#rian writes

“You've been zoned out for the past three minutes, are you okay?” Dione asked her.

“I'm fine,” Rhea said.

“Are you sure? You’ve been acting off ever since Saturn had that meeting with us,” Dione said.

“I was just thinking,” Rhea responded.

“You're not even gonna mention that she's been glaring at Titan like he's killed someone?” Enceladus, who rudely butted in, said.

“Oh but Titan did kill someone! He killed me! How quickly they have forgotten!” Chrysalis said.

It would have been ludicrous for Roman to assume he would be next. After all, Roman? He was just another Light Side like Logan—just another character who had been there from the start: who was the same, really, in the eyes of business and branding.

And besides—Roman berries just didn’t exist.

Loganberries were the ideal signature, and snake berries the perfect next equivalent—neither recipe contained either of the named fruits, but that was insignificant to the wider appeal; it was sufficient for display, and advertising, and portraying a certain image, which at the end of the day was what was important.

Roman understood the importance of appearances. He understood why Janus was the ideal next choice.

Janus was suave, had an eye-catching colour scheme, already had well-established snake symbolism in his character. Snake berries were the serendipitous berry on the cake: the apposite mark of his acceptance into the group, the fitting next step in their story as Janus became more popular, as his character gained traction amongst fans.

Roman knew it made sense. He knew it was the rational next step, and that no Side was better suited, and that it was only practical that it was Janus who was to bear this particular crown.

So why, pray tell, was he so disappointed?

He had just assumed, he supposed, that he was more important. More popular. That the loyal prince who had been present from the beginning, who had been star of the show, loved and adored from the get-go, may hold even the smallest of loyalty cards over any who came after.

He had reasoned—foolishly, it seemed now—that his red, white, and gold design, the one he had designed so carefully to raise to perfection, would be ideal for any future product or design or endeavour that could come about—that it balanced the perfectitude of his character, of his design, yet was still bold and eye-catching enough to have an aesthetic impact. 

He was a prince. And princes were popular, and celebrated, and loved. 

...Weren’t they?

Roman’s hand slips away from the banister at the top of the stairwell as the light catches the label of the jar clutched in Janus’s fingers. He sees how happy, how thankful Janus is, and remembers how Janus is nice to him, Janus is his friend, and he would never wish ill upon his friends.

But as his eyes linger on Thomas’s proud face, Logan’s expression of approval, Patton’s excitement, the way Janus’s gloved hands cradle the jar—he can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. 

Of spite.

His hand slips away from the banister, and he turns and walks back along the corridor, back to his room, suggestions of a night of Disney movies dead on his lips and a request for Patton’s baked cookies forgotten, despite how long he had puzzled the previous evening to make sure everything was organised just right, that nobody would be busy, that he had no projects due so he could spend as long as possible with his family.

They know tonight is movie night.

But they have other things to think about now. Other achievements to celebrate. Such opportunities did not come by frequently, and often swept past in but the most fleeting of chances. 

He understands. He does.

The door clicks as Roman pulls it shut, collapsing onto his bed and not even flinching as his ankle clips painfully against the bedpost. He breathes in the scent of his duvet, familiarity easing the tension in his shoulders just a fraction as he screws up his fists and eyes.

Princes just aren’t as popular anymore.

It is almost an hour later when there are a flurry of knocks on his door.

He has been listening to the clamour downstairs for some time now, to the celebrations, the cheesy pop music Patton has no doubt judged befitting of the occasion. Roman assumes they don’t want him there, and to be quite honest isn’t sure he wants to go and find out if there is truth in such an assumption, isn’t sure if the celebrations and Janus’s smiling face will simply be too much too soon. He knows he is being selfish—that Janus deserves this, at least—but it’s hard to feel truly happy for someone's achievements when they stand as one of the few things you thought you maybe, just maybe, had a shot at.

There is a rush of air as the door swings open and someone takes a few steps inside, trips, and stumbles inelegantly forward with a barrage of emphatically placed swear words. Roman’s head snaps up, trying subtly to dry his eyes with his uniform sleeve and hoping the redness from the tears that definitely hadn’t been running down his face until only ten minutes prior could by now be passed as exhaustion.

“What do you want?” he snaps, because when does Remus visit him other than to pull a prank, or tease him? Roman is not in the mood—that much he hopes is clear to his brother from his tone and impassive expression. Since Janus’s acceptance into the Light Sides, Remus had largely been keeping himself to himself, popping up to share his usual quips and comments but never lingering longer than necessary, making it even more abnormal for the Dark Side to be making one such entrance now.

Remus looks up, grinning and oblivious to Roman’s disapproval as he straightens his jacket to its usual devoted dysregulation and clips the eyeball decor on his shoulder back into its rightful place.

“Made you a gift!”

Something small and hard and exceptionally pointed makes a target of Roman’s eye and he cries out, batting it away and shielding his face as antagonised tears threaten to escape. He curses, scrambling upright and muttering obscenities under his breath as he glares at his brother.

Remus offers him a grin and a thumbs up as he tries and fails to surreptitiously rectify the rumpled carpet. “No worries, Ro!”

As the pain in his eye begins to subside Roman gingerly pulls his hand away, blinking through the protective tears at the still-vaguely-fuzzy outline of the offending object.

The jar, he finds, fits snugly in his palm, and through the angled glass Roman can see a red, gelatinous substance which on a good day may vaguely resemble jam, if he didn’t know Remus better than that. Scrawled words adorn a label smeared across the front, and although the letters are barely legible, years’ practice decoding his brother’s handwriting on strategically placed, lewd sticky notes and witty comments on the corners of old magazines allows him to more or less determine the phrase:

Roman’s Berry Jam.

Alongside the words is a large heart which looks to have been traced upwards of fifteen times in colours Roman wasn’t even aware could clash quite so horrifically, and a small, golden crown adorns the ‘R’ with a ruby gemstone fixed centre of the tallest spike. The red substance is smeared over most available surfaces and when Roman glances down, he sees it has, naturally, also found its way onto his previously pristine bedsheets—but he can’t find it within himself to mind.

“Is this…?”

“Roman’s Berry Jam! I thought you deserved some, since you are the brave and daring Prince Roman!” And then, more quietly, “You looked disappointed when you saw J get his jar.” He shifts from foot to foot, energetic demeanour fading slightly to something more sombre. “Is it… Did I do good?”

The lid comes off with a satisfying pop as Roman twists it, and the smell of something indistinguishably fruity fills the room. 

He almost smiles but forces his face to stay neutral, afraid his delicately arranged mask of indifference will shatter the moment he shows even a sliver more emotion. Remus moves to perch on the edge of Roman’s duvet, kicking his feet back and forward off the edge of the bed. They hit the floor with each backward swing, creating a rhythmical, thunk, thunk, thunk against the carpet as Roman tentatively dips his finger into the substance.

“What’s in this, then?” Roman offers, mentally kicking himself for not coming up with a more eloquent sentence. He is appreciative, truly, but whenever a situation such as this presents itself he always seems to find himself deflecting with a joke or a well-placed distraction, no matter how much this frustrates him. “Blood? Brain juice? Cat guts?”

“All things I did consider,” Remus replies, holding up a finger, “but no. Real berries, real jam! Of some sort. Not sure what sort. There are looooads of berries in the mindscape, you see, so it probably tastes like butts, but I was rather hoping it would be pleasurable—” 

“Remus.”

Roman turns to face his brother, offering a watery smile as he clutches the randomised berry mix to his chest. The red is smeared all over his hands and his duvet and his white uniform, and somewhere in the back of Roman’s mind a voice is telling him it will stain, but he simply thanks the voice and pushes it aside in favour of holding the jar even closer.

“I love it.”

Remus’s face visibly eases, a smile swelling as his shoulders relax. “Wonderful; I was sure you were going to say you hated it.”

Roman’s face morphs to one of confusion. “Whyever would I say such a thing?”

Remus’s foot rubs restlessly against his leg as he taps each of his fingers against one another, and examines the ceiling.

“People usually hate the stuff I make.” 

In spite of the weight of his words, Remus’s face gives nothing away, as carefree and animated as always as his fingers dance and his feet drum steadily against the carpeted floor. A pang of regret pierces Roman’s chest, because he knows it is true. Has always known it's true, has even taken part, takes part in pushing his brother’s creations down—he practically leads the parade.

But now Roman is thinking about it, Remus portraying a face of constant playfulness inaccurate to his true emotions is no different to what Roman does constantly, is it? Putting on his brave and courageous face to disguise his insecurity?

Roman somewhat reluctantly tastes the jam.

“Sweet bear of Crofter’s,” he mouths around it. “This is outstanding!”

“Of course it is!” Remus fires back, but the anxious way he surveys Roman’s expression says otherwise as he scours for distaste or disgust or tomfoolery. “It is Roman’s Berry Jam, after all! And nothing subpar of perfection could be named after our dearest Prince!”

Roman isn’t so sure about that, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. Truth be told, he has missed his brother—little as he may rise to admit it. The tears of frustration have receded, leaving in their place a wateriness that he hasn’t felt in all too long, come from happiness, and thanks, and appreciation for those whom he loves.

“Say, would you be interested in a Disney night? Perhaps I’ll even allow you to share my jam.”

Remus grins. “I had disembowelment plans, but I think I can postpone them, for you.”

***

They are halfway through The Little Mermaid, a mixing bowl of Roman’s Berry Jam snug between them, when three sharp knocks echo against the wood of the door. Sharing a glance with Remus, Roman takes a generous scoop of jam and shovels it into his mouth before lodging the spoon upright in the bowl and motioning for Remus to pause the movie as he approaches the door.

Perhaps it was Patton, finally wondering where Roman has been for the whole evening, or Logan to come and share the recent good news he doesn’t know Roman is already painfully aware of. Roman even wonders if it could be Virgil, come to escape from the loud pop music still blaring from the living room downstairs to request a quiet Disney movie or for he and Roman to spend another evening painting each other’s nails, and a myriad of excuses were already running through his brain for how he might decline.

The very last person he expects to see standing uncharacteristically apologetically in the doorway is Janus.

“Buzz off! We’re vibing!” Remus calls from Roman’s bed, catapulting a spoonful of jam for good measure which drastically misses either possible target and instead splats sadly against the doorframe.

A smile tugs Roman’s lips, deciding Remus’s comment speaks enough for the both of them and turning to see what exactly Janus wants from him now.

He’s your friend, the little voice in the back of Roman’s head reminds him, which he is beginning to realise sounds awfully like Patton. His achievements are not an excuse for you to be unkind.

“Good evening, Roman,” Janus says, expression giving little away as he regards him evenly. “I would like to…apologise.”

Roman’s hand slips from its perch on the door handle, brow creasing in confusion and a healthy serving of distrust.

Janus releases a measured exhale, and continues, “I didn’t see you at the top of the stairwell earlier this evening, when Thomas presented the Crofter’s. I’ve been trying to get away all evening since then, but”—he sighs frustratedly, and his eyelids momentarily flutter in distaste—“the others were...adamant that I remain downstairs to celebrate. I was not only just able to slip away as I convinced Patton to change the music to something less repugnant.”

As if on cue, the bubbly pop music echoing from the living room switches to a more sombre jazz number, and Janus’s eyes flick towards the stairwell.

“I find it important that I inform you I did not orchestrate tonight’s turn of events, and quite frankly I believe it unjust that you were not, at the very least, consulted on such a decision, especially given your earlier enthusiasm.”

Remus tosses another spoon of jam, this one smacking directly into the centre of Janus’s bowler hat.

His eyes flutter closed as he visibly bites back a retort. 

“Remus, kindly desist.”

Remus cackles and begins to load another spoon, but a subtle shake of the head from Roman has him sighing dramatically, choosing instead to sulk as he plops the spoon into his mouth. “Jam war,” he mumbles disappointedly.

Janus gives Roman a curt nod of thanks, adjusting his gloves and turning to leave, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Well, that’s all I came to say, so I shall be on my way.”

“Janus, I—”

Janus turns, looking puzzled and a little perturbed as his nose crinkles slightly. Roman rocks back on the balls of his feet, and comes to a decision, avoiding Janus’s gaze as he offers his next words.

“Would you care to join Remus and I in our Disney marathon?”

Janus’s eyes flick to one side and he waits for a moment, as if expecting for Roman to change his mind or for Remus to come charging out with another spoonful of jam aimed at his head. 

When nothing of the sort occurs, his expression softens. Just a little.

“Yes. I would like that.”

Roman steps back to allow Janus through the doorway, and swings the door closed behind him with a click.

***

Remus stretches his leg out further, sprawling himself ever wider over the space available to him which consists approximately of his third of the bed and as much of Roman’s space as he can liberate without being apprehended. His jam is a success, he is spending time with Janus again, and the genuine appreciation emanating from his brother is almost palpable. Just for good measure, he smears a little of the jam onto Roman’s nose. Just to remind him he’s still there.

Roman’s nose scrunches as the substance makes contact, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away. Instead, he just elbows his brother softly, achieving more of a gentle sway while crushed under most of Remus’s weight. He smiles, and takes another spoonful of jam.

Janus shakes his head fondly. He hasn’t seen Remus nearly as often since being accepted by the Light Sides, and much as some of Remus’s more...inventive antics...used to irritate him, he has found himself missing his constant predictable unpredictability. It is nice—refreshing—to see him again: especially without the usual weight of all the words yet unspoken between them. But that is business for another time.

Everyone knew about Iapetus and Enceladus. Everyone knew that they were going to get married.

That was, until Iapetus suddenly vanished.

Years had gone by since then, and everyone seemed to have moved on.

As for Enceladus, he was currently talking to his brother Titan about a mysterious phone call.

“So I pick up the phone, and the next thing I hear is ‘What is up little spoon. I am calling you because I heard you have plans to mutate the Solar System. Please do not mutate the Solar System or I’m gonna have to send all the alphas after you’, and then they hung up,” Enceladus said.

“Did they mention me or Iris?” Titan asked.

“No, why?” Enceladus responded.

“Because we got similar calls,” Titan said.

Silence.

“Prank call?” Enceladus said, breaking the silence.

“Prank call,” Titan agreed.

Before Enceladus could say anything else, he spotted something.

Or, to be exact, someone.

“Well look what we have here,” Enceladus mumbled.

“What? Who is it?” Titan responded.

“Iapetus,” Enceladus sighed.

Titan turned around and sure enough, there was Iapetus, walking around the corner, singing a little tune:

“You know I gets my pimpin' on.”

“Oh shit! Ain't that your dude?” Titan whispered to Enceladus.

“Yeah I be pimpin' all these hoes.”

“Fool that was years ago,” Enceladus whispered back to Titan.

“You knows I get my pimp-”

Iapetus suddenly paused.

He spotted Titan and Enceladus.

“Wait, waitwaitwait wait wait wait. Enceladus is that you- You, you, you, YOU?” Iapetus spoke, pointing at Enceladus.

“What up Iapetus?” Enceladus said.

“That's PIMP, Iapetus. Don't get it twisted,” Iapetus responded, crossing his arms.

“MAN HE CAN CALL YOU WHATEVER THE HELL HE WANT-” Titan snapped, preventing Enceladus from responding.

“Aahhhh AIN'T THAT ONE TALKIN' TO YOU MACHO MAN!” Iapetus snapped back, uncrossing his arms to point at Titan.

“Man you dumb wan wacka-off man I will-” Titan started.

“WAAAAAAHAAAAA AAAA!” Iapetus interrupted.

The beach trip had been Patton's idea, but Roman had been quick to agree and Virgil appeared to be enjoying himself, Roman and Patton adding the finishing touches to a magnificent sandcastle as Virgil paused to wipe his brow. A shovel was in his hand and a large mound of sand sat to one side, courtesy of his last half-hour of labour and the foot-wide moat now encircling the design. Spotting Logan watching them, he waved, Logan half-heartedly raising a hand in response. Virgil motioned him over to them, a question hanging in the air, but Logan was quick to shake his head. Virgil nodded, giving a gesture of understanding before planting his shovel in the sand and turning to help Roman in decorating the castle the eclectic mix of seashells Patton had just returned with.

Logan sighed.

At least they were all enjoying themselves, even if he was feeling more uncomfortable than the time he’d had to sleep in the backseat of a car lodged deep in the middle of a muddy field while Roman attempted to choreograph a particularly violent sleep-dance routine—and he’d had the bruises to show for it.

His book had been a far shorter read than he had hoped, and he had not brought his second book by Patton’s request: they had already packed enough beach bags for a small orchestra, perhaps Logan could forgo his second book in lieu of Virgil’s sun top and a deflated beach ball, rather than adding another to their dowry? Logan had been skeptical, especially since Roman had still managed to sneak in his sketchbook, and neither the beach ball nor the sketchbook had been more than glanced at longways since they had arrived.

But, he supposed, they had only been there for—he checked his watch—two and a half hours. He frowned, checking again and wondered if he had forgotten to replace the batteries—but, he supposed, his perception of time did seem to travel faster when he was enjoying a particularly stimulating book. He had already drunk most of his water bottle, making sure to stay adequately hydrated in the stifling heat, but noted with concern that all but one of the other bottles in the box remained untouched.

Glancing over to the others on the sands, he weighed his options as Patton celebrated the completion of the castle by attempting to clamber on top of it and sending half the east wall tumbling into the moat, and Logan ultimately decided the others’ health was more important than his own comfort. Rolling his eyes a little at their lack of concern for their own wellbeing, he gathered the three other bottles from the lunch box, made sure the towel he was laying on was suitably held down by a multitude of left sandals, and braced himself for the heat.

It was always hotter than he expected.

The heat, which only felt skin-deep in the shade, now seemed to penetrate all the way through his body and then out of the other side, only to hit the sand and bounce back again. Figuratively, of course; there was no way for heat to actually travel in such a manner. That said, had Logan not known the science behind heat and reflection, he would have assumed his previous conclusion to be correct.

The soles of Logan’s feet burned on the sand as he bounced an odd hopping jog towards the others whilst juggling a precarious armful of sloshing water bottles, one sandal holding down a corner of his towel and the other awol, and wondered not for the first time what it was about a large, heat-reflective expanse of crushed seashells that was so very attractive to such a huge number of people.

“Lo!” called Patton as he spotted him approaching and waved excitedly, white sundress billowing with the movement. “We made a castle!” He giggled as he gestured proudly to the sandy mound, which more closely resembled a forlorn pile of sludge than a deliberate structure now it was missing most of the east side.

“I’m pleased you're enjoying yourself. However, you have all been neglecting your own health. It is vital to stay hydrated, moreso when in direct heat.” He nodded to the water bottles in his arms.

“Thanks, Specs,” called Roman from where he had tumbled into the castle’s moat on the other side in an attempt to stop Patton from tripping over earlier. He raised his hand, palm open and facing Logan. “Toss me one!”

Logan could feel the sun beating down onto the back of his neck, and the warmth warned him he'd be getting sunburn soon if he didn't retreat to the shade. His arms were sticky with suncream as he shuffled the bottles around, handing one each to Patton and Virgil—

“Thank you, Lo!”

“Thanks.”

—and tossing the other over the top of the sandcastle and into Roman’s waiting hand.

“Wanna come swim with us, Lo?” asked Patton, screwing the lid back onto his now half-emptied water bottle and giving it an experimental swish.

Logan shook his head, already taking half a step back. Even the thought of the salty water, the unknown creatures waiting within, and the inevitability of wet sand sticking to him was making his skin prickle with discomfort. “No, thank you, Patton. I would— I have my book to finish.”

He could feel Virgil’s hard stare digging into him, but dared not turn to meet it. He could tell he knew he was holding something back, but there was nothing Logan could do but hope it would remain unmentioned, left alone. Surely, the others would get bored soon. Surely, as the height of the afternoon approached, they would begin to feel the heat.

“Suit yourself!” said Roman, tossing a handful of sand towards Patton’s knees and rocketing off towards the ocean waves—but not before making sure to massage a wet clump of sand from somewhere in the depths of the moat into Virgil’s as-yet clean hair.

Patton shrieked gleefully and tore after Roman, and whatever Virgil had been going to say was evidently less important than his revenge as he offered naught more than a farewell gesture and a third pair of footprints joined those already gone.

Logan watched them run for a moment, wistful, as the wind caught in their hair and Patton clutched his sunhat to stop it blowing away. Roman reached the waves first, running in as far as he could before dropping to his chest and beginning to swim, treading water as first Virgil and then Patton caught up with him, out of breath. Virgil kicked a wide arc of water towards Roman, who spluttered as the water washed over his face, but he didn’t seem to mind the salt as he retaliated with a sweeping wake of his own. Patton stood to one side, out of the way of the salty battle, sundress bundled in his hands as he hopped over the smaller waves and cheered.

Logan had half a mind to join them after all, but then he noticed the three water bottles abandoned at his feet, water warming as the temperature continued to climb, and the cloudless sky, their unsupervised bags, the opacity of the water—and banished the thought from his mind. Someone had to be responsible, after all. 

So, he gathered the bottles from amongst the discarded buckets and shovels, feet burning on the dust of seashells, and hurried back to the umbrella.

Logan felt a little consolation in the fact they had found this little alcove. The more popular beaches had been a considerably shorter drive, but the four of them much preferred somewhere with a little more peace and room to build sandcastles. Most of this beach was spotted with visitors, but they were generously interspersed, families relaxing in little spots along the sands as children played alongside, and the ocean was free enough of people that Logan was actually able to determine which of the little figures were his friends.

Deciding he may as well make use of his time now that the others seemed thoroughly occupied with their next activity, he packed the bottles neatly back into the insulated lunch box to keep them cool, and cast around for the cool box containing the refill bottles. Not spotting it on the sands, he moved to root around in the two larger duffel bags they had brought for the rest of their things, wondering if Roman had perhaps put the cool box inside one of them so as to lessen the number of items they had to carry down.

Moving aside yet another of Roman’s untouched sketchbooks—how did he manage to get all of these past Patton?—and an assortment of towels, he dug all the way to the bottom, and was unsurprised to see the layer of sand lining the material despite Logan’s certainty that this bag had never, even once before, been near a beach. He didn’t think it had even been opened since they got here, and yet the granules had worked their way into the seams, the towels, even between the pages of the sketchbook.

Logan had no doubt there would have been sand in the cool box, too, had there been a cool box to speak of.

Frowning, he moved onto the second of their bags, despite having been sure this one was only for the more delicate items, like the croissants, and the butter, and Virgil’s insulin pack—definitely not the sort of place you would put a heavy cool box with eight litres of water.

Just as expected, there was no box in sight, and he huffed in annoyance. This had been Roman’s responsibility, but clearly he had been too preoccupied with squeezing as many sketchbooks into as many bags as he possibly could, without even an intent to use them.

But— no, that wasn’t fair. Logan should have checked—it was his responsibility, too, to make sure they had everything they needed. He’d been negligent, and their health would suffer as a result. He should have been more thorough; he would make a note of that, for next time.

Perhaps it was back in the car? It wasn’t impossible. Logan had only made sure of the two large bags coming down to the beach, and hadn’t checked the car for anything forgotten—another lapse in judgement, on his part. 

He cast around for his sandals and was not surprised to see neither of them as he resigned himself to two left sandals belonging to Roman and Virgil respectively, folding the towel so it wouldn’t blow away and zipping the bags closed again. The others were still down at the water, facing away from him, Roman having swum a little ways out as Virgil and Patton played chicken with the waves. Logan observed them for a moment, shading his glasses from the sun so the light wouldn’t reflect, and once satisfied they would cope in the few minutes he would be gone, grabbed the keys and set a brisk pace towards the cars.

The sand still managed to work its way between his toes and he could physically feel the heat waves bouncing onto his exposed legs, sweat making his glasses slip down his nose incessantly until he gave up trying to right them and simply held them in place. The long line of parked cars grew steadily closer, heat distorting the air around the metal, and Logan was not looking forward to having to root around inside their very own microwave oven. Somehow, the number of vehicles just kept increasing as families and groups of friends arrived to enjoy the summer heat; Logan could not understand why they had all chosen the height of the afternoon to spend their time here, when the sun was at its hottest and the beach at its busiest, but all the same, there they were, inflating beach balls and unfolding parasols.

Sidestepping a bearded man pushing a double stroller, Logan fumbled for the keys in his pocket, clammy hands almost dropping them as he tried to find the button.

The lights flashed as the vehicle unlocked and he pulled the door open, wrenching his hand away with a hiss as it clicked and the metal seared his skin. He eyed his hand disdainfully, the skin already tinged darker. Balling up his fist, he shoved it into the pocket of his shorts to worry about later as he waited for the more intense heat to circulate out of the body of the car, hoping it would be just a little less overbearing when he had to dive in in a moment.

Satisfied he had allowed as much aeration time as was plausible, he rested one knee on the inside seat, careful to avoid the hot metal of the car’s body as he cast around for anywhere one might stash a cooler box—but every foot space was as empty as the seats themselves and he could only hope that the boot would grant him more luck.

The boot, it turned out, was just as bare, save yet another of Roman’s sketchbooks half-hidden under a blanket they had chosen not to bring down to the beach itself. Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and biting his tongue as he tried not to let his frustrations get the better of him.

That said, this had been Roman’s responsibility, and he was very much intrigued to hear what the other man had to say about it.

Slamming the boot and double-checking the door was locked properly, he stalked back to their little encampment, nodding a greeting to the bearded man who seemed to have just realised that a stroller like the one he was pushing was less than ideal for a beach excursion as he handed the two excited children to his husband nearby and began the lengthy process of packing it away in such a way that it would not immediately break when they next tried to open it.

Logan, forgetting the necessity of holding his glasses onto his face, felt them slip, landing in the white sand as sweat and condensation mingled with the grains and created a sticky, sandy shadow over the lenses. Snatching them from the ground, granules crunched in the mechanics as he sorted them back onto his face and continued to march seaward, greatly anticipating the shade and comparative serenity of his blanket oasis beneath the umbrella.

He flopped back down in his pool of shade, eyes closing as he sighed deeply and took a moment to truly appreciate how good it felt to not be stood in direct sunlight. The sand was cool, the shade was deep, and he did not feel as if his internal organs were steadily being fried.

Bliss.

Deciding he would give it a few more minutes before reprimanding Roman, Logan was just preparing to properly unfold his towel again and return the odd sandals to their respective corners when the sound of his name reached his ears.

He looked up curiously, and his heart reared in his chest as his eyes took in the three others, Roman and Virgil supporting either side of a limping Patton, one foot held upright away from the sand and his lower lip wobbling. He offered Logan a shaking smile and an attempt at a wave with the hand looped over Virgil’s shoulder.

Logan’s frown deepened, all thoughts of water shortages forgotten as he moved to rearrange their little alcove, repositioning the towel and dusting away as much sand as he could as the other two arrived and set Patton down.

“What happened?”

“Stood on a shell,” Patton replied through gritted teeth. “It’s— I’m okay, I think. Just stings.”

Nodding, Logan leaned forwards to examine the base of Patton’s foot. There was a small cut—nothing serious, but the positioning left Logan unsurprised by how painful it seemed to be. Taking the first aid kit Virgil offered him—at least they hadn’t forgotten the first aid kit—Logan rooted around for the necessary items and, satisfied that he had what he needed, shooed the other two away. They would only pose a distraction, and Logan preferred to work in peace without them hovering over his shoulders.

Roman protested, but at Patton’s reassurance and a subtle nudge from Virgil, the pair headed back towards the waves to leave him be.

“Is it bad?” asked Patton once they had gone, eyes darting anywhere but his injured foot— Roman and Virgil by the waves, the family building sandcastles to their left, the woman walking her dog along the sands. Patton, despite how much fulfilment he received from helping others, had never been particularly good with objective injuries and blood.

“Not at all,” Logan reassured him, because it was the truth. Frankly, he was more concerned about the fact that, “I will have to clean the sand off before I can treat it properly,” reaching for his still-half-full water bottle and trying not to let his face betray his frustration.

Patton nodded, fingers brushing the cover of Logan’s book. “Can I read this?”

Glancing up, Logan nodded, Patton’s need for a distraction not foreign to him under such circumstances. Besides, he might learn a thing or two, and would perhaps get through enough of it for them to talk about the book at a later date. His heart fluttered at the thought—his reading habits rarely aligned with the others’, and it would be a change he welcomed.

Despite trying to keep the water usage to a minimum, by the end of the process his bottle was almost empty, only a few centimetres of liquid left waiting in the bottom. Logan knew he would have to make it last. He was doing the least physical exertion, Roman would complain of headaches, Patton was now injured, and of the four of them it was most important for Virgil to keep his fluids up lest his health suffer the consequences. It only made sense.

“That should be sufficient for now,” Logan said, brushing off his hands as he pulled the zipper on the first aid bag closed. “You shouldn’t go back in the water, though, and be mindful of the sand. You don’t want to contaminate the wound.”

Patton nodded, setting down the book and thanking Logan. Glancing at the pages, Logan’s heart fell as he saw Patton had only just breached the first page—but no matter. Patton was injured, and now was most definitely not the time to be feeling let down by something so trivial.

Stretching his arms, Patton stood and rummaged in one of their bags, pulling out a second towel and laying it down in the sun alongside Logan’s.

“Would you like to share the shade?” asked Logan, skin prickling at the thought of sitting in direct sunlight and wanting to offer Patton an escape, but also aware that the current location of the sun meant their shade pool would not be getting any bigger, hardly housing one person as it was.

“Oh, no, I’m going to sunbathe for a bit; give you back your shade. Thank you, though!”

“Alright. Make sure to reapply your sunscreen after being in the ocean.”

Patton nodded, reaching for the bottle as Logan smoothed the creases in his towel and settled back down. He could hope that Patton’s injury would hasten the other two to leaving, but judging from how carefree Patton seemed, and that Virgil and Roman were both happily swimming down in the ocean, it didn’t seem likely. Logan’s shoulders curled inward at the thought of the waves, but he supposed that as long as the others were having fun, it was alright.

As long as they left soon, it would be alright.

They had been relaxing—well, Patton had been relaxing, Logan had been baking in uncomfortably languid silence—for the best part of half an hour when Logan heard his name being called. He blinked, reaching for his glasses and drawing the sunhat from his face as he sat upright, trying to blink through the stickiness that had gathered in his eyes as he peered towards Patton to ask what he could help with.

The call came again as he realised it was not Patton trying to get his attention as the other man was sitting up just as groggily, and Logan’s head snapped up to see Virgil speeding towards him, one hand raised urgently and the other cupped around his mouth as he shouted again.

Logan was scrambling to his feet in an instant, eyes scanning Virgil for any signs of injury and, finding none, beginning to scan the ocean line for Roman.

Reaching him, Virgil skidded to a halt, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“What happened?” asked Logan urgently, still trying to locate the Roman on the coastline amongst the sea of bodies. “Are you injured? Where’s Roman?”

Virgil gestured falteringly back to the ocean as he tried to heave in enough oxygen to form a sentence, managing to break out stuttered words, Roman, swimming, too far.

And Logan was sprinting, leaving Virgil and Patton alone by the bags as he spotted the little splodge of colour that must be Roman, too far out, too distant, and why did he have to swim so far away from everyone else?

His feet pounded against the sand, each beat bringing with it a new thought as he heard Virgil call from behind him and a second pair of footsteps match his own, growing closer as Virgil hurried to catch up despite how much his lungs were already burning. But Logan didn’t have time to think about him. Roman was in trouble: Roman was in need of help. Logan was responsible. Logan should have been watching him.

But it was the ocean. Logan couldn’t go in the ocean. Logan didn’t like the ocean.

It was vast, unforgiving, and filled with all manner of creatures as equally terrifying as they were fascinating.

His footsteps beat against the sand, and he was almost there, but as the edge of the water grew nearer Logan was realising he didn’t even know what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn’t go in the water; he couldn’t help Roman. All manner of strange creatures lurked just below the surface, just out of sight, watching, waiting, searching for their first meal in millenia, some horrid, undiscovered species that would slink away again before they could even identify it.

But he knew he would go in. He knew he had to. He knew he didn’t have another choice.

Thoughts beat through his mind with every step, sand under his toes becoming more solid as it became heavy with water, with salt, with the ground shells and bones and teeth of a billion creatures from aeons past, sea creatures from decades of research bouncing through his mind.

The black swallower, a species of deep sea fish capable of swallowing creatures two times its length and four times its mass.

Chironex fleckeri, or sea wasp, a near-invisible jellyfish with venom capable of killing an adult with a dose of no more than a grain of salt.

The bull shark, among the most likely of sharks to attack humans—aggressive, and often found in Florida, in shallow coastal waters such as this bay.

And even with all of the uncomfortable discoveries scientists had already made, there was still 95% of the ocean left to explore.

...This was why Logan preferred space.

Virgil drew up beside him, chest heaving, face blotchy with exertion. “He’s not— In trouble, sorry—” Virgil huffed, letting his knees collapse under him as he tried to catch his breath on the sand. “The— The inner tube floated out— He went— He went after it. But I’m worried he’s gone too far. He— Can’t hear us, and that got me worried. I— I overreacted. Sorry.”

The grip on Logan’s heart loosened as he processed these words, trying to work himself down from the adrenaline rush as his mind fought to catch up with his body. It was a false alarm. Roman was not injured, or about to be swept out into open ocean, or sinking beneath the waves as he fought for breath.

“I see.” Logan flexed his fingers, trying to regain control of his breathing as the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears quietened, just a little. “My apologies, then. It seems I, too, assumed the worst.”

Fixing his gaze on Roman out in the sea, Logan sank to the ground, kneeling on the sand so as to get as few of the grains on his shorts as possible. He would greatly prefer it if he wasn’t picking sand from the lining of his pockets for the next decade. Virgil sprawled out beside him, chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath, dyed hair mixing with the sand.

A breeze washed over them, providing a welcome relief from the overbearing heat that so far had not let up even a little. Roman appeared to have almost reached the inflatable, and while Logan was still largely apprehensive of the whole ordeal, his heartbeat seemed to be settling.

Virgil spluttered as sand was blown into his mouth by the breeze, shielding his face with a hand as he jerked upright and scowled, ruffling grains from his hair. “Stupid wind.”

The breeze died down, and Logan was once again reminded of the unforgiving heat beating down on him from every side. The ocean waves rolled, a seagull called, and Virgil prodded him pointedly in the shoulder.

“Hey, so, what’s up?”

Logan frowned, thinking he probably should have reapplied his sunscreen before coming to sit stationary in direct sunlight. “I’m not following.”

“You’ve been sitting under the parasol the whole time. I saw you finish your book, like, at least an hour ago. Not like you to be so...reclusive?” He paused, scratching absently at his shoulder. “That’s not the right word.”

Logan rubbed a pinch of sand between his fingertips, feeling each grain trickle away, returning to the mass of brown and white and gold stretching away all around them.

“I do not particularly enjoy spending time at the beach.”

Virgil eyed him for a moment before sighing gently and ruffling his hair. Sand grains spewed out, pattering onto his sun top and lining the creases. “Shit, Teach, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“It’s not,” Logan retorted as he squinted towards the small figure of Roman who appeared to have finally reached his goal. Still too far out for comfort. Still too far out to hear them. “It’s nothing. I dislike the heat. It is uncomfortable.”

Virgil squinted. “Alright. Well, I don’t think we’ll be hanging around much longer anyway. Think I’ve used up most’ve my energy for today.”

Logan nodded gratefully as he watched the family of the bearded man he had seen by the cars begin to unpack their things, the two children running circles around each other in some invented game of tag. The girl with the pigtails, the older of the two, had a clear advantage, but the younger one was young enough that she didn’t realise this and was utterly committed to catching her sister despite the power imbalance. Logan winced as she tripped, scraping both knees and palms against the sand, but in a moment she was up again, teetering around the wind guard one of her dads was setting up.

They looked happy.

“Kids, huh?” said Virgil, tilting his head back as he followed Logan’s gaze. “So much energy. Such little anxiety. The golden days.”

Logan barked a laugh. “Back when exploring the galaxy was but the first in a great list of adventures, and you were still home in time for bed.”

“Nerd.”

“Virgil, I have just finished a modern philosophy book; I believe that was rather well established.”

Virgil hummed good naturedly as Logan gave him a soft smile. “Glad to have you around, Teach.”

They sat quietly as they watched Roman edging back to the shore. Every now and again, he raised an arm to wave and shout something excitedly, but his words were lost over the rolling of the ocean and the delighted giggles of the siblings playing on the sand. Virgil commented and Logan agreed noncommittally, mind elsewhere as his skin started to prickle with discomfort and heat and moisture.

He brushed a damp mass of hair away from his forehead, but even the smallest of movements was sticky and humid and gross so he settled for sitting still, doing his best not to breathe too deeply so he didn’t feel his skin unsticking from itself, trying to focus on the way the sand glittered under his knees and not the heat drumming against his neck and the grittiness between his toes and the constant, droning noise of the waves underneath crying seagulls and screeching children. His glasses kept steaming up but he couldn’t move to clean them because that just made everything sticky and clammy and worse so he settled for the half-vision he did have and shivered at the sweat drops rolling down his back, and the way the backs of his knees felt like pools of their own.

He blinked as Virgil’s hand scuffed his shoulder and he saw Roman wading out of the waves, inner tube clasped under one arm as he gabbled on about something Logan didn’t quite have the headspace to comprehend. He shook his head to Virgil’s outstretched hand, finding his own way upright and trying not to shiver in disgust at the way everything stuck to everything else as he moved, and all his senses seemed suddenly amplified.

“I saw a shark!” was the first thing Logan heard upon tuning back in. 

“Sure you did, Princey,” Virgil replied disparagingly, offering Roman a pat on the shoulder. “Now, come on, we’ve been waiting for you for ages.”

Roman shoved him back with the inner tube, sending Virgil stumbling a few steps before he righted himself. Virgil looked to be about to shove Roman back, but then his eyes passed over Logan and back to where Patton was waiting by their things, and he thought better of it. For now, at least. Roman would surely pay the price at some later date.

“Hey, Teach!” Roman exclaimed as he properly registered Logan’s presence and slung a damp arm over Logan’s shoulders. His arm was warm but only in that muted, slightly clammy way that arms were when they were wet and you were dry and everything was already far too hot and sticky and humid. “Finally making the most of our beach excursion?”

“Don’t touch me,” Logan said, because he couldn’t think about anything other than the uncomfortably moist weight over his shoulders and the clammy heat and the muddled, overlapping sounds of the water and the birds and the people. And then, “please,” tacked on the end as an afterthought, because he didn’t want Roman to think he was being rude or that he was annoyed at him for it, because he wasn’t, but he really didn’t have much space in his head right now for pleasantries. The sand burned under his toes, the waistband of his shorts chafed against his skin, he couldn’t lift his eyes because everything was white and bright and burning and he still needed to address the fact that they were practically out of drinking water.

Roman’s arm retracted immediately as he stepped a little closer to Virgil to give Logan more space. “Of course.”

Logan’s eyes were fixed onto the sand as he walked, half-listening to Roman’s description of the bull shark that he claimed had swum not ten feet from him in the water, and half trying not to focus on the heat beating against every inch of his body and the way damp hairs stuck to the back of his neck no matter how he pushed them away. 

He kept trying to ground his mind, concentrating on the feeling of sand under his feet and the murmur of his friends’ conversation, but with the relentless heat on his face he couldn’t focus on anything else, and anything he tried to latch onto immediately became overwhelming. So he tuned it out, retreating into his mind as he felt the cogs inside begin to lock differently as they shifted onto a different track, making space for him to cope by pushing aside the things that had always required more effort like seemingly trivial social niceties, maintaining an expression of mild contentedness, ensuring he stuck to the ideal eye-contact to no eye-contact ratio for regular conversation.

Patton sat up as they arrived at their things, some of the items that had been strewn about now organised neatly into their bags and the sandals which had been holding down various towels now arranged in pairs. 

“Think we’re heading out,” said Virgil, moving to gather up some of the towels to go and rid them of sand in an area less densely populated. “Ready to go, Pat?”

“Yeah, just about! I figured we’d be going soon, so I already started packing up some of the bags. Logan, I left your towel, sandals and book in a little pile there.”

Logan immediately made a beeline for the little pile, towel folded neatly with sandals and book propped on top. He thanked Patton tersely, brushing off as much sand as he could from the soles of his feet before fitting the sandals, then clasping his book carefully to his chest. The whole situation was not great for his book, really, because he couldn’t put it in the bags lest it bend and crease, but the sweat on his fingers was already sullying the cover. Not that it would matter much anyway, he supposed, because every crevice was already ingrained with sand.

The others were at work dismantling the umbrella and tidying items into bags, Roman attempting to let the air out of the inner tube so it would fit back into the car, and so Logan propped himself atop his little folded towel and watched, not quite sure where he could fit in to assist and hoping that if anyone needed anything they would ask him outright.

“Logan, do you know where the water bottles are?” asked Virgil a little while later, running the back of his hand across his forehead. Roman was still wrestling with the inner tube, and Patton was in the process of folding the towels Virgil had beaten out to pack them away.

Logan felt his stomach drop, but it wasn’t like he could deny Virgil water, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get all the words out to explain the whole situation properly anyway without coming across incredibly condescending.

“I packed them into the furthest away of the two duffel bags from me. They are inside a blue lunch box. Patton may have moved them since then.”

“Perfect, thanks, Logan,” Virgil replied, shooting him a smile and finger guns as he turned to find the bag Logan had instructed him towards. Logan mentally cringed at how robotic his words had sounded, everything he said at the moment entirely unfiltered against anything that could potentially be read as demeaning or patronising as he did not currently have the mental space or energy to affix things to their regular societal standards—but Virgil understood. Logan hoped he did, anyway; he had certainly seemed to. Not that Logan wouldn’t still bring it up with Virgil within the next few days, just to assure him that he had not meant to come across unfavourably.

He pushed the thought aside. It would serve him no benefit to become caught up in such things right now, when what he really needed was somewhere cool, and quiet, and familiar, where nothing unexpected could or would happen, and he could let his brain unwind, safe in the confines of structured predictability.

Behind his eyes, the familiar throb of a headache began to beat. 

As a result of dehydration, stress, or feeling generally overwhelmed, he wasn’t sure, but there it was nonetheless, beating against his skull in time with the heat on his skin. He wound a hand around his arm, digging in his fingers as he tried to focus on anything but the heat and the headache and the sweat drops creeping down his neck as the waves rolled and children shrieked and seagulls screamed. The sound of his heartbeat joined the beating of the sun’s rays and the throbbing of his headache, all three dancing over one another like some sort of crazed percussion piece as the shade from the parasol vanished as it was packed away and the light drilled into his eyes, bright sounds and loud colours pulsing around him every which way.

He wasn’t sure when he closed his eyes, but hardly a moment later Virgil was calling him to leave and Logan was shuffling along the sands just behind his friends, book and towel clutched to his chest, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on where he was going while not looking at any of the bright and loud and omnipresent everything everywhere that seemed to dance even behind his eyelids when he screwed them closed again. 

And there was sand grinding between his toes, and moisture pooling on his back, and a hundred thousand seagulls flying circles around his head and squawking, screaming, shrieking as children jostled each other and tripped and water roared past itself and snapped back again and Logan’s heart beat into his mouth as people swam out too far and sharks circled inches from his knees and his ears rang with adrenaline.

Fingers scarcely brushed against his elbow, sending prickling fire unfurling as Logan snatched his arm away and his vision flared white, blinking and squinting ahead as he tried not to let his breaths shake as a thousand tiny fire ants stung time and again as they scuttled over his skin, nausea rolling in his stomach and venom pulsing in his veins.

He just about identified Virgil in front of him before he was screwing his eyes closed again, arms locked around his book no matter how much he wanted to cover his ears and block out the cacophony of squawking and rushing and chattering all around him because he didn’t want to cause a scene, didn’t want to draw attention to himself, didn’t know where he would put his book and his towel because his hands were sandy but so was the floor and so were the bags and so was the car and they didn’t have any water and his headache was pounding like a drum, trying to get his attention, trying to split his skull.

“Logan,” came Virgil’s voice, but Logan could only shake his head because the words wouldn’t come, the words wouldn’t come, the words wouldn’t come. There was a stopper in his throat, forcing the words to stay inside, and he could force it out, probably, but he was doing so would make him throw up or cry or both. “Logan, can you walk with me to the car or would you like to do something else? It’s just up the steps in front of us. Roman and Patton are turning on the air conditioning inside the car. Do you want to come with me to the car or would you prefer to do something else?”

“Car,” Logan tried to say, gaze swivelling past Virgil and towards the collection of vehicles lined up on the sands, and even though no sound came out Logan still felt the nausea swirling in his throat, threatening to erupt. Just the thought of cool air conditioning was enough to prompt him forwards, following the dizzying shape that was Virgil as he tried to focus on the book in his hands and not the way the sweat prickled at his neck and the sickly thoughts of the others worrying after him and the sound of car tyres screeching as they ground shells and corals into dust.

He could feel one thousand pairs of eyes drilling into him from all sides, judging, criticising, laughing behind hands and beach bags. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, dying his face and ears and neck in a wave of panic until he could feel the embarrassment coursing through his veins, a beacon of amusement for every passerby to watch and mock and ridicule which in turn only fueled it more. He could feel the sun bouncing against his back and his heartbeat thundering in his chest and he knew, somewhere, deep down, that this was all just an overreaction, he should have better control over himself, he shouldn’t be making such a scene, but this thought was crushed under the stampede of disjointed sounds and sights and words rampaging in every direction, looping around and around and around in a sickly pirouette that was only spinning faster.

And then the door to their car was open and he was clambering inside and pulling the towel over his head as sand grains showered into his hair and eyes and over the seats and into his book but he only grasped the material more tightly as he melted into the sharp chill of the aircon and pressed his head against the seat in front and finally, finally plugged his ears.

And his mind kept racing, kept rolling and diving and snapping back for a while after that, but he could feel the rubber bands starting to loosen, elastic unwinding and cool air snaking into the cracks and crevices, cooling the metal still hot from overuse. And that freed space to consider other things, like releasing the tension in his shoulders and taking a breath to the bottom of his lungs which didn’t falter or cut off and feeling the texture of the seat under his legs and the way the skin stuck just a little too long when he moved. Cool air washed over his face and he took off his glasses, massaging the indents on his nose and relishing in the cool touch as his senses came back to him in their more typical, controlled amounts.

He could hear murmured voices from outside the car and as he sat upright and ironed out the creases in his back and neck, he realised for the first time that the others were not in the car with him.

That was, to put it candidly, rather sweet of them. Logan couldn’t imagine having to sit outside in the parching heat for even a second longer than necessary, and yet there they were, relaxing by the car bonnet just to give him some space. Roman wasn’t even wearing a sunhat or top to lessen the blow.

With that thought in his mind, their concerning lack of drinkable water suddenly made itself known once more as Logan’s headache began to hammer against his skull. He should get out of the car and usher the others inside before they all got too dehydrated, but that meant going outside, and going outside meant facing the heat, which meant going back to feeling all clammy and muted and wrong. Moreso, he would have to open the door, and to open the door he would have to take the towel off from his head, and quite frankly it was the only thing holding him together. And taking off the towel meant moving his book from his knee, which meant he had to put it somewhere else, but everywhere was sandy and the others needed seats to sit in and he couldn’t remember where he had put his glasses and he needed to move and find his glasses before he did anything else but he couldn’t find his glasses without his glasses.

And all these thoughts snowballed, tumbling atop one another to form a writhing heap of Things from which Logan concluded that getting out of the car was too complicated, after all, requiring too many steps and too many choices, and he was far more partial to Not Doing That.

Luckily, Virgil had always been perceptive, so Logan simply watched as he excused himself from the others and became steadily blurrier as he approached the car. And with the simple and straightforward, single goal of finding his glasses without all the other things weighing on top, Logan scanned the nearby area and found them sitting on the chair beside him, folded neatly just where he had left them a few minutes prior.

The outline of the purple blur opening the driver’s side door became rather more defined as his vision returned and Virgil perched on the chair, shutting the door softly behind him so as not to let too much of the warm air inside.

“Feeling better?”

“I am much less overwhelmed now. Thank you, Virgil. I apologise for my unexpected reaction.”

“Don’t sweat it, ‘t’s not something you need to apologise for, anyway. We can talk about it more later, if you want?”

Logan nodded. “I would like that. My words at the moment are rather...robotic, for lack of a better term. Following that, I apologise if I say anything that comes across cold or condescending. It is...not intentional.” 

He just didn’t have the extra head space required to edit his words right now.

“I know,” Virgil assured him, nose scrunching as the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “And actually, talking to you is pretty cool because you don’t dance around your words or make them all fancy schmancy just ‘cause you can, unlike somebody we know. Besides,” he continued, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to gesture to Roman and Patton through the windshield, “Prince in question just admitted he forgot to pack the cool box, so you’re doing way better than him.”

“Yes,” said Logan, frowning. “And I had to use the last of my water to clean Patton’s injury, so I am now dehydrated and have had a headache since we were on the beach. But you have all been doing far more physical exertion than I have, and it is important for you to drink enough water, Virgil, so I am happy to forfeit the little left in my bottle to that end.” And then, because Logan was suddenly aware of how sour he sounded, “Not that I am blaming any of you. I was just trying to say that it is not imperative I drink the rest of my water and that one of you may drink it, despite my headache. I mean— I don’t— You can have it. I am not frustrated with you. I apologise.”

Virgil’s brow creased as he shifted his grip on the headrest. “I know you aren’t frustrated with me, it’s okay. I’m honestly impressed you thought that far ahead already, I’m still sour that it means we don’t have the alcohol I snuck into the cool box.” He laughed, fingers tapping a rhythm as he continued, “Patton says there’s a convenience store next to that ice cream place we stopped at on the way in, so Roman’s gonna hop out when we get there and buy us some water. I’m hoping I can convince him to buy us more ice-cream, too.”

Logan could feel the tension bleeding out from his shoulders, instead relaxing into a deep appreciation for his friends, and for Virgil.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He spun around, drumming experimentally on the wheel. “Ready to go?”

At Logan’s nod, Virgil rapped three times on the windshield and popped open the door. Patton and Roman looked up at the sound, Patton offering Logan a little wave as they made eye contact, and Roman grinning widely.

“Get in, losers, we’re getting ice-cream!”

—x—END—x—

taglist to follow!

From the moment he had first laid foot in the home of the Light Sides, he had been built up, celebrated; honoured as brave, courageous, noble. He stood tall and mighty, aware of his importance, aware of how much they loved him and how utterly indispensable he was—not only to Thomas, but to the other Sides, as well. He was strong, valuable, fearless, and enjoyed living up to these expectations, always meeting or exceeding them and never slowing down, because why should he? He was bold. He was powerful. He was unbreakable.

He was the Good Creativity. He was important. He had work to do, and challenges to face.

Innovation poured from his pen in great torrents, song after video after sketch, building Thomas up, building the others up, encouraging them all to meet and exceed their potential, to always take the extra step, make the extra leap forward to greatness and significance.

Roman became a symbol for more than just Creativity.

Courage. Success. Confidence. All things he now represented, titles to nurture and crowns to bear proudly. He was not ashamed of his achievements. And he was excited, ever so excited for each new day, each new challenge to face, each new obstacle to overcome.

He was the Good Creativity. He was a standard that had to be upheld.

See, the trouble with such an unwavering incline in achievements and innovation is that eventually it must slow down. Humans are, after all, not like machines or characters in a play, and need to take time to breathe, rest, reset. Creativity is not a limitless tap—but it does recharge, with time.

Roman found this incredibly frustrating.

Success, he argued, was not something you could simply wait to acquire. Success required a devoted, steadfast stream of accomplishments, effort, determination—because the moment you let up, the second you break character, those around you will dig their heels into your shoulders in order to elevate themselves. Success is a matter of how far and how fast you are willing to climb, and what you are willing to do to reach it.

Dreams unfold upon the ashes of dreams.

Roman’s work was never done. Script after script. Song after song. He churned out creations, works to display, musings to share with the world. Always improved. Each better than the last. Always refining, never slowing, because if he hesitated for even a second then those in his dust would catch up to him and he would be left behind, not good enough, never good enough.

He had to prove he was better.

What the others thought of his brother was no secret. His brother was Dark, his brother was evil, his brother was not wanted. They had no use or desire for him.

And what made Roman any different?

Your goodness, Patton would say. You create nice things. Remus creates horrible things.

But where, Roman couldn’t help but wonder, was the line? What separated ‘good’ from ‘evil’, ‘light’ from ‘dark’? Surely it was but a matter of preference, of opinion, of what the individual had learned throughout their life to be accepted or admonished?

That was, ultimately, the reason the Split had occurred in the first place.

Creativity had been torn into two entities, Roman and Remus, Remus and Roman, ‘good’ and ‘evil’. 

And evil was not wanted. That much was clear, had been made clear from the very moment Roman had first grappled his way into existence. Evil lost friends. Evil lost acceptance. Evil meant nobody would listen to you, because you only caused hurt, pain, fear. ‘Evil’ was every villain of every show he had ever seen, always the losing side, never the happy ending.

And Roman was not evil. He made sure of that, tried so hard to make sure of that.

After all, could someone truly evil create such beautiful things, such exquisite artwork? And Roman was a prince! Princes were not evil, practically by default—this, of course, the reasoning behind why he had selected this moniker for himself in the first place, and fought so hard to make sure it wasn’t forgotten.

But he was running out of steam.

The quality of his creations was starting to diminish: not as popular, not as pretty, not as original. But he persevered. He had to keep going, because if he stopped, if they didn’t have a use for him anymore, if they saw through the cracks in his mask despite how he tried so hard to conceal them, then they would throw him away like they had done his brother. Like they had done Remus.

Roman did not want to be alone.

He had to prove he was worth their time. He had to prove he was worth something. He had to pay for the love that they gave, atone for their adoration, because if he stopped providing, they would stop giving, and he would be left alone and worthless and unnecessary and he wouldn’t, couldn't, can’t have that.

He had to prove he was worthy.

Minutes turned to hours turned to days spent locked behind his door, heaps of discarded scripts tossed offhandedly into empty space, neatly at first, then merely cast in the general direction of the trash as he clawed urgently for the next idea, the next project, the next success, because this would be the one, this one would prove it to them, this would show he was worth keeping around, indisputably, that he wasn’t evil, that he wasn’t his brother.

The papers piled up, Roman’s notebook overflowing with discarded ideas, and yet Thomas’s remained blank.

Once, Patton found him, head in his hands past four in the morning, torn up pages obscuring his desk and floor and half-full coffee mugs littering worksurfaces. He had been led gently to bed, and the next day Roman did not miss the sympathetic glances the others thought he couldn’t see. He didn’t miss the demeaningly cautious tone to Patton’s voice, Virgil’s uncharacteristic lack of teasing insults, the way Logan didn’t correct him, even when he purposefully misused the word ‘inchoate’ just to get a rise from him.

He had failed them. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to be confident, proud, indomitable. Most of all, he was supposed to be creative.

That was his symbol, his mark, his purpose. It had to be upheld. He could not allow it to slip between his fingers, fall and shatter, scatter into a million tiny, irredeemable pieces, each too small to be of any consequence or concern.

He couldn’t allow them to see him stumble, because in a moment he would be gone, cast out, forgotten. Not worthy, not ‘good’, not enough.

He had to be stronger, he had to be unyielding, he had to act the part—and act he would. Acting was one of the few talents he actually possessed, one of the few uses he had, and he would damn well make the most of it.

An emotional mask, to an actor, is elementary. Change your face, portray another, hide your true thoughts and emotions and instead channel those of someone else, someone without the meagre concerns of your own life.

Roman donned his mask—someone proud, someone self-assured, someone powerful and determined and Good.

He would not let the mask break. He would patch the cracks before they showed, with wit and charm, magnificence and splendour. Because if they couldn’t see him beneath the extravagance, if they were unable to peer too hard into the shining brilliance lest they damage their eyes, they’d never even know the cracks were there.

He would be brave. He would be proud. Most of all, he would be ‘Good’.

He was not like his brother. He was not horrible. He was worthy, he was wanted, he was loved, and cherished, and appreciated. He was. Of course he was. 

He had to make it. He had to be good enough. Because if he wasn’t, if he couldn’t do the only thing he’d ever been good at, what use was he to them? What worth did he have?

Without his mask, what else was left?

The mask had become so rudimentary, so ingrained in his flesh that he wasn’t sure he even existed beyond it any more. He had been acting the part for so long, he wasn’t sure he could stop. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

‘Roman’ had become nothing more than a character he portrayed, his greatest and most elaborate creation. And he had been playing this ‘Roman’ for so long, this bold and brave and extravagant prince, he wasn’t sure he remembered who he had been before.

Had he been anyone before?

Or was this all he was? A shell? A vessel through which a character was to be portrayed?

Maybe he was never supposed to change, to question. Maybe he was supposed to just keep creating, keep acting, continue playing the part of this bold, brave prince.

That was his function, after all. His purpose. And as long as he existed in some shape or form, he must continue to uphold it, no matter how much he may wish otherwise. 

As long as he kept creating, as long as he paid for his place, upheld his standard, he couldn’t be forgotten. Couldn’t be overlooked.

These challenges strengthened him, fleshed out his character for a bigger and better and bolder performance. This pain led to amelioration. And if he kept pushing away the negative feelings, no matter how insistently they tried to tear him down, he would be able to soldier forward.

However, he was unable to apply the same level of analysis to social and emotional settings.

People expected him to understand such abstract concepts as sarcasm and humour, when really he thought everything would just be easier if people said what they were thinking, clearly and concisely, and that would be that. It was one of the reasons he got on so well with Remus, someone who always spoke his mind and left nothing to the imagination. Logan could ask for clarification, and Remus would give it to him without batting an eyelid, unlike the others who complained of it stunting the conversational flow or that Logan was being too pedantic.

Logan didn't think there was any such thing as ‘too pedantic’. All ideas were worth exploring, no matter how seemingly far-fetched or outlandish, and all would lead to other questions and conversations in that way he adored.

He didn't find the concept of emotions negative, but more their execution. Why should the way you feel about something affect what should be a rationally thought out and planned idea? Why should you hold back on sharing thoughts and feelings because of fear of them being ‘wrong’, when wrongness only led to learning and growth? Why should he be expected to give people compliments he didn't mean and engage in discussions about things both parties already knew the answers to, without an eye for growth?

But it hadn't always been this way.

A long time ago, Logan had smiled. He had joked around with Patton, shared creative quips with Roman, and even enjoyed partaking in the arts in his spare time, drawing and listening to music for no reason other than his own enjoyment.

But times had changed. They had changed. The emotions of others had damaged him one too many times, in one too many ways for him to justify them as a reasonable activity to spend time on. His own emotions had caused harm to not only him, but those he loved, and they had made this clear.

So he cut it away.

Time spent leisurely was replaced with planning work schedules and researching important topics. Movie night with Patton was replaced with science documentaries. Time spent debating with Deceit became law textbooks and watching political debates. The little moments, like when he would be reading a book while Virgil listened to music, while Roman drew, while Remus brainstormed—substituted with his own intellectual development, with making sure Thomas stayed on top of his priorities, with ensuring everything was orderly.

He became cold. Analytical. Judging. Things worked more smoothly that way.

If he pushes aside the useless feelings, he can move forward to the important things, keeping Thomas healthy and productive, maintaining the delicate equilibrium between work and play.

If he shut off his emotions, he would be listened to. He would not be written off as over-emotional or frustrated, but instead respected as logical and factual, as he should be.

He is Logic, after all. ‘Logan’ was just a figment, an idea that proved ineffective. ‘Logan’ never existed.