Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the mindscape, everyone had secrets.

 It was one of those facts, the unbridled truths that came with being a side. Many were worth mentioning once in a while, but only when necessary. (Such as during family game night, quarrels, rap battles, whenever Janus and Remus played a game together, that one time there was a spider in the vent… ) 

Unfortunately for the sides, they lived inside of a middle aged man's mind---which wasn't exactly a place to harbor secrecy. This, of course, resulted in many guilty pleasures becoming…well, if anything, a bit more guilty.

Virgil happens to be the only side that can crawl on walls. Roman works out alone in the Imagination as a coping mechanism. (How exactly he managed to create a fully functional gym in there, nobody knows. )

Janus has a heat lamp in his room---it gets extremely loud sometimes. Patton has a huge scrapbook of Thomas’ childhood memories, featuring some pictures of the sides throughout his early development. Remus has multiple flavors of deodorant in the freezer and fridge, most of which are mildly concerning on where and how he got his hands on them. 

And Logan... well, he happens to be the brain.

Unfortunately, once Thomas pieced together Logan and his mind, previously routine functions suddenly fell to him.

(Association with the sides was a fickle thing when it came to something as abstract as the mind, but alas, there was nothing much Logic could do in a world of pure imagination.)

And so came a time when he had to do most things manually---one of which was dispersing hormones. Adrenaline, Serotonin, Melatonin, Dopamine, Oxytocin, you name it; they were all at his fingertips.

And it seemed without them the reactions wouldn’t occur.

Thus, Logan’s journey of sprinkling around pinches of chemicals was added to his ever-growing list of responsibilities.

For some reason, the hormones manifested as small jars with colorful sand-like contents and a small label on the side. He was able to reach into a pocket or fold practically anywhere and found that the jar needed simply appeared in his hand.

His current running theory as to why there were so few was likely due to Thomas’ knowledge of them (He didn't know very much).

Logan heaved a sigh, giving in to the sound of his clipped fingers against the bottom of his chair.

And though he found it strange how he wished to keep this a secret from the others, Logan was far too self-centered to place trust in the hands of everyone else anyways.

 He could often rely on signals from other sides or Thomas himself on when to release them, but otherwise it was up to Logan to keep him functioning (This proved quite difficult).

On top of all of this new information dumped onto him, Logan had one final fact which made this job so much more difficult---the jars did not refill.

At all.

Currently, the logical side was sat at his mahogany desk, an unusual abundance of clutter offsetting the typical state of his room---dark, indigo, and organized.

Despite the 3 months that had passed from when Logan was first presented with his new duty, this singular rule continued to evade him. He had done more research on hormones in these months than he had altogether---which, yes, was saying something. 

He was able to understand their metaphysical use enough to be productive, as they seemed to work almost like taking pills. Logan was disciplined enough to form his own ‘clock’ of sorts for Thomas, managing to stay within the Mind Palace (as Roman dubbed the astral plane they operated on) while affecting the physical world.

But he still could not figure out how the jars were replenished. He was quite stingy with the stuff, however found that the potency of the drug would often shift with no discernible reason, become empty and simply refuse to do its job, or fluctuate in value right in front of his eyes. On occasion, jars would even overthrow and cause a large mess of glitter to fall on his floor (thank the stars nobody was able to notice how the hue of the hallway’s carpet shifted ever so slightly), which was an absolute pain to clean.

Logan sighed, his reminiscing cut off with a swift three knocks at his door.

“I did not forget movie night, Patton,” he called to the door, his monotone voice scratchy with its lack of use.

He really needed to get this under control.

(Both the hormones and his strange habit of recapping events like an introduction to a novel. Seriously, why does he do this?)

“Owh Em Gee Thomas---this show is just so cool!”

Patton's incoherent squealing about the show had gotten old the last 130 times. (Seriously, Parks and Recreation again?)

Thomas decided he needed to wind down after a more stressful outing with friends, so Patton and some of the others had convinced him of yet another marathon of this strange TV show. The only sides physically there at the moment were Patton and Virgil, as Roman had ended up retreating to his room after “such an exhausting day“, although it was clear to Logan that Roman needed a little more than recharge time after the numerous hits his ego got.

However, that was not of note---what was of note was the fact that it was 9:30, and Thomas’ melatonin release time tended to be right about now. 

Logan materialized a bit too close for comfort as nonchalantly as possible, reaching a hand into his sleeve, a small jar of deep cerulean glitter labeled “MELATONIN” nestling itself into his palm. He flicked open the cork with a quiet pop, and precisely shook it onto Thomas’ hair.

“Oh, hello Logan!” Patton said with a smile, his faint freckles dancing in the light from the kitchen.

With practiced form, Logan didn't flinch at the voice, his hand instead disappearing behind Thomas' head in a motion he could only hope was swift enough.

Logan simply ordered, “Bedtime.”

Thomas pouted at him (Patton likely held the same expression) as Logan shifted his weight away to give Thomas personal space for once.

As the shards of blue disappeared into a sea of brown, Thomas raised a hand to stifle a yawn, his figure relaxing into the plush sofa.

“Tired already Thomas? But we just started! And it was getting so good!”

“I know Patton, but maybe sleep could do me good for now.”

Virgil glanced up from his sprawl against the base of the couch, not saying a word. Patton forced a deeper pout, but before he could open his mouth, Logan rose into a stance he hoped would communicate finality.

A stern glare was all he needed for Patton to be shut down and a smile forced back on his face.

“You’re right,” Patton sighed, a tiredness seemingly working its way through the fatherly side as well, “Thomas, you deserve a nice nap after today kiddo. Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

“Or do. Feel them crawling all over you and never fall asleep,” Virgil added with an underline of twirling his fingers through his hoodie strings.q

“Nooooooooo,” Patton let out tiredly, sinking out with a wide yawn and closed eyes.

“Yesssssssss,” matched Virgil, equally as energised.

“As far as I am aware, we do not have bed bugs. Bed bugs are picked up from travel, and Thomas has done none of the sort recently. Bed bugs would also cause small bites and reactions, and small rusty stains on sheets.” Logan’s information was met with tired gazes.

“It’s a saying, nerd nose.” Virgil slumped further onto the floor.

“Nothing more original, Virgil?”

“I'm tired, okay? You can’t hold this to me when I haven’t slept in days.”

Logan frowned. “That… cannot be good.”

“Eh, it doesn't affect me. Bye,” he parted.

…

A beat of silence.

Logan and Thomas blinked at one another.

Thomas sniffed.

Logan stood ramrod straight.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” he reminded with the softest voice he could muster. (Which, with Logan, likely wasn't as soft as he thought.)

Thomas retreated to his room, and Logan only remembered that night as wonderfully filled with rest.

He awoke groggily to soft light filtering in through his window. It had been that way for a while now---the first part of his personal daily routine, waking up through his rectangular slats and changing into fresh clothes.

This time though, Logan felt an urge to stay. He was, frankly, quite exhausted despite the long and dreamless sleep. 

So he remained in his bed, staring at his ceiling. (Did he always have stars up there? Perhaps he could look into that more if the time comes…)

He knew he had to wake up Thomas, but he felt so relaxed and suddenly unbothered, yet unfocused. As if he was in some figurative maze, banging his head against a wall.

After some time, he willed himself to at least summon Serotonin, seeing if its contents would be filled or not today---or perhaps too full for once, and it would fall through his bed into the physical world (though he has no evidence to prove this, the fear continues to eat at him). But it wasn't--

Instead, the jar fell onto his face with a soft thunk, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself much more focused, and he blinked away the dust from his eyelids. With surprise, he pushed himself up onto his elbows to stare at the near empty jar lying on its side.

A small buzzing sensation rang in his ears.

It appeared the hormones did have a direct effect on the sides as well. This could prove useful for future… crises.

(What did not prove useful was the cloud of peachy sand left on his mattress. Jesus, it wasn't full, but how long would that take to clean?)

Logan got dressed and rose into Thomas’ room, where he remained asleep. Logan checked the clock and winced as he realized he had likely spaced out for thirty minutes. He looked towards his hands, now fully visible rather than cloaked in the dawn's cover. From what he knew, Roman enjoyed greeting Thomas when the day began, usually to freshen up and choose clothes, but whatever---he had more research to work on now anyway. The thought of Roman catching him anxiously snooping around Thomas’ room managed to click something in Logan's brain, a small voice saying ‘This might not be good to research further until we have time to spare.’

He reached into his pants pocket and materialized Cortisol as well as the now decrepit jar of Serotonin. Logan squinted at the bottle. He never really thought of how the contents of the bottle truly worked, but this could certainly prove to be worthy of research (Had he already said that? Eh, it doesn't matter.)

 Logan first sprinkled the silvery auburn-colored powder of Cortisol onto Thomas’ forehead, gently massaging it into his temples and hair until it disappeared under his skin.

Thomas stirred and yawned, turning over to curl further into himself. Logan waited a moment before popping open the golden fragments of Serotonin and waving them around the room, eventually flicking some into the air above Thomas’ forehead.

Serotonin was meant to come not too soon after, so he had to spread it out so the effects wouldn't come immediately into play---though this time it wasn't like it would matter much anyways (apologies, Thomas).

Eventually, Thomas’ eyes creaked open, blinking slowly as he began to wake up. Sitting up, he scanned the room, finding nothing but the low light filtering through the window and a faint memory of a dream long lost.

“Wakey wakey, Thomas! You sure slept in, huh?” A familiar and muffled voice came.

It was still too early for Roman and Thomas to be interacting at all; given how slowly he naturally wakes up in comparison to a figment of his imagination.

“So, what do you think of an over-the-top glitter look! Like, drag, but not really, you know? It's that one …,” Roman rambled on as he sauntered into the bedroom, hardly paying attention to Thomas himself.

“You got it?” He said excitedly, slamming his hands on the foot on the bed.

Thomas was going back to sleep.

The memory of rising back into his bed was long lost, but Logan did remember the way his pleated comforter hugged his body that felt suffocated, an awful sinking that had long resided in his chest tethering Logan to his bed; it was as if every ounce of motivation he had was syphoned out of him through a syringe and thrown onto his floor for the cracks in the wood to seep it in.

His eyes remained open and stationary. His breathing was forced, his mind understimulated enough to find interest in the repetitive patterns.

Why can't he move?

Logan had so much to do. He had a checklist, and people needed his help. Needed him--

He had responsibilities, damn it, and he wasn't about to prove himself untrustworthy. If there was one thing Logan was, it was consistent.

So there was only one thing Logan knew what to do when he became as desperate as this (and he didn't like it much), but god dammit, his body wouldn't move.

He grit his teeth, biting his cheek in a self soothing act of defiance. His body was no longer a part of him, he thought, it was a disobedient dog that needed motivation.

Get up, he forced with vigor.

Get up! 

His eyes closed with the mental strain he felt.

Move! Move! Go! Get up! Get up, get up! 

Across each of his temples a horrid image of flesh and bone splitting from the pressure between them crossed his mind.

Get up, move, leave!

“Why would logic struggle so much with such a menial task?”

Get up, get up, get up, get up, please, get up get-

His eyes snapped open with the shock of hearing air whistle through his lungs again, his lips sputtering to compensate for the lack of respiration.

And finally, despite the watery feeling of his bones and veins, the way his head pounded with every movement, the shattering ache that came with tearing apart the layers of his muscle, Logan did something.

No, it wasn't much. But he did something---and really, in this strange mindplace where Logan's body and life force was being stripped away from him piece by piece, his identity, his sense of self reduced to nothing but thoughts and subconscious memories, becoming nothing more than the jars of damned glitter in his pocket-

Logan moved.

The glass felt warm, nestled neatly between his fingertips.

His only sense of true stability nowadays, his only true form of self and purpose, this new idea that allowed him to think differently for once in this hellscape of a life; it was empty.

For the first time, not a speck of shimmery gold,

not even the glass that surrounded it, nor its label,

held any more meaning than Logan ever did.

These jars were one of the only things that let him do his job---nobody truly paid any attention to his schedules and plans, his long sought after praise or feeling of something other than usefulness rotting in a metal trash can somewhere.

For once, Logan had no other thoughts.

He blinked away tears, the glass of the small container warping in his hand of swirls.

Logan wouldn't let go of himself yet, not this easily, not when he had just found control in his life. He would fight and protect these god forsaken chemicals with his life if it meant protecting Thomas and the sides;

Hell, he didn't care for himself at all anymore. And if the others didn't either, then the logical explanation is that he simply doesn't need care.

And though he didn't notice, the sunlight of the dawn caught the smallest fragment of a citrine gold flake in the corner of his eye.

Chapter Text

Logan was thinking.

Thinking thoughts.

Thinking thoughts about himself.

Why, you might be thinking, would Logan be in the (more common than not) situation of thinking about himself alone in his room?

Well, Logan had an answer to his inner monologue.

His thumb dragged itself along a sharp edge, thin lines etching through the pad of his finger like scissors across smooth paper.

It wasn't truly brought to his attention, per say, but…

Neat pen scrawls cowered beneath his tall shadow, the purpose engraved into the words faded along with the yellow of the card.

Logic isn't meant to feel, supplied his head.

Logic wasn't meant to interact with items that should probably be in Patton's room, either, he argued back.

His eyes stayed hazy and unfocused for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the small cursive definitions on the back of some insignificant cards. Then, not unlike a wave of cold ocean dragging sand further beneath it's surface, a nauseous clarity grew in his gut.

What was he doing, talking to himself? God, he wasn't that lonely and pathetic.

…Probably.

Although technically a buildup of indifference and ignorance throughout multiple years, Logan was not unaware of his rapidly decreasing mental health.

He unceremoniously chucked the note cards back into his nightstand.

With the addition of Janus and Remus, two sides Thomas had begrudgingly welcomed in his mind, Logan had noted a distinct lack of appreciation for…well, logic, he supposed.

Logan's eyes lost the clarity they had, lagging and flickering around the few possessions he kept in his room.

His eyes caught on a faded portrait of the sides beside Thomas, a memory of forcing himself to take the selfie to spare Patton's lethal amount of grandpa-technology-knowledge from harming the others.

Huh.

Logan found himself focusing on his breathing.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In, out.

In-

God, this is boring.

He forced his mind out of its perpetual ‘lump of tar’ circular thinking, a strange pull tugging at his center and grabbing his attention.

Logan cocked his head, the sensation interesting and new, although not entirely pleasant.

Then with a sharp tug, a deep aching pain came from his bellybutton, the image of someone pulling at his insides and collapsing his flesh into one pressured star burned his eyes.

Ah, yes. Ow, hunger. 

Another sharp yank sent his teeth gnashing for his already scarred cheeks.

(Was Logan being self-destructive? Yes. Did Logan give a fuck? …Mildly.)

Virgil’s voice, low and muffled, swam through Logan’s door.

“Hey, uh, Logan,” he called in no more than a whisper, “I…need your help.”

Logan perked up from his work desk and spun around to face the door. He opened his mouth to invite Virgil in, but the words died on his tongue as a deep pressing weight settled onto his figure. He furrowed his eyebrows and stood up, noting the distinct lack of strength in his arms (After this morning’s paralysis spell, he felt light-headed).

He cleared his throat as he felt the discomfort of the anxious side waft through the door. He pushed himself off of the desk and placed a hand on his doorknob, willing it to open.

The hunched frame of Virgil he was met with looked towards him in light surprise, the tiredness in his eyes evident. Virgil gave a small, awkward smile as Logan invited him in with a step to the side.

“Sleep issues?” Logan asked with a hint of sympathy as Virgil slowly walked in and flopped on the bed.

He sank into the bed, nodding with a sigh before sitting up to face Logan.

Logan gave him a brief and gentle lecture on a simplified circadian rhythm, not bothering too much to hide his interest as he answered Virgil's inquiries and drew a holographic visual model. 

Virgil sighed and rubbed his eyes, not quite satisfied as he looked towards the carpet.

“But.. how could I fix it?” He stared as his eyes flicked back up to Logan.

“Well,” he started,” The goal is to get your body to remember to release melatonin at a specific time each night so the effects can both be stronger, and you can fall asleep faster. But, to release melatonin at the same time each night, you would need to schedule when to get into bed, turn off anything that may keep you up, and make sure you relax at the same time each night.”

Logan paused, an idea forming in his mind. Virgil looked back with his head on his palm, his discomfort and manner of getting better sleep showing on his face.

“Or…” Logan started slowly, his eyes drifting to his sleeve, a feeling of uncertainty pooling in his chest.

Logan hesitated for a second, this very well may be the most detrimental thing he can do. His eyes drifted over his wrist, Virgil's staring eyes making the decision feel bigger than he was.

He sighed, his hand twitching away from the fabric in a last ditch denial.

Virgil’s face itched with curiosity, his head cocking to the side at Logan's shiftiness.

“I could try to… experiment with how sleep functions in the mindscape,” Logan proposed after a moment of thinking. “Of course, I have no idea how this could affect you, nor how it could be preformed, nor its effects on Thomas. In addition, this will likely span across more than just unconsciousness, seeing how past research of the Palace went.” He paused for a moment, reminiscing about the mind-bending (though admittedly fun) attempts to understand the laws of their existence. Though, it felt so long ago now…

“Perhaps I should try again,” he convinced himself, a steely look Virgil never saw in the man crossing his features.

Logan certainly had more to cover with the violet side, but he learned by now if he went any further the details would become too stressed for Virgil, and Logan couldn't waste an opportunity to spark curiosity in the side.

“Alright…,” Virgil murmured, his eyes trained onto Logan with a silent look of gratefulness gleaming in his eyes.

“Uhm, thanks…. That uh…” He paused, looking away from Logan's eyes, “Thanks, L. I really appreciate that you'd do that,” He finished, waving a hand to dismiss himself while he slinked out of the room.

Logan wasn't certain about testing on these hormones yet, but Virgil…

He worries him.

His head turned back to his desk, the familiar procedure of preparing for hands-on research bringing a rare smile to his face, the hunger forgotten.

In the heat of yet another argument, Logan struggled to make his voice heard. 

"Please, for the love of god just listen to me."

His halfhearted plea held no weight in the tense air, though he couldn't tell if it had actually escaped his lips or remained trapped in his mind. It was one of those arguments where dialogue blurred into noise, where his attempts at contribution felt futile.

As the argument spiraled further out of his reach, Logan felt a familiar pressure building inside him, a mix of frustration and repressed emotions that he had learned to keep in lock and key over the years. He blinked, surprised to find moisture in his eyes, the stew of insecurity and anger that was on high-heat broil spilling over the lip of the pot.

He tried to recall how it had all started, what had sparked this latest disagreement, but the details eluded him. All he knew was that it was once more out of control, and he felt an overwhelming responsibility to diffuse the situation.

His muscles tensed, his core and neck long sore from the strain, his teeth skipping along with the rhythmic grind of bone, frustrated tears pricking the edge of his eyes.

It was his job anyway, wasn't it?

But could you really make a difference, truly affect something, change something, if not one person notices?

He wasn't sure.

And Logan stood there, in his dust riddled space beneath the stairs. He felt a deep weight in his chest begin to become heavier and heavier with each passing second-

And a deep burn replaced it. All of his rational thoughts melded into a hollow numbness, anger and heat reconstructed into apathy. And as apathy made its way, it cut through Logan's melted thoughts and sliced it open to reveal the noticeably quieter sides around him.

A meek voice in Logan questioned if they had noticed his disassociation, some small part that wanted to believe his cold stare held something next to emotion behind his glasses. But the rest of him knew nobody could see past-he made them that way, after all. Years of staring in the mirror and pulling at his skin and his eyes to make sure his face truly conveyed what he wanted. It was a shame what he wanted wasn't so clear anymore.

As the previously heated argument had come to a standstill, Logan felt a wave of relief sink into him; but it was quickly rinsed by a sense of guilt and doubt.

His contributions had been pushed aside, his attempts to intervene ignored, and now, as the situation resolved itself without his involvement, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed in some way.

The memory of how it all began slowly resurfaced in Logan's mind. Roman had summoned him, and he had arrived to find Janus and Patton locked in a tense standoff. Something about Thomas and Nico...

Yes, Thomas had impulsively decided to go on a date a few weeks ago, disrupting Logan's carefully planned cleaning schedule (with Remus, no less) and causing a ripple of disquiet within him. The memory of the day that Thomas crushed him made him cringe, the image of Thomas, his only care, his only purpose, his only reason of living, his muse, turned his back on him, and turned towards ‘love’.

Fucking love.

No matter how gently he debated with him, Thomas would always choose this awful, deceptive, and fleeting concept over him.

No matter the effort.

His gaze remained steely and cold.

As Logan took back to piecing together the events leading up to the deadlock, he felt the familiar spark of anger unwinding in his chest. But before it could fully crumble to embers, confusion clouded his mind--

Why were they all standing around in silence now? Why was everything so difficult to make out?

A sharp pain throbbed in Logan's forehead, his vision slowly sharpening after shutting down for too long. The thought of just how many times this has happened began to cross Logan's mind.

And why has it become normal?

He forced himself to focus on the softer conversation that was unfolding around him instead.

Thomas looked remorseful, Roman appeared weary and vulnerable, Virgil seemed resigned, and Patton wore a strained smile. Even Janus, who had been lurking in the background unnoticed by Logan until now, offered a curt nod before slipping away.

Feeling another wave of frustration, Logan realized that perhaps his silence and reservation did more good than not.

With a heavy heart, Logan followed Janus' lead and sank into the background, the weight of his unspoken words dangling heavy on his shoulders.

When Logan arose into his room, he waited a moment before gasping a breath he didn't realize was kept from him.

His shoulders hiked, his tender flesh shaking and rippling with waves of force.

Then he found an onslaught of emotion pin him into a keel, one hand over his chest and another over his mouth. A wave of pressure sent his breath hitching and shaking, his hands clawing at his throat to rip off his beloved tie.

Emotion.

 It was the worst thing Loan had dealt with in all of his time being sentient. It was irrational, unpredictable, spontaneous, and everywhere (somehow very similar to the unfortunate glitter he was forced to throw around daily); and he had been repressing it for far too long to handle it like someone who wasn’t so dense could. The burning and heaviness in his chest screamed for attention once more, Logan placing his hands on his dresser for stability.

Logan willed himself to breathe as normally as he could, moving his head upward to meet his stone face in the mirror.

A low hum rang through his bones, a hollow chord like a dying city trying hopelessly to call for help.

He rested his eyes.

He breathed in slowly once more.

In, out.

His eyes flicked open, not missing the way his pupils hung slightly higher, the twist of anger still seething now only visible to himself.

It was 7 pm.

What in the world could Thomas possibly need?

A beat passed. Logan’s eyes twitched with some unnameable reaction.

What in the world could he possibly need? He repeated with a hint of anger lacing the thought.

He heaved a long sigh, taking off his glasses and massaging his eyes. The pull inside his torso didn’t subside.

He spared another glance at himself. The fire in his throat needed to be doused.

Logan apperated a light magenta-colored sand, slowly tuning it to its side. The label read ‘DOPAMINE’, and he certainly needed it. After a moment of hesitation, Logan popped the cork and sprinkled some onto his head.

He felt the same.

The same strange, hollow echo in his mind.

He felt the same.

He could never truly be fixed. He stared at the half-empty bottle.

He blinked once, slowly. His window nearly seemed to filter a bright light for a moment, Logan whirling towards it to find only the moon’s soft glow.

He found himself breathing again, manually registering each inhale. After a minute, he slowly turned to the mirror. 

Logan made no notice of his appearance, his glasses likely askew, his tie either untied or flung somewhere in his room. It didn't matter at the moment.

He rose again into Thomas’ bedroom to the sight of Thomas repeating his earlier action 1 to 1 in the mirror. His gaze was held in his own, his eyes watery yet not quite threatening to spill.

Logan finally had the decency to name the emotion he felt.

Sadness.

How pathetic.

Without looking, Logan opened the bottle only he could feel, and gently let it settle onto Thomas’ pillow. He glanced at the sheets, disappointed to find that the jar remained half-empty; the rest still wasted on the one brain it couldn't fix.

Logan sank out.

Thomas whipped around, the small moment of confusion and numbness heightening the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure just behind him.

His eyes darted back and forth, catching on nothing but the empty air.

He grew paranoid.

Logan awoke once more to the muffled sounds of crows chirping outside his window. Logan had quite honestly not given too much thought to the life that had manifested outside of his imagined window, in his imagined room, in his imagined family; yet something told him if he dwelled too long on it, he would have an existential crisis.

And goddamnit, by his luck, he probably would anyway.

Chapter Text

Thomas sat across from Nico at their favorite café, where the gentle hum of conversations and the clinking of coffee cups provided a familiar backdrop. He should have been enjoying Nico's company, reveling in the warmth of their connection. But instead, Thomas felt a strange emptiness, a lack of interest that left him unsettled. It wasn't that Nico had changed—he was still as charming and kind as ever. It was Thomas. Something was wrong.

“Uh, bye Nico! It was fun tonight… thanks,” Thomas wavered, a small smile forced onto his face.

“Yeah, glad I could try out this place, it was real nice. Thanks for coming,” Nico replied with a grin, seemingly unaware of Thomas’ inner turmoil.

Thomas waved goodbye, the debate of whether to apologize for his disinterest lost to the turn of his own back heading toward his apartment.

Thomas sighed heavily, resisting the urge to slump onto the couch and lie there until the sun rose again. He and Nico had felt… different after their last date in the park about a month ago.

Eventually, he dragged his body over to the center of his living room, rubbing his eyes before deciding to call out hollowly.

"Guys, I need you," Thomas croaked, his voice tinged with frustration and confusion.

In an instant, Roman, Patton, and Virgil materialized around him. Patton was the first to speak, his eyes wide with concern.

"What's wrong, kiddo?"

"It's Nico," Thomas said, running a hand through his hair. "I went on a date with him tonight, and... I felt nothing. No interest, no excitement, nothing. It was like…,” he hesitated, sighing again,” like my emotions were… turned off."

"Princey usually goes overboard with the lovey-dovey stuff. Something’s wrong," Virgil remarked, concern etched on his face.

Roman, feeling attacked, stepped forward, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. "How dare you, you love cynic! If anything, you must have blocked my signs of love! Or… could it be that the magic of love is waning? Say it ain't so!"

“Nobody here listens to Weezer but you, Roman. And yes, everybody knows that song. So don't be proud of yourself,” Virgil pinned, looking from Thomas to Roman. "Also, Nico is just as important to me as he is to you!”

Logan, who had been observing quietly, adjusted his glasses and rose into the conversation. "I believe this situation may be beyond our influence," he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he pushed himself into the conversation, "It's not about love fading, Roman. It could be a temporary deficiency in what would normally cause those feelings.”

It felt odd, the way his mouth clamped shut despite the rest of his sentence clogging his throat.

Patton hummed cartoonishly, tilting his head. "Maybe Logan…But I mean, what if it is something happening from within Thomas?"

"Then it will probably just lead to more conflict between us," Logan replied, guilt coiling inside. The reality is that it probably was his fault---attraction is usually founded by hormones triggering in the brain, after all. But he has used up Estrogen and Testosterone as usual---which he found was thankfully sparse. Unless these sex hormones require something different? What was he missing?

Or maybe it isn't his fault at all.

Logan hesitated, then turned to Roman. "I mean… I can't speak for all of us," he started, hesitant about admitting this in case the attention was poised on him instead,” but I certainly am not the most familiar with… feelings . Especially romantic ones, as I am the embodiment of rational thought and also not a human being.”

Logan was bluffing. He knew next to nothing about emotions and just hoped no one would call him out. Hell- what if he was the odd one out? What if everyone else did feel romantic feelings?

Who would they feel them for, though?

Ah, a good point, inner monologue, Logan thought.

Roman scoffed, crossing his arms. "Logan? I mean don't get me wrong I'm glad you're admitting that this isn't your place-,” he snickered a bit, Logan getting the point that Roman wasn't serious,” But baiting out the shippers like this? Tsk, tsk. “

“W-what?”

“Me either, Patton. Me either,” Virgil solemnly placed a hand on his shoulder.

Logan sighed inwardly, the conversation unmoved. "Be that as it may, the intricacies of hormonal and emotional balance are complex. The disruption might not be directly due to any one side, but rather a combination of factors. Or perhaps more external factors. We might not ever know---but I can assure you that this should pass."

Thomas looked at Logan, a hint of hope in his eyes. "So… it can be fixed?"

Logan nodded firmly. "Of course, Thomas. We'll- I’ll try to look into it. In the meantime, try to relax and not worry-"

The room filled with shocked voices as a familiar yellow-clad side rose next to Patton. Logan had mixed feelings about Janus, but he was moderately competent, which he admired. Though he couldn't figure out why the other sides seemed so shocked and disoriented at his presence---he was another one of them, after all.

Janus laughed heartily and motioned for the sides to stop shouting and commenting at his ‘unorthodox’ appearance.

But they didn't.

Janus spoke up to Thomas, saying something or another and pointing to Roman. Roman looked around frantically, balling his fists and looking, well, in all honesty, hurt.

He had never seen Roman hurt before---not so easily, not like when Janus plays a role. Perhaps he was too quick in his judgment of Janus; he is and has proved himself to be, more cunning than he lets on.

Patton tried to raise a point, or at least attempted de-escalation, but Virgil’s slights at Janus made this all the more difficult.

“Janus?” Logan asked, trying to get his attention while he still had somewhat of a say.

Janus didn't make any motion to acknowledge that he heard Logan.

He couldn't afford any slip-ups, not when Thomas's emotional well-being was at stake. The pressure was immense, and the weight of his responsibilities bore down on him. He needed a solution, and fast, but the more he thought about it, the more overwhelmed he felt.

What can he do? 

He stood watch as his breathing picked up, his hand finding comfort against the grain of the wall.

“Please, for the love of god, just listen to me.”

Logan glanced at his desk, cluttered with books and papers detailing various psychological and hormonal studies. He had read them all, searching for answers, but nothing seemed to fit his current situation. Most couldn't anyway, but he kept some novels in a collection for Thomas just in case. This, however, felt as if the Mindscape itself was conspiring against him, throwing obstacles in his path at every turn. Maybe he should pay the ‘subconscious’ some mind one of these days.

He wanted to cry, to release the pent-up frustration and guilt, but the tears wouldn't come. The emotions were there, just out of reach, mocking him with their elusiveness. It was a cruel irony—desiring to feel, yet being unable to truly feel them. To quite literally hold them in the palm of his hand, but never feel the effects himself.

Logan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He had to remain calm, to think clearly and rationally. Thomas needed him, and he couldn't let his emotional struggles get in the way. He would find a solution, somehow. He had to. For Thomas's sake, and his own.

Sitting at his desk, Logan stared at the neatly arranged jars of colored sand.

Another responsibility, another driving force to his inevitable demise. How ironic, how somebody so dense was forced with the only thing he couldn't comprehend. Not on paper, anyway.

Janus’ mention of imbalance with the sides had struck a nerve. He hadn't even comprehended Janus’ words until now, but the keywords were slipping through his mind. He was tired, and he hated adjusting to these stupid metaphors or references or whatever.

Maybe Janus was right---the sides had been at odds for… well…

Best not to think of those days now.

They very well could be affecting Thomas more than they realized; Thomas influenced them, so why wouldn't it go the other way?

His thoughts circled back to earlier when he had hastily tried to deflect the argument. The excuse had come too easily, a reflex to direct suspicion away from himself. 

Yes, perhaps I was too selfish before. Logic is meant for complicated yet unbiased views; so why can't he view the sides as something he values?

His mind continued to nag at him, his inferiority eating away until he was only left with the cold fact that he would blame and hate on instinct rather than sacrifice even a fraction of his ego. Dark sides or not, Logan was meant to be impartial. Balanced. Why couldn’t he have just said something about stress and moved on? Or did you try to listen better to Janus' point? It did seem well thought out. 

And what of Remus? Was he too scared to show his opinion now? Had they shamed him enough for his natural demeanor to fall and crumble so badly that he decided it was better if he didn't get involved?

God- what has he done?

Logan’s shoulders slumped into his chair, his head lolling down onto the wood of his desk. A sudden, heavy weight settled onto his shoulders as his face buried into his arms, exhaustion pinning him to the smooth and refreshingly cool table. He buried his face into the crook of his arm, not caring for how his back ached but focusing only on the small stars that pricked the corners of his eyes.

Even a few months into monitoring the jars, he somehow hadn’t even noticed just how much energy they required. Although the sides slept, it was debatable to Logan if they truly relied on it; the same way they didn’t need food, water, and even healthy interpersonal relationships.

Well… he hadn't done too much research into the last one, truthfully. But his suspicion was still there.

Giving Virgil a nice and orderly experiment with results may be more futile than he first thought. But maybe, if he felt so utterly exhausted, sleep was more important than he thought.

He couldn't quite remember the last time he had genuinely valued his sleep over something else, and the thought of just resting for once became more tempting than ever.

He would have to look into it sometime…

sometime later.

“You can't win against someone who has nothing to lose, Alicorn Hair.”

If Logan was expecting a noise to wake him up, by god, it sure wasn't that.

Registering his surroundings, Logan pieced together that he had just woken up, the energy to open his eyes not quite getting enough friction to lift them from paralysis. It didn't take long to realize he should've retorted against Remus’ sinister mockings by now, but he knew the gap between rebuttals would be too long not to be awkward.

So he just lay still, slowly breathing in, waiting for the sleepiness to work its way out of his bones. For some reason, he only now realized that he had fallen asleep on his desk, and was likely not in the most glamorous of positions at the moment. Yet not a fraction of him could get up to care.

“C’mon Logie, this isn't fun if I have to pretend to wake you up from your nap.”

…

Logan didn't move a muscle.

“ BITCH, I CAN SEE YOUR EYELIDS FLUTTERING! ,” Remus exclaimed suddenly, just enough to make Logan jump.

Logan’s arm flinched, losing his unspoken game.

He peeled open his eyes, his mouth curling sourly down as he squinted towards Remus, groaning and pinching his eyes.

Remus sat floating near the doorframe, a coy grin delicately placed on his palm, his eyes boring holes into the logical side.

Logan stared daggers back, his fist disorientedly covering his mouth as he failed to suppress a yawn.

Remus' grin only grew wider.

“Sorry for interrupting your nap, teach,” he started, his voice covering a deeper emotion, “but I'd lose my head without you around!”

A haunting giggle came from his serrated teeth, his head tearing clean off his shoulders with a dissatisfying rip, the dismemberment messy as his tendons struggled to break.

Once more, Logan appeared unimpressed, and very tired.

Remus’ chilling grin fell, his wide eyes slanting downwards at him.

Logan cocked an eyebrow.

“What do you need, Remus.”

His groggy voice came out flat and angry, a kindling embarrassment Logan was unfamiliar with coiling in his stomach.

Remus' eyebrows raised.

“ Shit teach, that's a hot morning voice.”

Remus, though underestimated by most other sides, had spent plenty enough time with Logan to know exactly how to make him tick. Logan's face contorted into the most fed-up glare he could muster, slipping into the usual dynamic they tended to develop.

Remus managed a small smile back, this one less menacing and without much intent other than conveying the strange comfort and recognition that hung in the air. His head rolled back into his shoulders, the wound closing seamlessly.

“Alright, fine, cut to the chase, why don't you? I need a bit of a favor from ya pocket protector.”

Logan, finally having the energy to move, sat up at the request. He wasn't entirely sure what in the world Remus could have in store, but he was certain it was more than he would let on and less than good.

Remus swirled his charcoal black nails, picking at the skin.

“Say, you know me and Roman's mind-”

 “Roman and I.”

They made uneasy eye contact. Logan blinked.

“Grammar, Remus.”

Begrudgingly, Remus' eyebrows furrowed lower. “Me and Roman's mindscape, yeah? Well, there's a little something I need your… presence for.”

In the Imagination, as it was named, certain sides could affect the unreality in their ways---though they never had as much control as the twins. The Imagination was one of Logan's least favorite places; it was cluttered and had loose ends, and nothing added up together in the ways he was used to. If Remus needed him, it either meant he wanted Logan alone in a place where he could do little to defend himself or wanted something realistic in a place where he reigned supreme.

Logan did not like the sound of either option.

When Logan stepped foot onto the dry, dead grass of Remus' domain, he had to admit… it wasn't what he was expecting. Spindly willows curled in neon colors, huge shrubs stood with uncanny features, and large teeth, and strange vines littered the ground like petals, bright flora sang in the wind, and mysterious fauna swayed with the shadows.

 Unfortunately for Logan, he represented a bit more than Logic.

Who would turn down an opportunity to change things to their will anyway?

“Wow, already changing up the place ain't ya? You're one to make yourself at home…,” Remus muttered, a playful tone betraying his dry words.

“I guess I should read up on bone anatomy, eh?” Remus chuckled humorlessly.

Logan quirked an eyebrow, crouching down as he examined a bright blue plant the likes he'd never seen.

“Yeah, beauty ain't it? Based it off a vagina.”

Logan kept his gaze trained strictly on the flower.

“Hey, what? Are you even gonna say anything?”

Logan finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable.

“I don't have a lot of time to spare, Remus. What was it you needed my influence for?”

Remus rolled his eyes, groaning as he popped his hip out.

“ C’mon , Logie! I'm sure you've got more you’re curious about yeah? I mean, these plants weren't nearly as detailed as before,” Remus jabbed, his eyes prodding at Logan with something hidden just under the surface, the irony of not seeing something he could deduce twisting in his throat.

“It's… colorful.”

“I'm gay, Logan. Everything is colorful! You can't have fun without color, dipshit.”

Logan continued to step forward, a path of purple, dripping mushrooms suddenly sprouting where he stepped with Remus frolicking around them happily.

Logan observed the environment, his attempt to hide his interest failing as Remus quipped small details about his world, pointing out inspiration and warnings to “definitely go near that one for a rash.”

Eventually, Logan made his way through seas, forests, caves, and clearings, until he came upon a large meadow of tall lavender-looking plants that climbed up a rickety, tall tower backlit by flashing green lightning.

“Woah,” Logan gawked in awe at the structural miracle.

“Welcome to my humble abode, slut!”

“I am ignoring that in favor of claiming how surprised I am that you don't live in a swamp.”

“No, that's my cologne! Thanks for noticing!”

As the two entered, Logan was once more stunned at the, albeit strange, beauty of the place. It was small but had dark, romantic era architecture and furniture, the mathematically infeasible interior being starkly open and warm, the windows lack of light giving the only clue to the true appearance of the palace.

When he eventually found his gaze back on Remus, he was met with a sly, lipless smirk with an almost expectant look.

“I… don't know what to say,” Logan began.

Remus looked prideful, the image of his brother looking eerily close as his eyebrows quirked up at the praise to follow. He opened his mouth to brush off his hard work, but--

“I just don't believe for even a second you genuinely spend time here.”

“What?!” Remus screeched, disappointment seeping into his shock.

“It's just not… I don't know, do you? I was expecting the tower, but not this.”

Remus, with shining eyes, looked at Logan pleadingly.

“...I do commend the artistic style though,” he admitted begrudgingly, his regret dissipating as Remus' face lit up once more.

“Oh, goodie!” He exclaimed, running through a tall arch, planting a hand, and running up the stairs that sprouted at his touch. His footsteps rang hollowly in the cylinder, echoing up to a loft high above the main floor.

Logan swore he saw something else behind that smile. He was getting his way, though Logan wasn't sure how.

Logan followed, not nearly as hurried as Remus, his fingers trailing along the grooves in the wall as he examined the architecture.

“I will admit Remus, I'm getting rather impatient. What is it you brought me here for?”

“Sex,” Remus said without skipping a beat.

Logan looked appalled.

Remus glanced back with a grin.

Was- what?

Is that truly what Remus deemed worthy of-

“Relax, teach! Called a joke, learn to take one. Anyways, you've already done what I needed ya to, so don't sweat your balls off!”

There was that smile again. Whatever Remus was planning… it was coming to a head.

After taking a second to register and translate Remus' ungodly sentence, Logan was struck with something he had never felt before; something that felt like his chest was seizing up and his airways were suddenly constricted, a rhythmic beat pounding against his skull as he suddenly felt like the very walls of the room were shrinking in on him.

Oh, he realized with a start.

The walls were shrinking in on him.

“What…?” Logan said, his voice breathy, unfazed by his command to keep steady.

“I said you already did what I needed you to! Follow me here, and change things up a bit. Y’know?” Remus drawled coyly, his back still turned as the walls stretched and shifted, the furniture squeezing into a black, stone box.

“I'm not as dumb as you light side freaks think, four eyes. I know the extent of your powers, and it was just a ticking time bomb till I pulled out my trump card!”

Logan slumped to his knees involuntarily, the reality of his oversight settling into his brain.

“Don't you get it, Logic? You're my trump card. You could've helped me so much, but well…” As he trailed off, he flicked his wrist as lime chains curled from the wall, restraining Logan.

His pause lasted long, Logan feeling a sharp discomfort as he realized that not only was Remus hauntingly planned out, but he was genuinely thinking- taking a moment to decide what to say. Remus was truly unpredictable for once, and that was quite possibly the only thing that he could do to make Logan feel as truly scared as he was.

“Someone's gotta play with me if they can't find you. Janny said you needed a break anyways so…”

Remus turned towards Logan, still sitting on his knees as he glared up at Remus.

“True fantasy can't come along without a touch of realism, no?” Remus bent forward, his half-gloved hand cupping Logan's cheek and sending shivers down his neck. “I mean, what would be my perfect creation if nobody believed it?” Remus stepped closer, nuggying the top of his head.

Logan's face flashed with confusion.

“Wait- you seriously just kidnapped me for your monsters to be more realistic?” He said, the dullness of his words unrealized until they were long out of his mouth.

Remus blanched, his face contorting with anger.

“U-ugh Well- yeah! I guess! What else? Everyone will finally see my creations for what they are! Plus, without you, nobody can stop me from finally reaching Thomas! You and me are a great team! AND WHEN I CAN FINALLY DO WHAT MY JOB IS, LOGAN, I'LL BE HAPPY!,” he balked, the end of his sentence peaking into a screech. It was almost like he was trying to convince himself of his evil plan rather than the man sitting pitifully below him.

 His toothy smile haunted Logan's face, the place where his fingers gripped skin leaving dark marks.

At this, Logan surprisingly returned to his collected demeanor. He thought Remus was actually smarter than he let on--- what a joke . For a moment, he feared he had realized his possession of Thomas's entire train of thought, the very things that would make him do, quite literally, anything .

The Imagination was out of Logan's experience for more than a few reasons, one of which was that his “grounding abilities” would make things like pain, injury, and corruption more painful, and more real. Fantastic elements became more rooted in science, and the Imagination became… well, boring, as the twins would put it. He had to admit that being invited back here made him a bit excited, but that didn't stop him from being skeptical.

There was still the issue of him being in cuffs, however an angry Remus glaring daggers at him could arguably be counted as a greater threat.

Maybe that was his real plan, Logan thought. Just keep me here so Thomas won't have anyone to keep him on track. Or maybe the others, but, it did seem Remus was just doing something for attention’s sake, again. Seriously, the twins needed to get a grip on the real world more than this hellscape. Although, the Imagination did have some pretty neat and detailed life that he just saw…

Still, Logan thought, weary; not being near Thomas was a problem. What if Janus has ordered him here, to stir up trouble without his ability to see through it for the others? Remus did say something about Janus wanting him to take a break… maybe that was code for something? Did they know about the hormones? What would they do if they did? Logan was aware that each side was, inevitably, trying to help Thomas in their own way. Janus was surely smart enough to know that without the hormones, Thomas would be done for. Speaking of which, maybe Remus had heard his thoughts from this morning before Janus claimed the opposite, and had done this as a punishment! He should probably apologize, then. He did, truly, feel guilty. Remus and the sides shouldn't be pinned just because anything negative happens to Thomas… if anything, it was very well his own fault about the date…

“Remus,” Logan mustered, his eyes trailing on the ground.

He was met with silence.

“If this is about my comment about the date with Nico, I uh… do… apologize. I understand we shouldn't blame you, especially when it comes to love, but…” Logan debated if he should tell Remus the truth of his opinion. Should he keep digging this metaphorical hole he's trapped himself in, and deflect from the truth more?

Logan was cut out of his thoughts by a realization.

He looked up to find an empty room.

“God damnit,” he muttered under his breath. He really had to stop spacing out in thought; it was a genuine issue.

And the other issue was that he was alone. In the Imagination. Without Thomas.

Oh god.

“Remus? Remus! Remus, I don't do too well in the Imagination, Remus! REMUS! REMUS PLEASE-” 

The last memory of a lovely Victorian window slid into a wall, shadow enveloping the square and blank room while his ears only heard the echo of his own breath. Distantly, an iron door slammed closed and Logan was left in a room he had no knowledge of.

He shifted around to sit a bit more comfortably against the wall, preparing for the long haul. Or perhaps he was just tired. Wait, how late had it been when Remus guided him here anyway? Had he checked? (Yes, probably. He always checked.)

Or maybe it was the darkness causing him this raw lackadaisy, his bones feeling weightless and yet pinning at once, the familiar cloudiness of melatonin numbing his senses slowly. Perhaps Roman would end up saving him from this hellhole. Or someone else. Logan deserved a break, and he didn't have the energy or brainpower to think about a way to escape at the moment.

Surely it wouldn't matter anyway.

Chapter Text

The first thing Logan noticed was that he wasn't noticing.

Well, not as much as he normally did. If he was honest, somewhere in his heart knew what was happening. 

But he simply couldn't understand it by himself anymore.

The logical forefront was built for optimization, to recognize patterns, equations, and differences and reapplying them to configure answers. And, well… if there weren't any patterns, you can assume what happens to Logan.

The Imagination, in itself, was a deathtrap. Logan hardly looked back on his memories from the earlier days and is now reminded why he never ventured in there. He was scared. Terrified. It was, unsurprisingly, one of the most human things about him. 

The unknown. It was practically any logic’s natural enemy. He couldn't stand blankness, the feeling of overwhelming and all-consuming lack of anything. Not having anything leads to doubt.

And doubt leads to fear.

And for the first time in ages, Logan felt it. Fear. True, undeniable fear. He was scared. He didn't quite know of what, as there was no visible threat to him. But he could feel it, gnawing away at his gut and the constriction in his chest, his lungs filled with tightly wound string and his mouth dry with the lack of air. He was…. pathetic, really. Restrained against an unremarkable wall, simple chains tied to his wrists…

Some natural part of him braces for a strangely connected sexual remark from Remus, but the blow never comes. He sighed, the defeat eating away at him as he shifted to slump against the wall. The stiffness of his bones nearly choked him, a soft pain aching away at his neck and his joints.

He hastily moved to crack them, the hollow sound chilling in the echoing chamber. He didn't realize how little he had moved, not how lost in thought he had been. His brain seemed sluggish, unbearably slow. As if there was a membrane of fog separating himself and his purpose, screaming at him some obvious thing that he simply couldn't fathom.

It was irritating, debilitating, and frankly, it was infuriating him.

He felt as if he were in a cage, restrained against himself as a beast clawed away at him, any semblance of help miles away with earplugs in.

It has surely been hours now. The sun never moved, the long shadows cast by a thick window pane never moving an inch.

“ Negative b, plus or minus b squared minus 4 ac, over 2a…,” he trailed off, his hoarse voice unable to supply him any more stimulation.

He groaned, a long and dragged-out sound as he attempted to bury his hands in his face. He was fully curled onto the ground at this point, his glasses long forgotten a few feet away.

“Oh sure, keep going Logan I'm sure once you get to geometry it will get better!” His mind supplied him. He was getting worse.

“Or maybe you can try a different subject! I bet you can't name the energy formula,” he mumbled in a higher-pitched voice.

If he registered the dampness of the floor under his face, he didn't feel it.

He breathed in for a moment, holding it in for longer than he expected.

“Okay!” Logan chirped, sudden false energy coursing through his eyes.

His senses were glazed over, pupils catching on something as if he could make out something in the darkness.

Logan didn't smile much-but, just this once , a bubbly feeling rose from his stomach, a giddy grin pulling at the sides of his face unnaturally.

A staggered breath came out of his nose, the hilarity of where he was catching up to him. It made sense the way it built gradually, covering his mouth before realizing nobody could hear him anyways, to allowing a giggle to escape and suddenly his body was wracked full-body heaves of laughter, a joy so painful that he had forgotten what it was like to only feel so little, an insurmountable pinch of emotion compared to this purity, this lack of air laughing that he just need to get out--!

Logan was grasping at the floor again. At least his breathing had gone back to something relatively normal now. His hands were curled as close to his face as possible, a loose fetal position becoming increasingly awkward with the restraints.

This is awful.

Yes, he thought. This was the worst that Logan had been through. Maybe it would be the last. It was at least physical, this time. When the sides had… had…

Janus and the courtroom… or…

No, no that was in redux. Yeah, that strange pixelated one. Or both. Was there a difference? Logan's schedule was so boring anyway.

Did he deserve it? Did any of them deserve this? This torment of a fate, this hell of a mind?

For the first time he could remember, Logan felt a tear drip past his cheek and run along a cold floor.

He found himself chuckling to himself just a tad. Maybe Remus was smarter than he let on about this whole thing.

His body hiccuped with soft chuckling for a few seconds more before the silence fell again.

His weak smile never faltered.

20,600 seconds ticked by before he got tired of counting. That was a long while.

He didn't have the energy to figure out how long, but he was thoroughly tired. Vague memories came and went, and he gave up on trying to keep his body mobile. Some part of him wanted to answer why this was even happening, and how the Twin's domain affected him.

But each time, he could only think of how beautiful the outside must be by now.

He felt himself. His heart, gently thrumming. A voice tried to tell him that this was more painful somehow, worse than whatever was normal. But he couldn't believe him. He can't believe anyone. 

What would happen to Janus? Or Patton?

Wait… no, they're not the ones in danger.

Right??

The fog wasn't concerning anymore.

It felt… peaceful, almost. As if a great pain had been released, and the responsibility of being competent gone.

He didn't see a problem with this.

Something like a break, right?

Surely some part of him could argue in favor, try his best to explain how the mindscape worked how it made him so catatonic, and how he could save himself.

But that part of him was silenced a long time ago.

The burning in his chest beat harder, thrumming with pain before cooling suddenly, a cold press releasing steam on a hot stove.

Stove..? Stoves are weird. Remember when Thomas talked to the Stove?

“Hi, Logan. I'm Stove. Thomas hates me more than you, so don't feel left out. I've only been mentioned once!,” cried the Stove.

Logan didn't bat an eye at the old character's appearance.

A wild scream came from somewhere distantly, bloodcurdling and crazy, just outside the walls.

After a few seconds, he touched his jaw and found it was he who was screaming. He snapped his jaw shut.

Perhaps he had fallen asleep, perhaps not.

He didn't really care anymore.

Logan was gone.

Thomas was panicking.

Badly.

Well, he could assume it was actually Virgil, but the side himself didn't seem to be the sole purpose of his distress.

If anything, it was the last side he would expect; Logan.

The other two left-brained sides were next to him, Janus watching as Virgil side-eyed him with distrust.

“I dunno guys; I can't really reach him,” he sighed.

“...He's okay, right?”

“Well he's never not responded to Thomas before,” Janus said flatly without looking up.

“He is like- the only thing keeping you from going actually insane---what in the world could be more important?” Virgil worried, his feet still boring holes into the carpet as he trod in a circle.

After a moment, Roman's door opened and he came bounding out, Remus following behind like an angry puppy. Without noticing the tension in the room in front of him, Roman carried on happily humming and grinning.

Everyone else's attention was trained directly on the twins, their breath baited and silent.

“ I've gotta say Remus, even though villains never win,” he roughly elbowed the green side to underline his statement, “ It was quite fun. Though, I will say, was the Imagination…er, different to you? I'm not sure how to put it…-”

“Daw, thanks, brother! I've been trying something new.” Remus cut him off, his stance widening and his broody mask of maliciousness curling into a wry smile.

“Don’t worry about it!” he dragged out, Roman looking at him quizzically before Remus ran back into his room, blowing raspberries at the other sides of the room.

Janus stood, shaking his head and following after with an air of comfort, calling after Remus as he paid the others a final glance.

Thomas and Virgil shared a look.

“Thomas…” Roman began, “I believe I missed some context that-”

“Roman Logan is dead and he isn't responding and he's been acting weird lately and Thomas can't feel him as well and everything is gone and bad.”

The sheer panic and force in Virgil's eyes was enough to send Roman backtracking enough to clamp his mouth closed with an audible snap.

“Hey, now, everyone!” Patton ordered from his silent corner.

The fatherly side commanded the attention of the others, his strange demeanor waved off with the eyes trained on him.

“Let's remember not to jump to conclusions, okay? The dark sides…might have something to do with it, and we can ask him about Logan if need be, but I think we should leave Logan alone for now. He likes his alone time, and even though he won't admit it, I think it helps his stress levels when he can just relax in his room.” Patton looked unsure of himself, but a small smile and the way his eyebrows twitched together made Virgil calm down a tad.

“I know… but…,” Virgil looked down, conflicted.

“He might be taking care of something different from here. I… think he mentioned something about… memories. Or consciousness… or uh… something,” Thomas cut through despite his voice being so meek in the tension, “I dunno I wasn't paying attention.”

Roman considered the information, seeming to agree with the thought of letting Logan sort it out for now. They all knew that he, of all of them, could be trusted with large tasks; he would probably be smart enough to come to them if he needed help.

Patton came and sat next to Thomas, his eyes red and sore from rubbing them so much. Virgil hadn't meant to affect Thomas, but if not Lord knows where his anxiousness would've gone.

“Just… try and get some rest kiddo, alright? That goes for all of you,” he met the other two’s eyes, his gaze flicking away for only a moment before landing back on Thomas.

“Yeah… yeah, okay. I just feel… uhm,” Thomas stumbled, “...wrong. a lot is going on. Maybe that's what he's going to fix,” he shrugged.

They could only hope so.

Chapter Text

Logan had lost consciousness long ago. 

Well, his body's consciousness was…long gone, to say the least. But in this almost paranormal and intangible state, Logan's sense of self was slowly plunging itself deeper into the recesses of the strange world he saw himself in.

His mind felt as if a cold and thick jello was placed on it, massaged into his temples and lovingly wrapped with a long string of velvety bandaging. The rhythmic sound of his own breathing was lost to his ears long ago, but somehow the beating of his heart had become residual in his ears, an echoing string of a harp bouncing off of walls he has yet to see.

And of course this would all be very gratifying and interesting to someone like Logan, but there was just one fact that stopped him in his tracks, and it wasn't how little of a corporeal form he had.

It was that his heart had become slower . 

Hell, a few hours ago he didn't know he even had a heartbeat---but this place, these messages were all cryptic messages he had no right to decipher. It brought up just too many implications to count; had the sides always had a heart? Or perhaps the beating was something else entirely. Maybe a heart suggested an entire array of internal organs to upkeep; though that didn't track considering how awful they treated themselves already.

What if it did?

What if this strange thing was now anchoring him to a genuine human? What if this happened to the other sides? What kind of health problem could he be experiencing that was causing the organ that pumps life into your muscles to falter and die? And, one of the biggest, why in the world was it happening now?

For a small moment, Logan was too stunned by his own train of thought to continue. But the silence stretched on for a moment too long, and one final thought replaced the stiff air.

…Am I dying?

Am I dying without even having the chance to live?

The unwavering crescendo of the harp marched onward, Logan's eyes watering in a magnificent chimera of both existing and not, an involuntary breath slowly being sucked in through cracked lips, one small draw turning into a gasp, lungs becoming aware of how bone dry they've become, a throat expanding despite its neglect, swallowing as much air as it can while the thrum of the heart succumbs to the fortissimo that is breath, that is life, that is inexplicably and undeniably real and true and solid and palpable.

Eyes opened around him, the neurons blinking into neutron stars and then to burning coal, their forms shifting spectrums of color with each rotation. 

Only one trait remained constant through every twist.

The pupils never swung his way. The corneas of explosion turned away, hands coming to block their view of him, dispersing further as oil crawls away from flame. The beauty struck him in a heartshot, cracks of thunder rolling through his eyes while he was powerless to stop the marvels from slipping through his fingers-as all things Logan found beautiful did.

Through his tears, the mirages of brilliant colors became blurs of meaninglessness, his own body was vivisected into streams of light, accepting himself into the glory he saw shining so brightly them. His mind refracted onto the small stars surrounding him, each one glowing a different shade of hesperidium, orchea, and grenadinea.

And Logan was given an answer.

You are simply being reborn.

Logan's body lurched forward, coughing and sputtering spit into his lap while his muscles ached horribly, his calm breaths turning into an awful spell of hyperventilation. His hands made their way to his chest, clawing and tearing through it as a starving crow would sear the bars of its cage. 

His frame lurched over itself in agony, choking over a bleak and dark world. Somehow, he forced his hands to stop scratching at his throat, the lingering sharpness against his skin bringing his consciousness, his true and bodily consciousness, back into something close to reality. His hands cradled his bruised throat, their pressure easing the dryness of his raspy breath.

He resolved to grit his teeth and wait out the sniveling and uneven inhales he drew, never able to get past two solid and even breaths before choking on one and taking another quick three inhales, a panicked, exhausted anger seeping into his veins at his lack of control.

Without Logan himself even noticing, his fingers rubbed against his sore collar in a soothing rhythm, the dry and strange feeling at the tips of his nails ignored by his focus on attempting to breathe correctly. 

Every so often, he would hold his breath for a moment, breathing out through his nose in mock annoyance only to mess up again a few moments later. After a solid minute, or perhaps an hour (he wasn't entirely sure), he simply gave up. It didn't seem as if anyone was around to degrade him on hypocrisy at the moment anyway.

He simply sat within himself, and basked in the knowledge that he was safe. Whatever insane bullshit that has just happened…it was over.

It was finally over.

A few more times he redoubled into another fit, but by god had it wasn't close to how irritating feelings were. These stupid stupid hormones and balances and jobs were so degrading, so humiliating in a way Logan had never, in his whole inhuman life, felt before.

And there was really only one word, hatred , that truly encompassed it.

A few hours later, he hadn't bothered to check the time on the stove, Logan was numbly splashing water in his face and trying not to look at the thick red lines that covered his throat.

Although his body was outside of the Imagination, his brain still felt so stuffy, as if some presence had taken tissue paper and stuffed the walls between his skull with them until his brain couldn't move.

He grew irritated by how his gaze lazily trailed behind his focus like an old dog following a hunter before it was slaughtered and replaced with a faster one.  A single droplet of water rolled down his cheek, dripping into the sink below as it reached the bottom of his chin. His limbs felt sore and heavy, a lightheadedness he only attributed to a time when he depended solely on tea and long study nights working its way back into familiarity. He gently put his fingertips on the cold tile, a dependency forcing his palms to carry the rest of his weight as his head bowed into the sink.

Looking up into the fluorescent lights above the mirror, he forced his eyes to sting and stare at them for a minute or two before he could pretend that his hands weren't clutching onto a towel like a throat.

Logan had never vomited before. But if the strange dream sequence that upheaved his philosophy so far had done anything right, then maybe he would for the first time. His body felt different, stranger afterwards. The feeling of weak pain and the stench of blood hadn't left as easily as the memories, but this new, claustrophobic intensity still stung fresh.

All he could hear was his own irritating panting while his insides twisted with heat, an invisible string forming in Logan's head as he slowly imagined it being wound tighter and tighter around his abdomen, binding his organs into one squished lump.

Strangely, a memory resurfaced in his head, Logan giving up against laying his head against the cool basin.

Logan never wanted to hear Roman’s cries ever again.

No, these torturous sounds were agony. Damn that frivolous side.

Of course, Logan wanted Roman to recover, but he also wanted to hear something other than Roman’s screams echoing through the halls. That was, he could actually focus on a study regimen and not bite his cheek for the fourth time. As Roman began to wind up again, the muscles between his nose and mouth twitched up into a scowl.

Needless to say, Thomas's first debut on the stage wasn't Roman's biggest moment. Why exactly he was in physical pain, he had not a clue. 

But 14-year-old Logan had babysitting duty when the fatherly side didn't, so eventually he knocked on the sparkly door wearing his makeshift earmuffs made with old headphones.

That night was filled with more painkiller-induced arguing than he ever could have been prepared for.

Among poorly made chicken noodle soup and dragon-shaped ice packs (he refused the dinosaur ones), Roman was, in fact, not doing well. However, if there was any memory to remember from that night, it was the warm back he rubbed his palm against in lazy circles, Roman's body coiled above the toilet in bleary agony.

“You need to get it out of your system, Roman. No matter the cause, it seems to behave as an actual illness. You shouldn't be mad at your own body.”

Roman's dark eyes glared at him, though Logan still saw through his angry and wet-eyed exterior.

“I- *hic* don't car-care. This-” he paused, clenching his face and forcibly swallowing a gasp of air, “this is awful. Nausea is the worst -st… e- *hic* ever. “

Now, as a pale yellow and beige mixture landed in the sink bowl , Logan realized he finally agreed with him after all these years. No, his screams of murder were still not necessary, but…yes. This was terrible.

His lip quivered fervently, the feeling of unsanitary vomit drying on his jaw nearly enough to send him into a spiral.

He didn't bother to move.

The coolness of the counter was overwhelming, but welcoming in a way he had never experienced.

His consciousness once again faded between sharpness and forgetfulness, the early hours of the morning passing by.

He was, thankfully, able to right himself and wash his face with a bit more pressure than needed, beads of water clinging to his glasses.

Logan smiled gently, pausing his hand for a moment as he looked at Roman. God, how did Patton do this again…?

“Hey Roman, I'm going to tell you a story.”

He watched the half-naked boy in front of him visibly bite back a remark about how he never did that for him before- or maybe about how Patton's would be better- or maybe how it would be boring because he always is. Well, he wasn't exactly sure, because he cut himself off, but he could guess.

He hesitated, unsure of how to present this.

“Long ago…”

“In a galaxy far far away…” he heard Roman finish, a lopsided smile half hidden as he rested his face against the seat.

Logan cracked a smile. Maybe it was best not to worry too much about it then.

“Long ago, there were many, many people. And they all joined together to survive better as a team.”

This felt unnatural. Wrong, even. Especially to Roman---surely he could make something better than this…

His hand still moved slowly across Roman's freckled back.

“ They formed smaller, individual teams to work more efficiently. “

“What were they called?”

“Hm?”

“The groups.” Roman's eyes met his, the interruption not mocking Logan, even in his story, catching him off guard.

“What were they called?”

Logan kept his hand on Roman's back.

“The groups each called themselves… a… Cyto.”

It didn't sound convincing, even to himself. But his hand continued to make a circle.

“And each of these Cytos lived in harmony. They protected the land around them, and each was equal to another. That was…”

He saw Roman's interest pique.

“Until the Vixes attacked.“ Logan attempted to put an emphasis on this---but he still felt so…awkward. Roman's glassy eyes showed no betrayal to his opinions.

“The Vixes were determined to take the Cyto's hard work and success for themselves. The Cytos fought with all their might, but soldiers fell left and right. There seemed to be no hope- until they discovered their secret weakness. “

Roman certainly didn't seem…bored, at the very least. But Logan was grasping for straws.

His palm kept working circles into his back.

“After…a candle fell, the Vixens nearby scattered. The remaining Cytos looked at each other, and agreed what they had to do. In a fiery blaze, the Cytos were able to stave off the Vixes, their formations melting at the heat.”

Roman said nothing. His palm continued to work itself into the skin, it's warmth seeping into his own hand now.

“Fortunately, most of the Cytos survived… but their land did not. Ashes flew through the air, the greenery decimated to rubble.”

His hand kept moving.

“And yet, within a few months time, the shrubbery was back in full bloom. The damages were carefully tended to, and the Cytos lived to see another day.”

“How?” Roman mumbled.

“Because…” his hand slowed, “Because they never went too far. They burned the Vixes, sacrificing their peaceful ways in order to fend off an enemy.”

“But they never went too far. They knew the limits of their soil…”

Logan's hand stopped.

“But they never went too far.”

“Having fun, Logan?”

Logan gasped and coughed once more, his thoughts ripped from the comforting memory. He looked to the bathroom doorway and saw Patton, his shoulders relaxing at the sight.

“Sorry! Did I scare you?” Patton coaxed, his eyebrows furrowing with worry.

Logan sighed, sparing a glance at his exhaustion heavy face and braced for Patton to fuss over him like they were kids once again. He turned to face him, a weak smile not being so difficult to fight onto his face.

“Hey, Patton.” 

“You're tired, aren't you?” He chuckled, leaning against the doorway.

Logan knew he was delirious, and waking up on the couch in the common room wasn't a great start to a morning, but there was little he could do.

“Why are you up this early?” 

Patton smiled wider,” Oh, always deflecting, aren't we?” 

This… no. This wasn't Patton. Sleep riddled or not, Logan knew his counterpart, and he hoped he at least knew . Logan’s eyebrows furrowed. “...Janus?”

Patton giggled again, his laughter strange and different, but not forced. 

“Oh, blue, you always were observant, weren't you?” 

Patton’s form stretched and shifted, his bouncy glasses wavering like water. He still seemed so eerily calm, the warm smile on his face seeming less and less friendly the more Logan looked at him.

Logan froze, his body locking onto the rim of the sink. A deep, primal fear replaced everything inside him, his mind screaming that this thing wasn't human, was a threat, not quite right enough to be safe. 

“...blue?”

“I'm sorry?” The being mocked, its head turning just a bit too far to the side.

“You called me blue ,” he wavered, cursing his voice for betraying his emotions.

“Ah, sorry, is indigo more fitting?,” it crooned, Patton's visage blinking away to Virgil's crumpleddishev eled body, his eyes bleary and looking distinctly unresponsive. “I know once you and…er, Patton, decided you were name-calling that only one would take blue.” Virgil chuckled once more, his figure inching closer, black-tipped fingers taking against the doorframe. “You must admit, it's a bit childish, no? Well, you two were quite young then…”

“What are you?” Logan demanded. This awful impersonation was beginning to feel sickening. Not even Janus would do this. 

“Ah, so straightforward! You and your answers, huh?” The figure stalked towards him, Virgil’s features melting away into a black robe with deep, sunken eyes. 

Upon no answer, it sighed, “I’m many things, Indigo. I'm not one of you, that's for sure. In fact, I doubt I'll be long at all, so you don't need to get your pretty little head in a twist.”  At the word, the form's figure broke into a whirl of colors, almost like it was deciding what puppet to put on next. With a grin, a new face met his own, his sharp glasses and a blue tie contrasted with a smile that tore his face in half. He extended his hand out, an awful glint in his own eye making bile choke in his throat.

You can call me Orange..

Chapter Text

Personally, Logan found the new manifestation’s presence… irritating. Just as irritating as the way his marker kept squeaking against his whiteboard. No hesitation, he tossed it into the trash without looking, summoned another one, and kept writing. The past hours were spent hiding “Orange”, interrogating him, failing, experimenting with the hormones, failing, and getting Virgil worked up about his well-being. When will anything go right for Logan? Realistically never, as other variables will always be there, and any constants often go against his wishes. Damn you Hardy-Weinberg. 

“Who's Hardy-Weinberg?” Ah, yes. That too–for some reason, Orange was able to read his thoughts–or, more realistically, could see past body language extraordinarily well, though because they were metaphysical facets of a man in his 30’s with severe mental issues, supernatural abilities certainly could be the reason. His suspicion on why was on the fact that Orange himself wasn't a side; at least, not one completely. And that was also if he wasn't lying, and, by the way he was behaving, wasn't out of the question. But based on the fact that his face was never fully identical from one moment to the next, and his figure shifted with his gaze like a shadow, it wasn't exactly hard to believe. He even spoke of him as ‘Orange’ because he insisted on calling him Indigo–which was strange enough as is. That, or maybe he was just a side who had managed to hide himself successfully from everyone else, and was able to become extremely versatile in the facade of his being.

“It's two people. And their last names.” He decided to answer. Logan didn't like answering questions much. Well—no, wait, he did, he just didn't like getting reprimanded for answering them incorrectly; no matter what evidence he brought.

“Why don't you answer it then ,” mocked Orange. Logan wanted to say, ‘fuck you’, and get it over with– he looked directly at the side taking over his chair at that part –but civility should be kept.

The stranger in said chair cackled more manically than Remus, his laughter ringing like hollow drums and crawling up the base of his spine. 

“Oh, oh Logan,” Orange wiped a nonexistent tear from his face, his name dripping off his lips in a thick poison, “For someone so– ahem– unbiased, you've seriously got some pent up opinions huh? Why don't you just talk with your fellow semi competent individuals? Isn't friendship something people need? Doesn't it grow with time and effort?”

“Not if there are other factors.” Thankfully, the man held no reaction to that. They both knew exactly what factors that entailed, anyway. It wasn't like the other sides were part of the ‘environment’, but… they were unpredictable enough to offset perfect growth in a close relationship.

“Oh, no I don't, please, mansplain it to me, teacher,” Orange cried, Logan's chair creaking mournfully as he stretched back with ignorance. 

“You are really starting to get on my nerves,” snapped Logan, capping his marker and turning to lean on the edge of his whiteboard. “Please, if you're so inclined, why don't you explain these jars, hm?” Logan flicked out a bottle of estrogen and waved it in his face. “Why don't you explain why they bottom out even when Thomas needs them? For all your talk of ‘doing what Thomas needs because Thomas needs it’, which you won't shut up about by the way, you certainly don't seem to use this as a solid piece of evidence. Why? Is this not a part of Thomas?”

Though he was slightly ashamed at his unabashedness, Orange had seen enough of Logan that his normal rules of politeness were no longer applicable.

“ Wouldn't you like to know weatherboy,” murmured Orange under his breath. 

Logan flinched back. “Is that… is that a reference? I am not a weatherboy. And I find it rude you ignore my questions! Why do you say you're here to help and represent Thomas when you insist on being uncooperative?”

Orange ignored him in favor of spinning about. The man in question was as unremarkable in his looks as his conversations; the flickering outline of baggy pants, messy hair, and some old T-shirt he hadn't bothered to wash. How exactly it looked so old given it wasn't real nor was the rest of this man, that was a mystery Logan had no interest in.

“Awhh, you like my outfit?” Logan was using all his power not to sucker punch him in the face, but that was as irrelevant as the clothes on the ever-shifting man. “Why are you still here,” Logan demanded, making himself as stern as he could. The flicker of gnawing pain that he learned to name anger decided to make an appearance under his heart.

“C’mon, I'm a side ! Just like you,” he smiled, placing his chin on his palm and cocking his head. The irony wasn't half as funny as Orange believed it was.

“Say, why are you so invested in finding out everything? Nobody will care about those dumb drawings on that whiteboard but you.”

“And how would you know? You're not even a side. I know that much,” Logan retorted, turning to scribble down another arrow and write, ‘ jars = x’, before adding up in the corner , ‘x = mindscape variable'. 

Orange scoffed, “I am all of you, you are all of me, we are Thomas, Thomas is you.” He sounded proud of that explanation too, like he was teaching Logan something for once.

Resisting the urge to question him sarcastically, Logan hummed in agreement. “I am aware.” Orange's response was a scoff that sounded too agitating for comfort. 

“You say that and yet you continue to alienate yourself. You're one of the worst at it too, Indigo.” Oh boy, here it comes, another monologue about how sad and broken he is. “You think relationships of anything more than communication is too much , like it's a parasite that forces you to love, like- like-”

“Like drugs.”

“What- I- well, maybe–’

“I was talking about the hormones that you insist aren't interesting, but I suppose if it fits your metaphor too, that's cool,” Logan smirked, glad he could get a word in. Orange huffed angrily as Logan turned around to edit some of the unneeded words and replace them with x .

“Clearly, you are not getting the concept,” Orange said with finality, slamming his hands on the desk and standing. “ You are a narcissistic bitch and you can't trust anyone else because you think the only source of right information is yourself.”

Logan felt his throat tighten, made aware of the beating of a heart in his ears. 

“...And am I wrong? Have other sides proven their sources of motivation to be ‘correct’ ?”

“ Yes !,” Cried Orange, exasperated, “Maybe not correct, because of course, everything is either true and undeniable or a falsehood, huh? They have their reasons dummy, you just have a stick so far up your ass that you don't take their way of warranting as truth-”

“But I sure fucking try to! I’ve pushed away every aspect of myself that they saw as wrong,” Logan heaved, the pressure of his words forcing his mouth to waver open with emotion, the waterline of his eyes demanding his pupils dash about the imperfect face of rage. “ I am nothing–but a husk because that is what they thought of me !” Logan drew in breath, his lungs yearning for more as his teeth burned with blood, the tips of his vision revealing a dancing pattern of iridescent spikes cradling the view of an unfazed figment of the imagination.

The faint memories of pain lingered over his eyelashes, the dig of his own nails trying to subdue himself as he watched time after time every other possible anecdoche come to some stalemate and compromise, or worse. He watched himself go through the motions, grasping for comfort as he failed again and again to somehow find why he felt this way, why he needed more than he was getting like some spoiled and privileged rich kid who could never quite understand what they were fighting for. The same attempts of coping tried again and again and again while he stalked the bags under his eyes that grew with each insult and the little light he felt safe in dissolve. And then, finally, forcing himself out of bed just once more, his perfect performance of apathy sticking to his skin and seeping into his bones until all he truly recognized was the dull numb of hatred.

“And who presented themselves as closed off and unfeeling?”

Logan gave himself a moment to sever his eyes from the cocky face that looked at him, the only sound steam flowing from his nostrils. The unsettling return of rubatosis made his jaw slack and his face furrow with a tired sort of madness. “And who locked me away and held– still hold– their own masks of happiness or- or indignance? Why are you so intent on humiliating me with honesty when their problems are just the same as mine?”

Orange hummed superficially. “So why should you hold yourself as more closed off and misunderstood when you never tried to understand them? Yes , they hide,” Orange sauntered closer, his non-committal features that somehow mirrored his own; the same anger and protectiveness shining through as they reflected against the image of his own weary visage, “and yes, they probably wouldn't cry in your arms, but it would certainly foster something healthier than this.” 

“ Yes ! Fine! I'm angry, I'm pissed! I can feel! I'm not a goddamn robot, and I sure as hell made everyone think I didn't because I'm dumb, okay?” Logan felt tears prick at his eyes, the grating sound of molar against molar clawing in his bones. “So why me then? How come I'm the only one who bears this shit? Why can't somebody else take care of these stupid things for once? It makes me fucking sick, to- to keep doing this! I'm so, so…” the words died on Logan's chapped lips, the soft and familiar weight of realizing no matter how hard he fought, he wouldn't understand, not even with his semi-omniscience. His eyelids hung low and every ounce of fight faltered out of his body as he slumped forward.

“ I'm scared.”

The words echoed around the room, his own knowledge shocking himself. He watched the face of a man before him warp into a mirror as he mouthed his words along with him. Too many words swallowed and ignored only for a pool of vomit to bubble from his starved teeth. 

Orange held no emotion on his visage. No indication of recognition, empathy, not a sliver of pity from fluctuating irises behind his own glasses. “Because that's what you want, Logan. Whether you understand or not, Thomas, and therefore me, and therefore the subconscious, and therefore you, saw it fit that these pieces could find their most use in your hands,” he sighed.

“But—,” Logan swallowed, the bright gaze that looked with fiery passion into his own washing his wounds with opia, weak and misty coolness lapping over his hands, the tide rising and falling from his fingertips that hung at his side.

Logan decided to breathe. A strange sort of tranquility sedated his heart, the motion of inhaling making him watch as colors collided in his vision, dots forming the shape of bags and expanding against cages of pigment, the veiny beat of life injected into his own unreal self.

When the pain became noticeable, he let his lungs deflate, the weak vibrations from fake neurons in his fake body telling him to fake exist. What a joke. It almost made him want to smile; the civility of life. What a hilarious existence it is. Being conscious, aware, impacted, but not alive. He was not born of flesh, not made of cells or complex systems. He did not change or bother with force, he didn't adapt over time. He had no true impact himself.

In fact, all he was for, all he was made of, was thought. Simply some personified sliver of what a true, conscious being thought. A part of a whole. Instinct. Machine. Flesh. And before he had the chance to choke on his words, or utter another hopeless thought, an enticing feeling burrowed it's way through his navel, the burn of the closest thing to ecstasy he might possibly ever experience worming through his flesh and up his spinal cord and fired into his synapses.

Helplessly unable to stop it, he felt his muscles lock in some primal instinct, his hands grabbing and tearing at his face to pull it apart, give something underneath room to breathe even though it wasn't for the best, even through the starry pain of his nails would never break to blood, even with no knowledge of what may be buried beneath. And Logan's throat burned with the pressure in his ears and his jaw, wet sparks of acid burning through his retina and canines decaying past his gums.

And Logan screamed.  

He screamed more than he thought his lungs could carry. He screamed the wails of torment he had cut from episodes long gone, releasing some untold demon from the hellish landscape within his tonsils and what unbeating soul or motherboard lay past it. And he didn't stop. Not when the pressure in his nose sent the signals of air, begging for breath and life. He didn't relent as the claws that groped at his forehead weakly pawed at his sternum, the bruises along his collar numbed by the sympathetic wires that strangled a superficial cortex running blazing trails of fire, no further thoughts daring to rear its head from beneath the conscious.

His teeth quivered horribly, the awful crows of his haunting song wavering and rotting with the wood of an immortal piano lodged in concrete. As saliva caught in the back of his throat, he choked and coughed, less distraught by the sensation of salty tracks pooling on his nose while he left his lungs to suck in breath.

So Logan was left alone, no longer with his thoughts. And maybe it was for the better. Either way, Orange, and the subconscious, and him, decided he was finished. He had gotten what he needed.

The room felt cooler. And he still couldn't understand.

The morning light was more calming than he remembered. Maybe it was the way it filled up the couch where he was unconscious just a night ago, or maybe it was how the air expanded through his lungs and made his heart beat slower, or maybe it was because he was outside of his room. And maybe it was just the way the light lit up the ground in a large square and warmed up the floor and the sofa. Logan didn't really mind. 

That thought triggered something in his head. For, maybe the first time, Logan didn't really mind. Not uncaring, or unbiased, but just accepting. This was enough; he didn't need to care. He didn't need to put more mind and thought into something than he wanted. 

Logan sighed with a smile. He peered down into his half drank tea, his own reflection staring back. This time, he looked at himself for longer than normal. He watched his eyebrows twitch together and his eyes dart about, the circles under his eyes no longer prominent in the brown scent of honey. He didn't look tired. The lines in his face weren't taught for once, and the ripples in the surface as he breathed made him take a moment to appreciate it.

The soft sound of footsteps on carpet broke his stare. He hadn't really seen anyone in awhile. In fact, it had been long enough for him to struggle when remembering the last time he sought somebody else out. Or, actually, the last time he even put himself outside so someone could interact with him without knocking on his door. At the approaching sound, his heart began to ache once more. When had he Pavlov’d himself into discomfort at the thought of other people? And why? The floor creaked as a side entered the common room; and Logan wasn't sure what to do. 

Ah—he was still cradling his mug and staring into it like a weirdo. So much for making an effort to seem more approachable. Logan forced his eyes upward to find- oh. Although unexpected, Janus was not an unwelcome guest. He hadn't spoken with Janus… really in quite a while. In fact, maybe after the wedding debate. Surely he had no malice, right? He couldn't remember the terms they left on before oher… things had come up. Janus met his gaze, and by the way his eyebrow raised, he hadn't hidden his surprise well. 

To his astonishment, Logan and Janus both let out a similarly exhausted sigh as he moved to set down his cup. It would have been funny if it wasn't a death wish to smile lest it come across as vulnerability.

And yet, as he eyed Janus reaching for a cup, his eyes met multicolored iris. And Janus wore a thin-lipped, upside-down smile. So Logan felt his cheeks flare up, and his lips press together in a line. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be alright, just for once. Maybe he could smile and share in the fruits of company without the nagging guilt that continued to drown his soul. Maybe he could reach for the lifejacket. 

Janus sat on his right while Logan took another sip of tea. For a short while, the only sound was the muffled chirp of birds and the hallucination of sound from the other rooms. 

Logan was the one to break the silence. When he had looked to see what Janus' choice of morning beverage was, he was only slightly taken back by the glass of wine in his hand. “I…didn't take you for the ‘ it's 5 o’ clock somewhere ’ type, but I suppose I shouldn't judge,” he started, blowing lightly to get his mug to stop steaming—it should have cooled down a while ago, but he ended up drinking it hot anyway. Janus took a moment to respond, sipping what looked like Chardonnay.

“I suppose I should be more conservative,” Janus relented, waving away his glass and peering over to Logan's drink. “... honey?”

Logan analyzed his face, frowned, and conjured a second cup. He wasn't the best at creating , but he had a decent hand. It was probably still piping hot. “Strawberry Hibiscus.”

Janus startled at the newfound cup in his hands and squinted into it, scrutinizing the water like it had royally screwed him over. When he finally took a sip, his face contorted almost sourly, blinking and shrugging at the strong flavor.

“It has a…kick.” 

Logan snuffed, watching the sun rise ever higher in the sky. Janus must not be a sweet person. The silence that stretched between them was no doubt uncomfortable, but Logan felt no need to interject or run potential conversations through his head. He simply waited for his tea to cool, sipping the rim and savoring the flavor and heat on his tongue. The festering weight of time wore by, knowing this rare moment of peace wouldn't last forever. And still, denial and fact sat on both ends of a couch, drinking tea and basking in the morning sun. Eventually though, maybe 10 or 20 minutes later, something in Janus's internal debate came to a head for a low, more significant inhale to tow the disclaimer for conversation. 

Janus began,” I…haven't seen you in quite some time.” Logan heard and savored the words, turning it over long enough for his response to be honest.

“I suppose. We haven't really had a deep conversation since, well,” the supposed bluntness of the topic was something he had learned to avoid. Why exactly “ The Wedding” held so much significance to everyone, that was something only Thomas could find the words for. The event seemed to surmise the past few ordeals and the messes they left in a manner of only a few syllables, and the conflict was old enough for the bad blood to be washed out for the most part. “For a while,” he decided to finish.

“Yes, we've had every opportunity to chat,” he snickered half-heartedly. Janus’s capelet shifted against the fabric of the couch, seating himself deeper and sinking in preparation. An unsettling sort of premonition nestled uncomfortably on Logan's shoulders, the damp taste of strawberry hidden behind his breath. “...so,” Janus tested, dragging out the word. 

“So,” Logan responded in kind, equally as fatigued.

“Found you on the couch a few days ago.” Janus took another unnecessarily loud sip from his tea; perhaps still strawberry hibiscus, but unlikely.

“Is that so,” he said dryly. Logan wasn't entirely up for debate on his… escapades, and especially not with all the problems that they brang.

“You, ah, weren't someone I took for being aware of the subconscious but…,” The sound of Janus's shrug was audible, but Logan didn't need to hear it to know how Janus underlined his words,” I suppose of the core sides you would be the most suited.” Ah, there it was again. Suited. Worthy. Deserving. Had he earned himself a reputation for respect in such a way that he was trusted with these sensitivities and yet still hadn't achieved honor? Or even an ounce of admiration?

“I didn't.” Logan wasn't expecting to answer truthfully, but he didn't feel the waves of surprise he sometimes did when he said things he hadn't meant to.

“Shit.” The bite behind the word was less maddening and more fed-up, as if Janus was rubbing his temple as he uttered it.

“So… another layer to Thomas, then…” Logan shrugged, not appreciating the tight look on the other's face. 

“Yes, I suppose you've already set to work on everything you've found, then.” Ah, that was it. Janus knew something more. Whether he was in fact part of some coup with Remus, that would be more complicated than not, but he sure knew how to read him. 

Logan felt the exhaustion the tea kept at bay come crashing back, failing to resist his hands cupping his own face while he wearily slumped into the couch. “ Oh, god,” he thought, still unable to make sense of the theories and unwound red string that caught his brain in a web of his own design, a death trap he constructed to replace a grave. 

Through his hands, he saw the manipulated putty of Janus fall into a grimace almost like pity laced with contempt. “That bad huh,” he asked without an ounce of tone or effort. “What could Logan have seen in the vastly unexplored regions of Thomas to make him so vulnerable?” and there it was–Janus' tell. He had no care for him; he was fishing for answers. There were chances that it would be for the betterment of the mindscape, but Logan didn't feel like taking chances at the moment. In fact, he felt rather threatened, though showing it would surely expose himself more. The conversation was over at this very moment. The difficult thing would be making sure Janus didn't get what he wanted by playing to his desires. So Logan did what he did best–he was blunt.

“What is it. Tell me what you did.” He stared down Janus, not bothering to hide the tension anymore. The silence of the breeze and birds no longer held comfort, but an odd sort of determination; something that shouldn't be here, trying to conceal the sharpness of the words. Janus’s heterochromic eyes held poignant daggers hidden in sheaths of glass. 

“What do you want to know?”

The conversation with Janus had lead him almost nowhere; it was difficult to get out of a loop, and staying on track was a gamble. But, fortunately, it wasn't a net loss. Logan could, at least mostly, garner that the subconscious acted similar to a different plane; akin to the material world, the Mind Palace, and the Imagination (though that one's a stretch). Which probably meant it had different laws than everywhere else that he'd have to get used to. A small part of him was instantly excited by the idea–more puzzles, more important rules that were hidden behind lovingly crafted wires of red twine. But another felt fear. A name he had only learned to place on the corkboard after he left the clues plain to see. After it became… necessary to address.

It was eating at him. Janus could see it plain as day. Remus was the kind of scary that was predictable. Annoying, somewhat frightening, and an intellectual sinkhole, yes. But predictable enough to have patterns–as much as the man denies it. In fact, his lack of planning and reason contribute to his lack of heart-striking intimidation. But this , this everything, the sinking knowledge of something you shouldn't have seen, something you don't want to know.

That is what scares Logan. What makes his rotten, palpating heart go into overdrive. Uncertainty. Vast worlds of unexplored lawlessness that left you without a single soul to tether you from the edge of a cliff named curiosity above the slippery shoes of a sea named numbness. Nihilism was something he liked to think he avoided. And yet, he stands staring into the abyss at times, the echo of cold stone melting into nothing but sensation at the edge of his vision. The swirling loneliness of a dark world filled with orange strings that connected it forcing its way into his sleep, glass cases of pinned insects hung around him, his own carefully pulled rigor mortis pressed against a world he could never touch.

And he wanted to touch it anyway. He wanted to know what it meant. He would justify it, even to himself, that it was for the betterment of Thomas for the knowledge to be collected. But taking care of Thomas wasn't his primary directive. It was existing as his Logic. As his true self. And that was all he needed to be.

…He definitely should still check on Thomas though. His apartment likely wasn't still clean from the last time he pestered him, though it was better since the date with Nico earlier. Or, so he hoped. A lot could happen in two days— wait, no, four. Right? Hadn't Janus said four? Oh god, it's been four days.  

When's the last time anyone even checked on him? They didn't seem too bothered but hell they've sure proved themselves to be reliable.

Logan had to check on Thomas. What would even happen if he failed? What number of outcomes were even traceable, possibly predictable for him to prepare for? Did he even have time to prepare? Was there anything to be prepared for? Why did he want to prepare? 

God, he should just go. He took a breath, hoping for the nagging fear to be kept at bay just this once.

Rising into a still-dirty apartment that felt the same as 4 days ago, Logan noticed its disturbing tranquility, as if a puzzle was just about to be completed before being forcibly shoved from a table. But the puzzle wasn't complete yet. He still has time to find answers– to do his part and help Thomas. His Thomas.

“Thomas? How… how are you feeling?”

“Oh, Logan.” He swears he could hear the disappointment in his voice. Did he…not even realize his presence was abnormal? Was he so uninterested with Logan that his return after so long was met with … well…the usual. Maybe it was only long to him. Maybe he-

“I've been better. I dunno; I felt a bit… down? Well– ah, no, that wouldn't… I guess, bored? Normal? I don't think it really matters.” Although concerning, Thomas’ answer was better than what he was prepared for. Hell, that would mean… it would mean that he didn't matter . No- wait, no– that's not right. It would mean the hormones for some reason had little effect despite his… misgivings. But it's proven to change things before! Like in the date with Nico, and—

“Oh! Tired.” Logan was unnerved by Thomas’ outburst.

“Great adjective, Thomas.” He sighed into his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose and forcing his glasses up. “Glad you're alright.” Even with this anomaly, Logan could still perform a routine checkup, make sure any specific hormones aren't out of balance, see if he's done anything remotely productive… probably not…

A brooding voice from the corner killed any fantasy of alone time with Thomas. “You know how you feel Thomas– there’s no use in lying, especially not now. You're doing horrible. You feel horrible.” Although not uncommon, Virgil’s insistence struck a chord of concern in Logan. He turned to the negative side only to be met with a cross-armed, jittery figure painted with a scowl. What could Virgil be talking about? Thomas sure seemed fine, at least to him. 

Beating him to the chase, Thomas probed, “...Virgil, are you alright?” And, to his credit, Virgil genuinely seemed slightly confused in response. He actually huffed a laugh for a moment, his eyes darting around. He gasped a breath of air almost hungrily before answering.

“Yes, yes I'm fine. But it's- just- if I, I'm like this,” he frantically motioned to his body,” I just– augh , Thomas– what…why are you so scared?” Thomas and Logan stared back at the abnormally anxious wreck on the stairs. Thomas’ gaze turned, Logan knowing that he was finally searching for him, for comfort, for an answer, but his brown fear-filled eyes were met only with a quiet sort of resentment hidden behind layers of exhaustion. And all Logan gave was a grimace of sympathy and a shrug. Logan only knew as much as he did. 

Thomas was lost. But he was alright. Were those two things completely independent? Maybe not. There was a soft sort of filter over everything, a disquieted hunger that was just unsatiated enough to be ignored. But it was hungry, nonetheless. And when it became painful, impossible to ignore, was he the one to blame when blood dripped on his tongue from pure anticipation? Or could it be forgiven in the face of pity, perhaps it could earn a stipend of sympathy because he simply couldn't bear to take care of himself.

Logan, naturally, was concerned at that line of thinking. Thomas was having another crisis involving guilt. How tremendously fun. …But this wasn't his time to intervene. He didn't have much to offer, not in the name of comfort.

“Roman? Patton ? Er–... Nah,” Thomas asked, facing the empty spaces they normally filled. Logan didn't think they were really needed but…whatever Thomas wanted, right? If he thought they could help then so be it. With his usual flourish, a few moments behind schedule, Roman rose dramatically from his spot in front of the TV, his grin a little too wide and misplaced on a slightly red face. It wouldn't be uncommon for Roman to not put makeup on, neither was sleeping in, but the way his eyes missed a crinkle and the falter in his smile meant a perfect mask didn't have the time to be manicured. Roman's behavior recently was…unusual, but he would normally take the time to sculpt himself to hide his grief. Ironic, seeing as deceit was… well, doting on that wasn't the greatest idea. 

Roman turned to Thomas giddily, “Thomas! What does Grandpa need my help with now?” He giggled, poking his arm out as if checking Thomas despite being meters away. Thomas pushed it down, turning to Roman with that strange look in his eye, as if there was something he was trying to say through compassion rather than words.

Logan watched as Thomas twisted his fingers together in trepidation, his lips parting and pressing together as he rolled over the words he had to say. Looking back to Roman revealed no cracks, a painting waiting with a thin smile and eyes trained on Thomas and Thomas alone. It was strange—Roman usually took the time to scan the situation, at the very least for immediate threats. No; scratch that— any normal person's instinct would be to check on the environment. Something else was more important to keep in mind than the actual situation. Logan continued to eye him silently from his place.

“I…I need help.”

Roman's gaze tightened, a flimsy grin toying at his mouth. “Well I could guess that much, my knight in shining distress,” he implored with grandeur, his eyes flitting before training on Thomas. Oh —of course! His eyes! Roman wasn't sure what to do mentally, so now he's hyper aware of his physical body. Makeup can hide a flushed face but…

Roman's red sash grew stark and potent, the prince skimming Logan's face for a moment before shamefully locking onto the wall. His emotional episodes were often few and far between, at least to Logan's knowledge, but that didn't mean this was worthy of any more attention than usual. Not more than Thomas. Logan needed to set aside the sinking rock of guilt inside him to focus on his one true goal.

“Thom–”

“Not now, please Logan, I'm just— let me do this .”

Those words would have to eventually stop carving so deep. They shouldn't have set off the spiraling anger in the pit of his mind that made his fingers curl and his lungs work against a deep breath.

How much anger had he pent up? He had gone through numerous breakdowns—numerous evaluations, talks, destruction of property—was his emotion truly monumental enough to drive him day-to-day like this? Why couldn't he let go?

As if in answer, in front of him, an (in comparison to most times) almost comically large bottle of adrenaline had manifested, orange flakes of tangerine smoking off the edges.

Well, that's just fucking rich.

He quickly pocketed the powder, citrine dust falling onto his pant leg like cinder and leaving small grey dots of ash where the droplets fell.

“Mhmm, yes, I'm not sure this is my realm of expertise,” Roman's booming voice dismissed, a frivolous flick raising a cheery blue side into the mist. It seems this will become another “group discussion” where no verdict nor lesson will be achieved through civility.

“Oh—hiya Thomas!,” Patton squealed, flapping his hand energetically. His taught posture failing the rest of his “definitely not caught by surprise” demeanor, but at least he's having fun.

“Hi Patton,” Thomas replied with much less enthusiasm. 

“Whell, what's got your tats in a tickle?”

Thomas once again prodded at Virgil, the side in question rapidly picking at the grout in the wall and piping in. His winded explanations of “I don't know,” “I'm confused, but numb,” and “Can you tell me what's going on?” served with long sighs made the ongoing headache sprout a ringing hum not unlike cotton. Logan was only absentmindedly paying attention to the conversation. Why should he anyway, he was hardly making an input. 

Oh—god, no; how many times had he circled back on this? He had to stop wallowing in pity and start actually being responsible and see things as he was meant to: through an unbiased lens, understanding all views and taking into account no one over the other. Though it wasn't entirely his fault… he was still responsible for how much he contributed, wasn't he? But would those contributions even matter in the slightest if they weren't sought out, the conversation’s conclusion still as distant as any other river end? 

Patton’s struggling voice cut through the haze. “Well kiddo, it's sort of like how we exist! Sometimes, things we do are because of you, and sometimes things you do are because of us!”

“But… you– represent me either way, right?”

“Not… exactly,” Roman cut in. The attention that flooded to him made his figure lock up, and yet he continued,” It's not entirely reliant either; sometimes you just gotta accept that you're existing whether you like it or not, and if you surround yourself by people that add to it or,” Roman looked around the room, Logan noting how he lingered on Virgil and himself,” …don't. And eventually you just get to ask yourself: ‘Who are you really?’”

Thomas smiled a bit to himself, twiddling his thumbs and thinking. Logan pursed his lips, debating on the moment and the next course of action and not on Roman's monologue. 

“ And- ahem, sorry, how does that help?” Virgil nagged from his seat. It was clear he… well, no, nothing was exactly clear, but it was unlikely he meant it in a harsh tone. Virgil, although growing monumentally these past years, still requires some stability. And that… that shouldn't be an issue. There had to be something; any estranged string that he could have followed that led to this, some kind of clue or idea that he still has time to solve. For now. What was he missing?

“Ha! It didn't!” Rang a grating voice, echoing from somewhere far from here but no doubt waiting to pounce at an opportune moment.

He had been observing enough; he needed to record what he found. What is it that I can't find? What is wrong? How do I solve it? It was evident enough that Virgil wasn't the only affected side in this…outburst. He may be the one most outwardly distressed, and that may require some attention. In fact– no. He had more pressing things. Virgil could wait until he found the cause.

Patton was definitely struggling. His hand stayed fiddling with his hood, but the proximity wasn't unintentional–proved when he would rub at his chest, and falter. The most interesting part however was that his face never fell; it was as if he was masking again, but his cheeks grew puffy and red and he looked just about ready to explode at any minute.

Logan's thumb raced against his arm, rocking his weight between his feet as he thought a mile a minute. He had to. He was responsible for this problem, and everything was right here.

Roman. He seemed… more put-together than Patton, at least. But, of course, there was something laying hidden behind his flickering eyes. He was flustered and frustrated; he was worried about Virgil, clearly, and… makeup. Roman usually put on makeup when he needed a pick-me-up, but that only happened when he had the strength to think up something. If he was hiding dark circles, he would have kept it at concealer, but he was still willing to put on foundation–or some setting powder, as either way his eyeshadow wasn't moving, and if he was crying beforehand his eyes wouldn't be so red. But they still weren't red ; in fact, he may have just been losing sleep, and his waterline was just irritated from something. Maybe his makeup. But he put on makeup– he had something to hide. Whether it was mentally, or sleep-wise, or having a breakdown, that wasn't certain, but the fact was that Roman was suffering, and he was trying to hide it. The fanciful side winced, looking far too weary for someone only following along in a conversation. God, what had he done?

“Who, me?” Ah, here we go. Now this place can finally have some stakes, after all, what's an efficient conversation without… him. There was a low beat of fear in his chest that subsided too quickly, like a misfired warning. He hardly cared anymore anyway.

“Okay, fine, ignore me see if I care,” Remus added, his new presence met with pointed turns. The subject in question wore a nasty mask of cracking blood rimmed in his face, unable to tell if he was bleeding horribly or had taken a bite from an artery. Some of it had gotten in his eye, his fixation now on attempting to interact with Thomas by giving him a metaphysical wet-willy. It doesn't seem to be working. The silence from him has the same uncanny horror as the quiet from two noisy kids, knowing they're about to strike or already have. 

Roman was uncomfortable in the Duke’s shadow, squirming and biting back with some insult to spur him on. Remus barks back like they're in a practiced call-and response, their antics unfortunately not drawing the attention of the other struggling sides.

“Oh, okay! I see,” Roman defended, “This is all just a huge party isn't it! Yeah, we're all having fun, enjoying ourselves!” The waver and simmering anger in Roman's voice was more chilling than any stunt Remus could pull.

“Let's just get everyone in on this then, right? I mean, we don't want anyone missing this fun !” He screamed, his arms raising in his fit and left dangling at his sides in mock defeat. 

If Roman summoned him because he never thought he would attend or from his obnoxious use of sarcasm would never be known. But the gasp through his teeth at yet another side joining the room echoed enough to focus the attention on someone else. Janus' lazing figure clung to the wall, his cheek resting on his hooked cane and his stature moving far too slow to recover. Drawing himself up, Logan could see one of his eyes was at half-mast, a hand belatedly carding through his hair as he raised his eyebrows to stretch his face. He assessed the other presences, scowling before finally snapping his bowler back onto his head. Janus lingered on Logan's assessing eyes and mustered a pursed lip before turning away. 

Thomas looked around dazedly. Roman sat flustered and angry, rubbing his forehead and trying not to break into tears. Virgil was drawing blood from his finger and pulling on the hoodie over his head. On the floor beneath him was a cackling, red-faced Remus, who may be reveling in the chaos, but the unruly mustache and bloody stubble left some questions unanswered. One of the more concerning sights was a self-soothing  Patton, face dribbling snot into his arms that hugged his torso. And then there was Janus–tired, irritated, confused Janus, who didn't have a clue what was happening. 

“ Oh,” he breathed.

“ Oh god. I get it.” Of course. Everything blurred together; the final watercolor piece was in place. And it finally made sense. Every detail has meaning, each ridge breathtaking and endlessly leading from point to point in a perfect map. It was so clear. It made so much sense. Logan could only imagine the star-like glimmer in his eyes as he turned to his host, Thomas snapping to him, the other sides wary and lost and suffering but listening, and all eyes on him. He could do it. He would finally serve his purpose and explain everything.

“It's similar to having some pieces of your brain divided. Some meld together, some are strong enough to form things, ideas, realms; people,” Logan started with a shaky voice. Thomas’s eyes shine at him brighter than a lighthouse, and the fire in his chest burns hotter than a dying star.

“And others just… aren't. Merely shards of matter drifting, waiting to collide and bond until they form… something.” The attention Thomas had was little, but it was focused on Logan. He brought his hands up, not caring for any of his gesticulations as his palms met and separated in the same thoughtless elegance as his words.

“Think of it like…” Logan pondered, trying to modify a vision he saw so clearly into words, a form they could understand. All of them. It was his function; left-brain activities. Language, pattern, translation. He finally had a chance to perform what he needed to, to show his conclusion. He could finally display his work, his rigor and effort and get something from it, finally, finally amount to something after all this time. He held his breath.

They looked to him.

They waited for his answer.

And then his puzzle fell apart. No longer could he find the energy to speak, to explain something he…he cared about. A lone piece in his hand while the rest sat spilt below the table.

“I…” his mouth struggled to form words. What a chore. Speaking. Having to change and develop thoughts, something meant to flow constantly without blockage, and stop it. Take the time to digest it into language so others may read, may form a semblance of understanding when there isn't a fraction of language translated from the millions of firing ideas that float around constantly. Why not simply talk at the speed of thought? Why not simply exist and understand in mutual harmony and silence to cling onto what is known?

“Logan?” Thomas asked. There wasn't much worry in his voice. It sounded almost calm, as if he were a mother trying to rouse her child from a rest to wake up to a world she brought him into. He couldn't serve him anymore.

There was simply no point.

Oh, but there is, it is what you do! 

His thoughts made no sense. Provided no answer. They were simply words. No longer had meaning, but just there with intention. Was it to comfort? To protect him, try and deflect him from sinking deeper? Deeper into what? What semblance does language make? Why were his thoughts even passing through? What are they doing, what effects will they have to… to anything? Because they weren't even real. Not existing, not truly.

Logan's brain was quiet. For once, there was no neverending hum to keep him busy thinking. There was no obligation. A sweet sort of tiredness was overbearing. A pure and unbridled sort of joy. Euphoria. The feeling would have made him sick if he wasn't so petrified. 

Logan peered down, the burning sight of the floor and voices against his fingers sparking threads of burning passion to sear through his heart, an unsteady pumping supplying his body with more and more feeling, rapid inputs of pain wracking his body as he forced himself to grit his teeth, nagging beads of water forming at the edge of his eyes. But he just had to deal with it; that's life, after all, wasn't it? The grievances of a figment of imagination in a struggling man's life was just as insurmountably unimportant, and contradictingly just as profoundly meaningful, as any other experience. The thought wasn't comforting.

In a moment of clarity, Logan pressed two fingers to his neck and closed his eyes tight, counting. Counting too fast. The rise of his lungs kept him steady, sudden jitters making his hands shake. 

I need to calm down.

The feeling of warm tracks down his face was humiliating, and pressing his lips together only to be met with light salt even more so. But Logan had suffered worse. This one was just… his fault. Though there wasn't much evidence against anything else negative in his existence to be self-inflicted either. His pulse chattering at the pads on his fingers, Logan looked towards the scene once more. A picture of chaos like this wasn't as unsettling as it should have been, but the lack of gaze on him was still mildly comforting. They weren't looking at him. For once, the idea sparked null.

And finally, after taking stock of the nothing short of magical spectacle, Logan stepped to Thomas. Standing frozen in a circle of insanity was a half dressed middle-aged man, gaze flicking from side to side.

He had to stop this. He had to help him somehow. He was just on the verge of explaining it; just touching the horizon of an explanation that was so obvious and clear to him that this situation should have been nothing but a hazy memory. But instead, all he had was the empty hole where fulfillment once was, and an inconsolable host. 

The final thoughts that passed through his head before Thomas hit the floor in a multicolor explosion weren't what he wanted. His warm tears and the heart throbbing pain that bled from his lip were the last thing he wanted to be perceived as. And the shards of glass that bounced with burning flakes of anger were so deeply unwanted that they should have evaporated at the thought. But Thomas fell despite it. And Logan thought for every second he could.

I failed.