before continuing to scoop jam from the jar, being sure to splatter some on the floor as he does. He’s certain that this will be the one to get Logan, it has to be!

Alas, Logan simply closes the fridge door and slackens where he stands. The clipboard lays limp in his hand and he shakes his head disapprovingly. “That’s your jar now, I suppose,” he hums and turns on his heel, beginning to walk away. “Enjoy your lunch, Remus.” 

With that, he’s gone. And all Remus is left with is disappointment, and sticky fingers.

Uncertain with what to do now, Remus resigns his fourth attempt to the most pitiful form of annoyance he can muster up. Existing in the same space as his target, and refusing to leave. Because for all his thievery and swapping and jam eating, for all the scary images and blood he can conjure, he finds that it usually ends up being the most effective method. People don’t generally enjoy being around him for extended periods of time. 

Slipping down the hallway, Remus trails the sharp points of his fingernails down the wall, scratching and humming as he walks. Whilst he’s not taking his time, he’s far from rushing towards Logan. He knows all too well if he were to barrel carelessly into Logan’s space, then he’d know for sure that Remus was up to something — he at least needs to give the appearance of not having any ulterior motives. At least at first.

When he reaches Logan’s door, he doesn’t bother knocking (why would he?), just thrusts the door open and steps inside. Bad smells tend to follow him a little, a lingering stench of rot and mold that cling to the air. 

“Remus,” Logan once more greets from his desk, not bothering to look up from his computer screen. He doesn’t even wave, doesn’t turn, just acknowledges Remus’ existence and continues working. 

“Nerd,” Remus offers in return, slamming the door behind him, letting the wall rattle and the hinges creek. Logan doesn’t react with more than an eyebrow raise, hands working tirelessly over his keyboard. It looks as though he’s scheduling something, perhaps laying out a timeline for Thomas’ next week — and oh what Remus wouldn’t do to get his hands on an early copy of that, schedule some of his mayhem around it. Thomas doesn’t thrive on a strict routine, yet Logan never seems to learn, thinking that this time Thomas will abide by his timings. How naive. Structuring everything so rigidly only gives Remus more opportunity to break through, how Logan hasn’t realised this by now is a mystery.

Plonking himself down rather unceremoniously on the floor by Logan’s chair, Remus cranes his neck to look over the desk. He kneels, gripping the edge of the table and barely poking his eyes over the wood, reading the spreadsheet before him. He starts to hum, tunelessly and out of key, quiet at first. 

Logan still says nothing, continuing to work.

Disgruntled, Remus scowls. He shakes his head, a tad wildly, and forces his usual wicked grin back onto his features, tapping his nails off the desk. It’s deliberately out of time with his humming, a cacophony of noise that grates on the ears. If this were Roman, or even Virgil, he was trying to fuck with, the idea of grating would spring the image of taking a cheese grater to his cheeks to mind — but it’s Logan, so often unaffected by gore. So it would probably be a waste of time.

Remus does it anyway. He changes his humming to a whistle, summons a cheese grater, and carelessly rubs it hard across his cheeks. Logan glances down at him and his hands come away from the computer briefly, basketing in his lap. “Are you doing okay down there?” He asks, voice flat and broadly uncaring.

“Scratching an itch,” Remus replies, wiping blood away with the back of his hand. He places the grater on the desk and settles back on his knees, turning his attention to Logan’s shoes. “What’cha workin’ on?” He asks, as innocently as he can (which isn’t very innocent at all, actually) as he makes quick work of untying Logan’s laces and knotting them together. 

“I’m attempting to construct a meal plan for next week, alongside times for eating. And trying to keep space open for cleaning and video editing,” Logan kicks Remus away gently, snapping his fingers so his laces return to their previous normalcy. Undeterred, Remus simply does it again. Surely if he keeps forcing Logan to fix it, then he’ll get irritated. Surely.

“Sounds boring,” Remus blows a raspberry, already growing bored. “Meal-prep,” he rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, staring at the computer screen. “I don’t see why we can’t just order in every night. Ooh! Or cook roadkill on the side of the street!”

“Money and general hygiene,” comes Logan’s matter-of-fact response. He taps his fingers off his knees, watching Remus carefully as he begins to pace. When Remus doesn’t say anything else in return, he turns his attention back to his computer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be continuing my work now.”

Remus hums, pupils glinting as he keeps pacing. He stomps his feet a little, letting his feet land heavier and heavier with each step, before he’s essentially galloping behind Logan.

Logan who remains… unfazed. 

Doing his best not to grumble and give away the game, Remus tightens his core and sharpens his mind. What else tends to generally upset people? What else just gets on people’s nerves? 

He snags a pen off the edge of Logan’s desk and starts to click it repeatedly as he paces. He tuts loudly, he whistles, he hums off key. 

And eventually… it works. Kind of.

With a sigh, Logan glances down at his lap and pushes his chair out, turning to face a rampaging Remus who has since begun to ruck up Logan’s bedsheets. “Alright, Remus. Did you need something?”

“Nope!” Remus pops, sitting down on the end of Logan’s bed, bouncing to make the springs continuously creak. 

“Right,” Logan nods. “Then you can continue to exist in my space, I suppose. If you need anything, please let me know. Now, I really must get this finished.”

Remus grits his teeth. It’s okay, it’s all okay. He will drag Logan away from his work and get him to shout if it kills him. 

Yet try as he might, he can’t get Logan to react. When Remus plunges the room into a foggy, smokey, darkness, Logan simply reaches out and turns his lamp on. When Remus unplugs the computer at the wall, it doesn’t even switch off — fucking battery life. When Remus plucks Logan’s glasses from his face and parades around the room wearing them, Logan merely pauses to squint at him — more amused than annoyed. When Remus starts to sing at the top of his lungs, Logan only hums along with him and bobs his head to the tune. When Remus rants endlessly, on and on, Logan nods and mhm’s as though he’s genuinely listening. It’s downright insufferable.

Remus slumps to the floor in a defeated lump, bent over his knees with his forehead flat to the ground, and he lets out a wail akin to a dying humpback whale. Because as much as he adores a challenge; he prefers a challenge where he wins. Where he comes out victorious on the other side, holding his accomplishment high above his head. He wants to boast that he got Logan to crack, that he saw a glimmer of that hot orange anger within him, that he was the one to bring it out. Perhaps this would all be more effective if he just waited for Logan to put his routine in place, but it’s not fun then. It’s not a game, it’s just his job at that point. So Remus yells, because he’s failed.

Only then does Logan save his spreadsheet, and shut his computer off. “Remus? What appears to be the matter?”

“Nothing,” Remus grumbles, shifting to lay flat on the carpet. When he speaks, it’s muffled by the ground below him. He’s giving up, as sad as it is. He’ll just go throw spiders at Roman, at least then he’d get some sort of reaction, even if it’s easy. He’s ready to melt away, let his body melt into a thick, viscous sludge and seep into the carpet as his means of exit. “‘M just gonna go… Got shit to do.”

Remus misses the way Logan blinks and fixes his glasses on his face. Or Patton’s glasses. Fuck, it doesn’t even matter, they’re identical pairs. “Don’t let me keep you from your… work.” Logan tries, albeit it with a lack of certainty. Honestly, he’s yet to figure out precisely what Remus’ purpose is, but he’s sure that Remus must have one. His best hypothesis so far is that he’s there to bring hidden things to the surface, to force the rest of them to confront the truth, no matter how ugly. And to allow Thomas to actually think about more adult topics, of course. 

“Waste of time. You didn’t even acknowledge I was here!” Remus whines, petulant and high. He can’t help himself, this is the most attention he’s been paid all day. He didn’t get what he wanted, sure, but maybe if he himself throws the tantrum it’ll at least cause some discomfort. “I mean- seriously! Just say you don’t want me around, or something! Gimme something here, Teach, I’m dying. I’m going to die and it’s your fault. I’m emaciated and withered, look at me!” When Remus pulls his head up, he’s contorted, pale, skin sagging and dropping. 

“I don’t understand why you think these things,” Logan sighs, “I acknowledged you plenty. If you really wish to leave, you may. But don’t feel forced. You were providing some excellent background noise and entertainment, I was rather fond of it. And I find your ramblings quite interesting.” He turns his hand over in the air, and Remus goes deathly still. For a moment, Logan almost believes Remus has died and it is his fault. Until he remembers that’s ridiculous, straightens his tie, and glances down at the side on the floor.

He’s still laying on his stomach, though he’s propped up onto his elbows now. Hair falling into his face as wildly as ever, he gawks up at Logan. 

“Are you feeling alright? You’ve gone all… pink.”

Remus tries to blink away the stars in his eyes, yet every attempt falls flat. In fact, it feels almost as though he’s an asteroid soaring towards Earth, ready to crash and cause another mass extinction. Or like he has swarms of moths within his lungs, preparing themselves to flood the room the moment he speaks. He finds he can’t speak, even if he could think of the words to say, as a frog sized lump rests heavy in his throat. Maybe it’s preventing the moths from escaping. 

Never before has he been wanted. Never before has his presence been desired. Never has it been accepted, let alone encouraged. But here Logan sits, trying to get his work done, stating that Remus being around him isn’t bothersome. Far from it, in fact.

And Remus isn’t really sure what to do. This isn’t his realm, not his kingdom to rule over. He resides over ‘evil,’ anything dark and mysterious and taboo. Nothing that should be wanted, nothing that should be welcomed. 

He shifts awkwardly on the floor, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but at Logan. The moths in his stomach may have been mislabelled. Because they are most certainly butterflies.

“Remus?”

“Yeah-? Yeah, uh, I’m gonna… go. I’m gonna go. I have to go mess with Roman. See you around, Logan!” The words rush out of Remus’ mouth in a flurry, his tongue tying itself into a knot.

“Okay, well, when you’ve finished with that, you’re more than welcome to return to my room. Perhaps we could even find a place in the schedule for you to brainstorm with Thomas in a more productive manner?” Logan suggests, doing his very best to prevent his amusement from showing on his face. Though it is mildly entertaining to watch Remus fluster himself.

“Yep, will do!” Remus exclaims, plotting his escape. Maybe he really should just soak into the floor, at least then he wouldn’t need to clamber embarrassingly to his feet and scamper out the door.

Logan raises an eyebrow, “and when you do, could you please return my tie?”

Remus scowls. Of course Logan knew it was him, and of course he’d noticed. 

“I must admit, the attempt to swap my glasses with Patton’s was inspired though.”

“Thanks,” Remus grimaces and just barely resists the urge to stab himself repeatedly in the neck. “‘Kay, byeeeee,” he sings, taking this as his opportunity to make his escape, before his failed efforts begin to torment him too much. So just as he had intended — Remus melts into a red sludge which soaks into the carpet, before fading away as if dripping straight through the floor.

And Logan turns back to his computer with a smile, already clearing out a spot for Remus to create (limited, and more constructive) havoc within his carefully planned schedule. 

-

im so sorry this took literally over 2 months... i dont even have an excuse! but hurrah, marv posts intrulogical! @uly55es thank u for sending in a request!! (they shall reopen soon, and this time they wont take so long!)

“Don’t be so silly, little one. Of course it’s not your fault! Listen to me. You trust me, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with saying no. If you don’t want to play with them, little one, you shouldn’t. You don’t want them to join your game do you? It’s okay, just trust me.”

“Just tell them you didn’t do it. You didn’t break it. You can’t get in trouble. Don’t worry, little one, I’m here to keep you safe. Always. You can trust me.”

“Say that you did it, you just left it at home. You didn’t forget, you just didn’t put it in your bag. Trust me, listen to me, little one.”

“That boy? Goodness, little one, no! Trust me, you don’t like him, you can’t. Don’t be so silly. Don’t stop trusting me now. I just want to keep you safe.”

-

Morality’s hands are cold and firm across Thomas’ shoulders as he crouches in front of his bed, hands clasped on the sheets. His knees are starting to hurt, and his vision is clouded by the neverending wetness trickling from his eyes. He’s not sure what time it is. He wants to go to sleep, but he just can’t. 

He’s sure Morality is usually warm. They were the last time. He was certain. Then again, Thomas thought he was certain about a lot of things.

“Come now, little one,” comes the low call of Morality, stroking gentle across the top of his back. Their fingers stutter when they reach his neck, picking lightly at a scabbed over pimple that festers there. They seem fixated on it, for just a moment, before Thomas feels them ripple with a shudder behind him, and the soft touch continues. “You should rest. There’s no use getting caught up in things that don’t matter.” 

At least Morality’s voice is warm, that remains a constant. 

And despite the fact that his heart is pounding, and Thomas doesn’t think he could sleep even if he tried — he listens. His legs are shaking when he finally stands, and Morality straightens behind him, rising from their odd little hunch. 

The room is dark, and Thomas has school in the morning, and the longer he stands and stares at his neatly tucked bedsheets, the more drawn in he feels. But, he just has to ask, he has to know: “Why do I feel so scared?”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t move from where his eyes have fixed onto his pillow. Morality crowds ever closer, their freezing palm laying over the scab once more. “You’re not,” they insist. Whilst caring, they leave no room for debate. Thomas wants to pry deeper, sink his claws into his question and let himself find an answer for once, but- “You’re not, little one. Why would you be scared? What is there to be afraid of? Nothing, there’s nothing. It’s just you and me, dearest. Come now, come on, you need to sleep. You must sleep. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll always keep you safe.” Their hands usher Thomas forwards, and whilst typically he would grumble and scoff at the incessant coddling, the sweetness of Morality’s tone wraps around his mind like fuzzy cotton wool. It makes him feel safe. 

He’s trembling when he gets under the sheets, shivering like a leaf in the brisk autumnal breeze, and a cool nail runs down his cheek. It feels like being cut open. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Thomas croaks out, tugging his bedsheets up to his chin, breathing shallow. “Of course.”

“That makes me so happy, little one,” their hand turns to card through his hair, and Thomas’ eyes flutter closed. When their knuckles brush over Thomas’ forehead, he swears he feels the rough texture of scales across his skin, but when he blinks his eyes open, it’s just regular old Morality. In all his sweet, cardigan-wearing goodness. “Happier than you could possibly know.” Their hands retreat from Thomas’ head, clasping low over their hips, squirming. There’s sweat gathered on their brow, and distantly Thomas wonders if presenting to him like this for such an extended period of time has tired his morals out. 

He would feel bad if he wasn’t so tired.

“Now, it really is time for you to go to sleep. Sleep tight, and dream sweetly, little one. Don’t let anybody tell you that you don’t matter. Always remember that to me, you will always matter most.” Morality nods solemnly, and as Thomas’ eyes close, slipping into blissful sleep, they begin to sink out. “I love you, so much.”

The words are spoken to an unhearing room, as Thomas is already asleep. 

The next time Morality appears, they’re warm. Their fingers are solid and sweet when they tap across Thomas’ forehead. “Goodness me, kiddo, you’re working so hard!” They exclaim, clapping boisterously. It’s been a few weeks, and Thomas has mostly forgotten about their last interaction. He’s hunched over his desk, skimming his feet over the floor as he works tirelessly on his chemistry worksheet. Chemistry has always been his favourite class. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, thanks,” he smiles, and Morality lights up.

“Just… keep thinking about this, okay? Just focus on your work, don’t let your mind wander too much!” They swing their legs, perched on the edge of the desk, glasses sliding down their nose. This is the Morality Thomas knows. They seem more like themself today. It’s usually the nights, or the brief moments of panic, that they get… different. Or maybe those moments are who they actually are, and they’re different here.

There he goes, directly disobeying his own morals, getting distracted. Letting his mind wander. 

“Will do,” he salutes, shaking himself. And Morality smiles, bright and sunny, and sinks out.

They reappear two days later, as the moon broaches the sky, shrouded in clouds. Thomas fiddles with his sheets, mind racing. He doesn’t even notice when Morality rises up, but they must, because they step from the dark shadows of the corner of the room. Maybe they’ve always been here.

“What’s troubling you so much, little one?” A smooth, dulcet tone. Thomas snaps his neck up, craning where he lays. He drags his nails down his cheeks and the scratch is far from pleasant. Cool fingers wrap around his wrist before he can take his nails to his mouth, preventing him from chewing. “Don’t bite them, it won’t bring you any comfort.”

The mattress should dip when Morality sits down, but it doesn’t. 

“You can tell me anything,” Morality speaks slowly, “I swear. I can keep a secret perfectly well, little one.” 

“I’m scared,” Thomas manages, hating how small he sounds. But he’s alone, or mostly alone, in the comfort of his bedroom. Where else is a sixteen year old boy allowed to be scared? If not in the middle of the night in bed, then where?

Morality muses over this for a moment, their lips pulled into a thin line. Thomas worries he’s upset them, that they might run away and leave him truly alone. Then, they respond. “I know you are,” they mumble, “and I’m not sure how to make you stop.”

“Why am I so scared?” Thomas manages, clawing for answers. No one ever gives him a straight answer.

Morality’s spine straightens. “You- you’re not. Little one, there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re not scared,” the insistence in their voice does frighten Thomas. He feels much like a child being scolded. Morality softens, like they can feel his panic rising in his chest. “You know the story of the tortoise and the hare, don’t you?”

Thomas nods as best he can. Morality must know that he’s well aware of the old fable. 

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Morality continues anyway, barely acknowledging Thomas’ nod. They hold their left wrist in the circle of their right hand fingers. “Sometimes, you have to use trickery and ingenuity to win over a stronger opponent.”

Thomas isn’t sure what this has to do with his current predicament. He says as much. 

“Consider this a bedtime story, little one, you used to love those, didn’t you?” Morality’s cold hand presses over his forehead, and Thomas settles down. Now that he thinks about it, a distraction does sound good right about now. “The hare was boisterous, rushing to the finish line. He thought he could so easily defeat the tortoise. But the dear tortoise was diligent, it continued down the path at the same, steady pace. The hare, so proud, thought he could rest and still win. His ego was his downfall, and the tortoise won. The tortoise continued, in the face of everything, to prove a point. Slow and steady wins the race.”

Thomas lets his eyelids fall heavy. He can barely see Morality now. He can only just make out the curl of their hair, the blurriness of their glasses. 

“Think of yourself like the turtle. You, little one, too shall use your tricks to succeed. You will succeed. I’ll make sure of it,” Morality’s voice grows shaky, and Thomas watches their eyes flick around. They speak faster now, “I promise. I will always protect you. You mean more to me than anything else. Anything. You are the most important person in the world. You are my world. And I love you more than life itself. I will always keep you safe. I beg of you, little one, don’t stop trusting me now.”

“I won’t,” Thomas murmurs, head far too quiet and eyes far too tired to read between the lines of Morality’s words. They’re sweet, and they make him feel fluffy and cared for. And all he can do is sleep. Sleep on this bed of cotton wool and bubble wrap. Safe and guarded from the outside world. 

Morality is gone when he wakes up.

Their next meeting is a short one. Morality seems frenzied, almost crazed this time, in a way that they never are in the evenings. Sure, when they appear during the day, they’re a little hyperactive — but usually by sunset they’ve calmed significantly. This time, when Thomas turns over in bed, he sees Morality pacing back and forth in his room, rubbing at their left wrist furiously. 

“Morality?” He mutters, half-asleep, and their head snaps to glare at him. The stare softens almost immediately, and they rush to his side, kneeling by the bed. 

Their hands fan out over his sheets. “Little one,” they breathe, “I’m so sorry.”

“Huh?” 

“I’m sorry,” Morality repeats, flicking their eyes over their shoulder. Thomas finds himself sleepily following their gaze. He can’t see anyone. “I- I might not be able to speak with you anymore.”

“Why not?” Thomas yawns, not quite understanding.

Morality continues in a hurry, “not like this, at least. I’m so sorry, dearest. I can’t come to your aid anymore. Not- not like this. Not in the night,” they swallow, and it’s thick with tears, “please forgive me.”

Thomas sniffles in response.

“You will still see me during the day, of course. But when I- when I come to you here, late- I can’t anymore,” they look behind them again and then cold hands are grabbing at Thomas’ bare arms. “Please don’t mention this to me after. Don’t ask me about it. I don’t- I don’t tend to remember our nightly conversations when the sun is up. The others are- they don’t approve of me coming to you so often. It’s complicated. You understand, of course you do. Oh, you’re so smart, little one. You understand me. Please, tell me one thing, do you trust me?”

Thomas throws his hand out, placing it on Morality’s left cheek. He strokes his thumb gently and smiles. What a strange dream. “‘Course I do.”

“Have you enjoyed our little nightly chats?”

“Mmhm,” Thomas yawns again. 

“That’s all I needed to hear. You won’t see me, not for a long time. But remember I am always with you, little one. Always. I will always be here to keep you safe. I won’t let anything hurt you. I won’t. I promise.” They stand, and Thomas closes his eyes on another yawn. “I love you so much, Thomas.”

When he opens his eyes, Morality is gone, and someone is rising up in their place. It’s the Prince. Thomas knows he’s in for a night of supremely sweet dreams. 

He doesn’t see Morality at night after that. For the first few months, it’s strange. Some nights Thomas’ room feels chillingly cold, and sometimes he’ll look up and swear he sees a glimmer of glowing yellow across the room. But it always disappears as soon as his eyes focus. So he chalks it up to needing more sleep. Morality during the day remains as prevalent as ever, so Thomas doesn’t really have any cause for concern. Because he trusts Morality. Morality loves him more than anything else in the world. Morality would do anything to protect him. And Thomas carries that fact with him wherever he goes.

Thomas doesn’t really think about Morality anymore. Well, he does, of course, just… differently. He has a proper name to put to the face now. He thinks of Patton. It’s Patton who bounds around his room during the day and retreats in the night. He’d never really questioned why Patton stopped coming to him in the evenings. He doesn’t even think about it. Why would he? He’s met so many parts of himself since then, back when he had just Morality, Logic, and the Prince. Now he has Patton and Logan and Roman. And the others that revealed themselves along the way. He has Virgil. And, in a way, he has to have Janus and Remus. He can’t get rid of them, even if he tried. 

It’s strange, to have more than one side in his living room without a dilemma to solve. It’s even stranger to have one side in his bedroom. But when Thomas turns in his bed, moving to hug his pillow close to his chest, he sees them.

Patton, shrouded in shadow, yes, but undeniably Patton. He’s hovering awkwardly in the space between the bed and the closet, eyes locked onto Thomas. His hands are clasped in front of him. 

“Pat?” Thomas manages to croak, clearing his throat. His arms are heavy with exhaustion, but they work, so he hauls himself to sit slumped against the headboard. “You good, buddy?”

“Hm?” Patton’s infatuated stare falters, and his smile is hesitant. Something is off. The room is cold. “I’m quite alright, thank you,” he goes to fix his wrists, circles them as though to straighten something out. There’s nothing there to tug on.

Thomas adjusts his seating, rolling his shoulders and reaching for his bedside table to flick the lamp on. Patton stops him, icy palms halting his hand in a flash. “Are you sure..? What- what are you doing here?”

Patton swallows thickly. He seems different. 

“I was hoping we could… talk. Like we used to,” he hazards. Thomas tilts his head. They talk all the time. They’d talked just that afternoon. Like we used to. Like they had when he was a child? “Do you remember that?”

The mattress should dip when Patton sits down, but it doesn’t.

And all at once, Thomas does. He remembers. Not clearly, not really. But he remembers those cold hands, the way Morality always slowed in the evenings. Like an old dog. He nods the affirmative and blinks. There’s not much to say. “What did you want to talk about?”

Patton goes quiet. His glasses are a little blurry around the edges, his eyes a little too sharp. His cardigan remains diligently tied around his shoulders. He’s shivering. “I missed you,” he finally says. Thomas goes to interject, they see each other all the time. “I missed you so, so much, little one. I’m sorry I went away.”

“Pat- what’s going on?” There’s a bubble of anxiety squirming in Thomas’ stomach, and god, Virgil must be able to feel it too. 

Patton smiles sadly. “I hope you kept it, all the love I have for you. I hope you kept that in your busy head, little one. I hope you never forgot how much I adore you. Please tell me you never forgot that my only desire was to keep you safe. Keep you protected.”

“Patton, I’m confused,” Thomas gulps, “you’re scaring me a little bit.”

“Why?” Patton asks, his voice quavering, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.”

Thomas reaches out a bleary hand to place on Patton’s shoulder, and he trembles at the touch. “Why did you stop coming?” He asks, though he can’t be sure why. He’s certain Patton had told him, but he just can’t remember.

Patton swallows again. “Do you remember the story of the tortoise and the hare?” 

Of course Thomas does. He nods. Patton smiles at him. 

“I’m the tortoise,” he hums, but it’s not melodic. It’s nothing like Patton. Thomas doesn’t know who this is, but it’s not Patton. He flinches away, and Patton chases the touch for half a second before sinking in on himself, hunched. “I’m a failed tortoise. I thought my tricks could lead me to victory. And I was wrong. Look at where it’s gotten me, little one.”

Thomas is gnawing at his lip. He’s not sure when it started to bleed, but his mouth tastes like pennies. He takes a hand to his mouth, ready to chew, and Patton takes his hand away. It’s rough like sandpaper, but his skin appears normal. “Don’t bite,” Patton murmurs. “Do you trust me?”

“I-” Thomas isn’t so sure, “of course I do.”

Patton's smile grows, but it’s not in his eyes. His eyes are wet and wide and sad. “That means so much to me,” he confesses lowly, “you mean so much to me, little one. I love you more than life itself, more than you could ever possibly comprehend. All I’ve ever wanted is to keep you safe. Can you see that?”

“Yes,” Thomas answers quickly, heart pounding. What’s going on? 

“How do you feel about the different kinds of love, little one?” Patton asks, and it dawns on Thomas that little one shouldn’t be what Patton calls him. Morality called him that, in the night, and yes, Morality is Patton. But he was (begrudgingly) Patton’s kiddo. Only in the dark was he the little one. Only as a child. And here Patton is once again, in the dark, after all these years, still insisting that Thomas is his little one. Like he needs to be protected.

Thomas can barely keep up in a confusing conversation with the sides at the best of times. And now, sleep deprived and exhausted and befuddled, he’s following even less. “I don’t understand,” he manages, voice hoarse and frightened. Something is so, so wrong.

“Love, in all its forms. Familial, and romantic, and such. I don’t know how to explain the love I have for you. It runs so much deeper,” Patton sniffles, “I don’t think there’s a word for it.”

Thomas doesn’t have anything to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

“I don’t know how to-” Patton draws in a shuddering breath, still holding Thomas’ hand in his own. He has both his palms around Thomas’ one, cradling him in a way. One on top, one below. A bit like a sandwich. If he wasn’t so unsettled, Thomas would probably find the thought funny. “I don’t know how to deal with the fact that you don’t love me back.”

“Of course I love you, Pat,” Thomas insists, brows furrowing. Is that what this is about? Patton feeling unloved?

Patton shakes his head, and it looks like his glasses glitch a bit. When he blinks, once, twice in rapid succession, his eye twitches. Thomas swears he sees a flash of yellow. “No, you don’t. And I want to tell you that it’s okay. That I don’t mind. That you can hate me all you want, forever, because I will always love you. I want to tell you that it doesn’t hurt, that everything issss fine. But that’s a lie even I can’t tell.”

Patton twitches in place and looks away. Thomas blinks. Something clicks into place.

“Janus?” 

When Patton turns to look at him again, it’s not Patton at all. Thomas wants to believe he saw Patton physically change, skin rippling and changing, scales popping into place. At the same time he wants to believe there was no transformation at all. One moment Patton was there, holding his hands, and the next it was Janus in his place. 

The gloves are cold against Thomas’ skin. 

Janus is smiling at him. Sad and soft and worried. There’s something melancholic in the air. He looks afraid, distantly. His eyes are wet and wide. The yellow one glows a little. He’s not wearing his hat. Everything is weird.

Janus doesn’t say anything, just drags his thumb across Thomas’ knuckles. Thomas doesn’t flinch away, he doesn’t move — he’s barely even breathing. He dares not to, lest he frighten Janus off. 

The implications begin to settle, the puzzle pieces slotting together. Thomas sucks in a deep lungful of air. He doesn’t pull away. “Janus…” He tries again, but comes up short when looking for the words to finish his sentence.

“Do you still trust me?” 

Desperation.

Silence.

“I thought as much,” Janus shakes his head and pulls his palms from Thomas’ own, coming up to cradle his face, to stroke over his scales. Thomas moves slowly to flick his lamp on, and the room is cast in a golden glow. “I’m sorry.”

It tastes strange, coming from Janus’ lips. Like nothing Thomas has ever had. It’s not sweet, nor bitter, just new. It’s sincere. 

“Why?” Thomas asks. He already knows the answer. 

“For deceiving you,” Janus hums, the death of a laugh hanging on his words. “For everything. I failed you, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep you safe. I promised you I would, and I didn’t. And you trusted me. And- And I’m sorry.”

“Jan…” Thomas doesn’t know what to say. Isn’t that happening a lot? What is there to say? 

“I love you so much, Thomas,” Janus rumbles, sounding blubbery and upset as well as firm. “So much, it makes me sick. I don’t understand how the others could possibly put anyone before you. I don’t understand how they could ever find anything more important than you. You’re everything to me. I love you more than life itself, and when I watch you hurting, it feels like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest.” Janus is scrambling at the front of his collar now, tearing at his capelet until it flutters off of his shoulders, wafting to the floor where it dissolves away. 

“Truly,” Janus grimaces, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand what I did wrong. I know in recent years I haven’t been… well, I haven’t given a good impression. But way back… when I had to leave. When I stopped visiting, I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t understand. I just- love you, so damn much. Little one, I don’t know what to do with myself. I just- I want you to know just how much I care for you. Nothing else is more important to me.”

Thomas reaches out again, and touches Janus’ shoulder. He’s freezing cold. “Janus, I-” He can’t just keep saying the side’s name, it isn’t getting him anywhere. When Thomas swallows, he gulps back his fear. “As a kid, at night, it was always you?”

Janus doesn’t reply.

“Why did you pretend?”

Janus scoffs. “Why do you think? Would you listen to a snake?” He raises an eyebrow. They both know Thomas wouldn’t. Thomas frowns. “I had to let you know. I had to make sure you knew. I had to tell you how deeply I care for you. I had to tell you I was always here, keeping you safe. Watching from the sidelines, staying in the shadows, protecting you.” 

Thomas tightens his hold around Janus’ shoulder. He’s shaking so much, and Thomas just wants it to stop. Stop, stop being so afraid. Stop, can’t you see I care about you? Stop, don’t you know I’m learning to trust you? Stop, can’t you see I hear you?

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Janus murmurs, “I thought eventually, if I just kept going — if I just stayed on course, I could win. Win a seat at the table, win your trust, win your affections. I don’t know what this feeling is. I just know I’d turn the world on its axis to make you happy, and I’d tear everyone to shreds to keep you safe.”

“You didn’t fail,” Thomas breathes, tired yet alert. Janus’ hands tremble in his lap, when did they fall there? Maybe Thomas isn’t as alert as he thinks. “You didn’t,” he says in response to Janus’ sceptical look. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”

“It’s alright,” Janus lies, “you never have to apologise to me, for anything. I have already forgiven you. I could never truly hold anything against you, Thomas. When I knew it wasn’t safe for me to continue to visit, I was perfectly contented to observe from the dark. I did all I could to protect you. A little lie here, a wash of denial there. Anything to keep you safe.”

Thomas swallows. He’s never felt so scared. He’s never been so loved. Sometimes love is a feeling that transcends labels. He’s not sure he could label Janus’ sentiment if he tried. It’s not romantic, it’s not platonic, it’s so much more than familial. 

“I think you should sleep now,” Janus nods down towards the bed, stealing the heat from Thomas’ hand still on his shoulder. “Rest will serve you well.”

Thomas listens. It’s the least he can do, isn’t it? Silently he goes, laying back in bed, sinking into his pillows. It feels like heaven. Janus touches his cheek, and it feels like being cut open. Sliced into. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling.

Eyes closing, mind whirring, Thomas wonders how he could possibly sleep now? He has so many questions, so many things to talk about. He has so much to say, how is he meant to drift off?

“Later,” Janus murmurs, stroking through his hair. Like he can read Thomas’ mind. Maybe he can. “Sleep now. We can discuss later. I promise. You trust me, don’t you?”

Miraculously, Thomas says, “yes. Of course I do.”

And Janus smiles.

“I love you, Janus.” The words are slurred and dreary, thick with sleep. Maybe this has all been a dream. Janus has half a mind to mutter that it is into Thomas’ ear. A little denial never hurt anybody. Right?

Instead, Janus presses his lips to Thomas’ hairline. He starts to sink out.

“I love you so much, little one.”

And once more, the words are spoken to an unhearing room, for Thomas is already asleep. 

-