#tw:fighting

“Do try to leave the bar intact, Peril. I’d quite like another scotch” he announced to his partner, a jest but in turn, permission. It was a recent development between them a curious and fragile thing. Illya would wait, chewing at the bit like a Thoroughbred in the starting gate until Napoleon set him free. It didn’t happen always, but often enough. 

“Plenty of other bars in street” the Russian breathed back at him, widening his stance. Deft fingers curled around his wrist, slipping the watch off with practised ease. Napoleon held his own wrist out soundlessly, letting Illya slide the worn leather around his skin. One too many cracked watch-faces or torn straps had taught the Russian that it was best to shed the treasure before a fight. 

“None quite as nice as this” he countered, leaning back against the bar, idle and unconcerned. Their tormentors looked puzzled and cautious, but shook out their own arms, murmuring words of encouragement to each other as they readied themselves. 

“Don’t fret, lads. He’s a big fucker but he’s a fairy. They’re all dumb. Fairies are always all talk until you hit ‘em” one hissed to his companion, and Napoleon watched Illya’s smile take on a shark-like, sharp quality. Napoleon always marvelled at people’s stupidity; how they took one look at Illya and decided he was just the bear to poke until he bit. 

Frankly, even Napoleon had been apprehensive the first time they’d met, all the way back when in Berlin. Watching Illya tear the back off the car had given him vivid imagery of his own fragile neck being snapped like a coffee stirrer. 

“Wonders never cease” he informed himself as he sipped his drink once more, watching Illya settle himself opposite them. 

“Who first?” The Russian drawled at them, and the men jostled reluctantly amongst themselves before one stepped forwards. Illya bat aside the punch he threw almost lazily and reached forwards, grasping the man by the throat and lifting him clean off the ground. The squirming attacker was tossed aside like a used rag as another man charged forwards, and Napoleon watched the unfolding entertainment passively. 

“You know, I think I’m feeling Italian for dinner tonight” Napoleon mused as Illya knocked two men together like disobedient children. 

“Da. Italian sounds good” the Russian agreed, not even out of breath. 

One tried to shatter a beer bottle over Illya’s head but wasn’t quite tall enough, and the glass splintered over his shoulder, drenching the Russian’s shirt in beer. Illya’s head turned, looking over his shoulder at the stunned man. Napoleon sucked in a pitying breath as the man was dragged forwards, and turned to the barman with an apologetic smile. 

“I’d say not all Russians are like this, but...” he remarked ruefully. The man seemed too distracted by the fight to respond. Napoleon turned back to the fight and tipped his head. “You have a little blood on your face” he announced, and the Russian paused where he had a man in a twisted headlock, looking up at him with a frown. 

“Here?” He asked, swiping at his jaw. 

“No, no. Up a little. No, to the-- For Heaven’s sake, come here”. Illya abandoned petting at his face in favour of leaning closer, head tipped obligingly so that Napoleon could stretch forwards and wipe away the incriminating speck from Illya’s cheek. 

“Spasiba [thank you]” the Russian murmured, casting Napoleon a gentle, small smile before he went back to wrenching his victim around like a ragdoll. The fight was over fairly quickly, and the Russian straightened once the last man had rolled groaning to the floor, dusting off his arms and picking at his sodden shirt with an unimpressed frown. 

“Is it height?” Illya wondered, meandering his way back to the bar. “Men always want to fight. Is baffling”. 

“Small dog syndrome” Napoleon offered, holding out Illya’s beer. The Russian took a sip and settled back into his seat, looking for all intents and purposes like he’d just come back from the bathroom and not a five-to-one fight. Napoleon reached out and carefully fixed a lock of blond hair that had fallen across Illya’s temple. 

“What do dogs have to do with fighting men?” Illya asked after a pause, and Napoleon cast him a light smile. 

Virgil sobs again, convulsing so hard he almost dry heaves against his carpet. He doesn’t remember falling off the bed, but he’s pulled the blankets with him and is hopelessly entangled. His skin burns under too many layers of blankets and sheets and his hoodie and shirt. But he can’t get up, doesn’t have the strength to do anything more than keep the door to his corner of the mind shut tight. Shadows of his power lick at the edges of the doorframe; Virgil can feel them wanting to trickle out and control Thomas, dying to warp his thinking.

This is exactly what Virgil has worked so hard to avoid.

“Stop it!” He thunders, getting enough of his control back to sit up, even as his hood pushes sweaty hair into his eyes and his tears obstruct his vision. His face feels hot and feverish in the way only fear and crying can make it, and his breath hitches up under his ribcage uncomfortably when he yells. He yells anyway. “Stop it right now!”

The shadows flicker and flee, chastised.

“It was just a dream,” Virgil tells the darkness of his room. The words sound even hollower than they did that morning--afternoon? He’s not sure how much time has passed.

Are you sure? Whisper the shadows. Their words reverberate through his skull, making him wince and clutch at his ears. The tears flow again. His lungs won't expand properly. The only thing he can think to do is curl up tighter, but the blankets pull at his limbs and he thrashes, suddenly convinced he’ll never be free again. The darkness deepens around Virgil. How can you be so sure?

He looked so horrified, says a tiny, shining part of Virgil, the part that made all those nice dreams seem possible for so long. Roman would never hurt you if it made him look like that, would he?

Before, when Virgil was in his (somewhat) right mind, those words would have made sense. Now he just garbles out some inarticulate scream and tries not to pass out.

He doesn’t hear his door open, but he does feel it when his fears begin scrambling to get out again; Virgil stops breathing for a moment, concentrates hard, and pulls. They shrink back from the light of the rest of the mindscape, wrangled into dark corners and nooks and crannies, properly scared of his authority over them. He’s getting better at this.

The door closes with a light click and Virgil doesn’t even have time before an arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him upright against the side of his bed. The blankets encase his arms, making it futile to struggle and he must look so pathetic right now, wriggling like a worm, it’s got to be Patton holding him because he’s the only one kind enough not to say anything, or Roman because he feels bad about making this happen even when it’s Virgil’s fault, all stupid Virgil’s fault for having a nightmare that felt real, he can still feel the burning in his gut, the need for more air, his hair is wet his face is wet his eyes are wet he can’t breathe and someone is holding him up--

It’s not Patton. It’s not Roman.

“You are experiencing a panic attack.” Logan enunciates clearly, face exactly three inches from Virgil’s. “I have not previously seen you experience one of this magnitude, nor has Thomas ever had one this bad, so I have come to offer my assistance. I must commend you beforehand, however, on your ability to keep this from Thomas. It was...sneaky. And unexpectedly thoughtful.”

“You--you--” He still can’t breathe, but the tears have stopped, more out of surprise than anything else.

“We must get your breathing under control before we have any more conversation,” Logan decides, and settles, stiff but comfortable, against Virgil’s side. “I have heard that physical contact can help during an attack, but feel free to push me away if you are so inclined. Now, shall we start with counting your breaths?”

The whole situation is bewildering, but it is easy to fall into the familiar experience of in-hold-release, five-seven-eight, so Virgil does. His tears stay away but the breathing is harder to control, after having indulged in the panic for so long. But Logan is patient, and his arm is a heavy, reassuring weight across Virgil’s shoulders. Their knees knock together where Virgil’s are still bent awkwardly inside the sheets and Logan has sat down cross-legged.

Remember what happened last time, say the shadows of his room. Remember. Don’t forget.

I’m not dreaming. I’m not even asleep.

Are you sure?

Virgil’s shivers redouble, his throat constricting, and Logan’s brow furrows. He places a hand on Virgil’s chest and Virgil balks, eyes rounding. Like this, he's almost encircling Virgil, the back of Virgil’s head brushing the other side’s shoulder. He was too warm before, but no it feels like he’s boiling alive but Virgil can’t find it in himself to ask Logan to stop it. What is he doing--

He’s checking my heartbeat, he realizes when Logan frowns again and glances at his watch. Keeping time. He knows my pulse is too fast.

What do you think this is doing to Thomas? That’s why Logic is here to help, right? Do you think maybe Princy will come back and finish the job if you don’t get your heart rate under control?

Stop it, Virgil thinks. It is much harder to stop his fears when he’s the one they’re attacking.

“Is there anything more that I should be doing for you, Anxiety?” Logan asks. His voice is quiet, softer than it has ever been when addressing Virgil--gentle, almost, if Virgil were the type to use that word--and his tone is even and controlled. Exactly the opposite, then, of Virgil.

“Water,” Virgil croaks, and winces when he hears his own voice. It is raspy and broken and terrible to hear. He has been crying for a long time. “Please.”

Logan’s lips twitch at the polite afterthought, but all he does is incline his head and conjure a glass. When Virgil manages to wrest one hand free of the linen prison he’s constructed for himself, it is cool against his fingertips. He almost expects his skin to sizzle upon contact. The air is so still in his room, but he can’t exactly open the door to get some circulation.

He tries to take the glass for himself, but his fingers are weak, and he still isn’t getting air to his brain properly and he almost drops the glass. His other arm is twisted awkwardly around his own back and he doesn’t have the strength to get up and put himself to rights, so Virgil has a split second to resign himself to the fate of being slightly damp for a few hours.

He doesn’t have to, though, because a sure, steady hand folds around his, catching the water before it can fall in his lap. “Careful,” Logan says, but with how gentle he’s being--like Virgil is a newborn colt, which would be aggravating in any other context but makes that small, bright part of Virgil curl up in his chest and shudder pleasantly now--it doesn’t sound like an admonishment.

“Sorry,” Virgil rasps anyway. Just to be safe.

Why is he doing this for you? It’s not like he likes you. Patton probably put him up to it. Or he wants to make sure you don’t hurt Thomas.

Logan shakes his head but keeps his silence and helps raise the glass to Virgil’s lips. His eyes are keen behind his glasses, watching for any sign that Virgil is uncomfortable. His face is tight, lines drawn from how hard Logan is concentrating and his cheeks are--

Virgil splutters, pulling back from the glass with a gasp; it had tasted strangely musty, but that’s not the issue. Virgil’s mouth is probably the origin of that strangeness. There are only a few sips left, thankfully, so he doesn’t make too much of a mess of himself. He feels the other’s bicep tense beneath his head but he’s too busy scrambling back to see Logan’s face more clearly to apologize.

“You don’t have any bags under your eyes,” Virgil says. It must seem like quite the non sequitur because Logan’s brows jump, and he disappears the glass with a wave of his hand. Virgil stammers under the scrutiny. “You--you should have--”

“Not all of us are able to due to the nature of our very beings,” Logan tilts his head in Virgil’s direction, “but I happen to get the optimal amount of sleep every night, hence why I do not have the same shadows under my eyes as you do. Although--and please don’t take this to mean I am prying--but you seem to not be getting enough sleep these days. More than usual, in fact.”

“I--how do you know about that?”

“Irritability, irrationality, sluggish movements, decreased appetite, and trouble concentrating are all signs of lack of sleep,” Logan lists off. He still hasn’t moved very far but Virgil’s body must be uncomfortable to hold like this, all bunched up fabric and jutting bones. “Although it is hard to differentiate these symptoms from those of the nature of who you are, Anxiety, yours have increased dramatically over the past few days to weeks.”

Virgil’s stomach drops even further but there’s something strange here, something his paranoia has latched on to and if he can just figure out why Logan’s face is bothering him so much he could figure it out.

It’s his eyes, whisper Virgil’s shadows. You know it’s his eyes. No one can stay here for so long without getting tired of you, Anxiety. What’s wrong with his eyes?

“You’re not feeling the effects of my room,” Virgil realizes. Every bone in his body is made of lead; he can’t seem to move. Even if he could, where is there to go? “You should be--you should be freaking out right now. Why aren’t you--what’s happening?”

Virgil’s body isn’t listening to him anymore, the panic from before and his new terror rising to wrench his control away. The tears are back, streaming from the corners of his eyes, unbidden, unheeded. Logan doesn’t even react to them beyond a head tilt, a quirk of the lips. Virgil sags against the other side's arm and shoulder, the bedframe digging into his upper back. What is wrong with him? He’s been having trouble moving all this time but not like this, not so much that he can’t even feel in control of his own limbs. His lungs still feel pressure, but it's foggy now, like they’re not a part of him anymore. His brain is cloudy. There’s foam in his mouth.

The water, Virgil realizes, a second before his brain catches up with him. He tries to thrash and twist away from the other’s grip, but Logan just smiles and reaches out to wipe at his chin where the foam is gathering. He tsks under his breath, still smiling but his face is too angular now, too sharp and frightening. Virgil cringes away from those sharp teeth.

“Oh Anxiety,” Logan says, voice too high and sweet as sugar, a tone too saccharine for even Patton. “Don’t you know not to go accepting help from strangers? And here I thought that’s the only thing you were ever good for. I’m sorely disappointed.”

It’s just another nightmare, says that hopeful piece of him, but that too is getting harder to focus on.

Did you even fall asleep this time?

Things are going fuzzy again, for the third time--the final time, some small, dark part of Virgil hopes desperately--but he still has the presence of mind to try to lift his one free, deadened hand and push at Logan’s chest. Anything to get away.

“The only stranger here,” says another voice, too familiar not to be instantly recognizable, “is you. Now if you would kindly unhand my friend here, that would be appreciated.”

It can’t be, Virgil thinks. Logan is sitting right here.

He’d never call you his friend, the shadows agree. They are growing now, filtering in at the edges of his vision, clawing their way across his ceiling and over the bedspread, reaching for his fingertips.

“And what if I don’t?” Asks the Logan holding him, smiling all the while. God, but Virgil sort of wants to punch his lights out.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” says the new Logan, and the stern, dangerous tone of voice almost puts Virgil at ease.

Then the convulsions start and he loses track of things for a while. Stress and shock make waves of tingles flood his body, again and again and again and he doesn’t know what kind of poison he’s ingested but it’s making him weak and disconnected but it also makes his insides feel like they’re being set on fire and liquefied all at once. He can feel more foam coming to his lips and filling his throat and tears wash it away from his face. He thinks maybe his nose is bleeding.

There's a flurry of movement, and at the corners of his eyes, Virgil can see sharp jerks of color, flitting in and out of sight like birds. Someone’s fist, someone’s elbow. A pair of glasses, maybe, flying off into the darkness of his room. But then his vision starts going and Virgil can’t get up the strength to turn around and look at what’s going on.

There are hands on him again and Virgil isn’t sure when he’d been let go in the first place, but these new palms are warm and dry and they wipe away all of the gunk on his face. The weak light in Virgil’s room, dimming fast, glints off of Logan’s glasses. Worry etches plain across his face and there are deep shadows under his eyes.

“Anxiety, can you hear me?” Logan asks, voice urgent and careful. He’s cupping Virgil’s face and his skin is too hot, the waves coursing through him feel like needles now and it hurts so much that his vision greys out for a few seconds. Logan shakes him a little and the colors snap back into place, but his vision is still tunneling. “Anxiety, if you can hear me, I don’t know what's happening but I think you’re hallucinating, or bringing your dreaming into reality or--I’m not sure, I’m sorry, I know it’s my job but just--just wake up, alright? You have to wake up--”

Virgil gasps, reaches one hand up to clench his numb fingers desperately around one of Logan’s wrists, and feels his eyes roll back in his head.