I accidentally started writing this at 1 am the other day and I can’t really be bothered editing it that much, so here! have a logince bullet point fic.
Roman gets so In The Zone when he's creating that he pretty much loses track of everything around him
and he's found this is particularly noticeable when he's nearing the end of a project
he figures the others must know since it's pretty obvious how little attention he pays them if they try to talk to him when he's in the middle of something
and this is why it strikes Roman as so suspicious that Logan has startled him at the end of a finished product, not once, not twice but three times this week, so far
he's surprised Roman into knocking over a wet painting, dropping an entire cake onto the ground and fumbling a painstakingly careful attempt at a house of cards
each time Logan looked appalled at the result of his actions, moving to try and help Roman clean up, so he doesn't think it's malicious in any way
and yet, it doesn't seem to stop him from doing it
when Roman almost smashes a camera from being jolted out of an extremely productive filming session (if he does say so himself), he decides enough is enough and he has got to figure out why Logan keeps disrupting him
he marches down to Logan's room later that evening, pulling open the door to see Logan staring down at papers littered across the desk, not even looking up at Roman's arrival
"Logan!"
at the sound of Roman's voice Logan jumps about a foot into the air and Roman tries not to feel a little vindicated
and fails
"Oh, Roman. Apologies, I was just-"
"Doesn't matter!"
Logan raises an eyebrow at that but doesn't interrupt.
"I need to know why you've been bothering me so much this week!"
in an instant Logan goes from someone who’s mildly confused to someone who’s trying desperately to pretend they don't know what you're talking about
"Bothering you?"
"Yes! You know--"
Roman waves his hand about as if it has the power to communicate his thoughts better than his brain does
which, honestly, may not be entirely inaccurate at times
"Coming into my room while I'm working, sitting at the kitchen table to work while I'm baking when I know full well your room would be more 'conducive to efficient work habits' or whatever, talking to me!"
"Talking to you."
Roman rolls his eyes, somewhere just north of fond and east of irritated
"Are you going to just repeat everything I say or are we actually gonna have a conversation here, specs?"
"Right, I just..."
Logan blinks a few times, rapidly, as if his brain was lagging and needed time to catch up
it's not an unfamiliar expression with Roman; he does have a tendency to run at speeds Logan simply doesn't
"I'm... not entirely certain what you want me to say."
Roman inhales, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes again
"Well, the truth would be good! Why have you been hanging around so much recently?"
Logan's mouth thins
"Would you believe me if I told you I simply enjoy your company?"
Roman scoffs
"Yeah, right."
but Logan is just shifting uncomfortably in his chair, eyes cast downwards
and suddenly Roman feels kind of like a jackass
"Wait, really?"
"Yes, well, when you're not making fun of me or speaking at high speeds about whatever new thing has captivated your interest, you're actually quite... relaxing, Roman. I like watching you work. And you get this look on your face when you're finishing up a project that just- no, never mind."
"Oh, come on! You've come way too far in this explanation to back out now."
Logan heaves out a sigh, his lips twisting ever so slightly
"It's... intense but in a way that's... It's difficult to explain. You look like you're in your element, like you could accomplish whatever you set your mind to within the confines of your project because you simply know how to do it. It's... well I loathe to say attractive but-"
"Sorry, attractive? Logan, are you saying you have feelings for me?!"
"I believe that's the point I was getting to, yes."
"So, let me get this straight. You've been coming into my room and interrupting my work because you have a crush on me?"
Logan doesn't quite reply to that, simply moving parted lips in a facsimile of speech without any real noise
there's a moment where Roman simply digests that, running his mind back over the past week or so
he wasn't... upset when his projects were destroyed; not really
he was put out, sure, but the look of distress on Logan face (only lasting for a split second, mind you, but long enough) was enough to put that out of his mind
and there was all the slight brushing of their hands that made Roman's skin prickle and heat, the way he'd stuttered when he stood up from grabbing cards off the ground as he was suddenly overtaken by the urge to run his hands through Logan's hair and-
ah.
hm.
"I... the whole excited rambling thing doesn't annoy you, does it?"
Logan, who seems surprised Roman is still willingly standing in front of him considering the circumstances, blinks again
"No, I- I simply wouldn't describe it as relaxing. And anyway, you aren't the only one to do it, so claiming it's annoying would be rather hypocritical of me, in all honesty."
Roman nods, slowly
"Feelings," he repeats again, just to be sure
in return Logan nods too and it seems solemn, somehow, like loving Roman was a sin he was somehow committing
Roman didn't care for that shit at all
"Well, it's just as well I have feelings for you too, nerd."
Logan's eyes spark with disbelief and Roman catches it before it can ignite, tamping it down with a speech he hadn't even realised he'd been writing
"Seriously, you're so endearing; almost everything you do makes me smile. I never thought I would be so delighted by someone organising their bookshelf by publishing date. It's awful, Logan, it's absolutely ridiculous and I love that you do it. It makes me so happy.
"I spent five hours on that painting that I knocked over. Five hours. And I wasn't even mad that it got ruined! You were just standing there with your hands fluttering by your sides like you wanted to help but you weren't entirely sure how to and apparently, somewhere along the line, my brain decided that it was alright.
"And it is... alright. This is alright, Logan. In fact, I would argue this is better than alright."
Logan breathes in, seeming to restart again from the frozen position he'd been in throughout Roman's tirade
"Well, you won't be finding that argument here."
Roman snorts lightheartedly
"There's a first."
there's a crease in Logan's brow and Roman takes the barest hint of a moment to regret his comment
"Yes, Roman, about that-"
"Look, don't worry about it, Lo. If you wanna talk about it, we can, but just... not tonight."
Logan nods, seeming to accept that as a sound decision
"So..."
the words trail off and Roman isn't sure he's ever seen Logan look shy before but he also isn't sure he could call this anything else
"So..." Roman picks up, "Boyfriends?"
the little half smile Logan gives makes something twist in Roman's stomach like pulled taffy, sugary sweet
It's Logan's birthday! And for the boy I have semi-broken my writing hiatus to write a fluffy, entirely self-indulgent loceit drabble. So here it is! Hope you enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"For all the things in this world worth fighting for, none quite match up to you, you know?"
Logan rolled his eyes, though no one but him could see it. "Don't be ridiculous. There are things far greater than me to—"
"Maybe, maybe. But not to me."
Logan rolled over in bed and studied the face of his love in the darkness, the gentle shimmer of scales in the moonlight. Janus was watching him, his gaze like fingers running along the curve of his jaw and sweeping over his cheeks—not meeting his eyes but, then, he rarely did.
"I don't mean..." he faltered, "I don't intend to put pressure on you. You aren't my reason for being or any such nonsense. If you left I would be..." he let that sit for a moment before moving on, refusing to pick up the threads of the sentence left behind, "But I wouldn't die. It wouldn't be the end of me."
Logan furrowed his brow slightly. "So what is your intention then?"
Janus sighed, pulling away from their purely emotional embrace and flopping onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. After a moment, Logan joined him, turning his palm into Janus' as he did so.
"I'm not sure."
It was quiet. Everything was quiet but Logan had no need—nor, in fact, want—to change that.
"Maybe I love you."
The words settled atop them like a blanket. Heavy and warm. Calming.
Logan let the corner of his mouth lift through his exhaustion. "Maybe I love you too."
Janus' exhale beside him was slow but it was impossible for Logan to miss the relief it held. It was antithetical to both of them, maybe—falling in love. Yet, here they were.
A thumb swept across the back of a hand—though which belonged to Janus and which to Logan, it's impossible to say.
"Well, of course, you do," Janus supplied, low and teasing, "If I were you, I'd be in love with me too."
Logan just shook his head, let his eyes flutter closed, lips pulled to a smile meant for the two of them alone. The dark felt somehow less oppressive here than in his own room—alone, surrounded by books and frigid air. He could claim it was simply the heat, of course, but he'd be lying. They both knew it.
Janus shifted slightly, pressed his body against the heat of Logan's side. "Sleep now, darling."
"But I need to s—" a yawn broke through Logan's complaint and he pulled a hand to his mouth reflexively—"Set an alarm."
A light appeared out of the corner of his vision, quickly disappearing into faint afterimages and then fading entirely. Janus looked over to see Logan perched on his elbow watching him and raised an eyebrow.
"I may not be Logic but I'm perfectly capable of setting an alarm."
Logan huffed out an amused breath, melting into the bed beneath him. "You're more than capable."
There was no reply but a noncommittal hum, Janus all too aware of the blurring edges of Logan's consciousness.
There was silence. Then, there was the gentle brush of skin against skin, a kiss pressed to Logan's forehead and words whispered into the space between them.
"Goodnight, my love."
And—warmed in every way a person can be—Logan fell asleep.
Summary: It had been a few months since Roman had fallen for Virgil. He’d come home to Patton that first day, waxing poetic, and come home much the same way every day since.
Pairing: Queerplatonic royality and romantic prinxiety!
A/N: I did create an entire AU around this with qpr sleepxiety and long-suffering-coworker-and-best-friend Logan Sanders but who knows if I’ll ever actually write anything else for it, hahah. Also this is a contribution to my aroace Patton agenda cause it’s a Good hc that we need more of, I think.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Oh, gosh, they were gorgeous again today, Pat!" Roman yelled upon flinging open the door to their apartment.
His qpp poked her head out of the kitchen, giving Roman a bright grin. They were donned in a bright blue apron, paw prints marked on the front with some fabric pens the two had bought a while back. "Oh?"
In an instant Roman was running up to her, pulling them into his arms and excitedly spinning her around the lounge to the sound of her giggles. Eventually, she was returned to solid ground, moving to pat down her apron with a sweet smile.
"What was it this time, then?" Patton asked, heading back into the kitchen with Roman trailing after them.
It had been a few months since Roman had fallen for Virgil, caught up in their snark and smirks and secret sweetness (and also a little bit in their iced-coffee-making skills). He'd come home that first day singing the praises of the cutest barista he'd ever seen and since then Roman had become a regular, always returning to their apartment after his classes with a lovesick smile and a pastry for Patton.
Roman sighed, the sound like the epitome of a daydream. "They had this lovely blouse on today, all black and sheer and delicate, like a spiderweb but infinitely more goth."
"More goth than a spiderweb, hmm?" Pat hummed, not really questioning Roman's words so much as prompting him to go on.
"Oh, and their eyes! How they lit up when their coworker made them laugh, I swear I have never beheld that level of beauty!" He paused for a moment, considering. "Except for you, of course, my dear."
In response, Patton just laughed, smacking Roman on the arm before turning back to the shopping list they'd been writing out.
"And the way they blush! Every time their cheeks darken I am overtaken."
Patton rolled her eyes fondly. "Overtaken, huh?"
Roman grinned at them, bright like jewels and other things nowhere near as precious. "Entirely, my love."
Things were quiet for a moment—but quiet in that way you can only be when you know each other so wholly and love each other just as much. Patton swung her way around the kitchen, pulling items from the cupboard as she checked what needed to be restocked while Roman watched with a look of utter adoration. Occasionally, Roman would grab their hand, pulling them into a spin before letting them carry on their way and each time Patton would laugh like it was the happiest day of their life.
Eventually, the list was completed and the two had wound down, taking up entwined positions on the couch. The TV was on in the background but neither were paying it much attention, focused instead on the way they fit together and the slow set of their breathing.
"Have you ever thought about asking them out?"
Roman spluttered for a moment, seemingly trying to come up with a reason for why he hadn't already that didn't simply boil down to "I'm excruciatingly afraid of rejection".
"You're not supposed to flirt with service workers while they're on the clock, Patton!" Roman declared loudly, "I wouldn't dream of putting them in the position of being unable to turn me down."
Patton rolled her eyes. "Love, that's a weak excuse and you know it. Logan has been trying to give you their number since the second you started going by the shop. Something about being sick of the pining, I think."
Roman mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Oh, as if he can talk," but Pat decided to ignore it.
"I know you're worried about being turned down but you know you're not gonna be alone. I'm never gonna stop loving you. Not as long as there are stars in the sky, darling." Roman flushed at the words, ducking his head, and Patton grinned teasingly. "Every day the sun rises is another day I get a chance to love you with all that I am and I could never be more grateful for that."
Roman made a sort of high pitched squealing noise before ducking his head to hide in Patton's lap. "You're being mean."
Pat giggled. "Maybe I am but that doesn't mean I'm not also right."
Roman lifted his head, gazing up at his partner with a look that spoke of years of trust and emotional vulnerability—another gift Patton would spend the rest of her life cherishing.
"I know that I don't technically have anything to lose except access to some really good iced coffee but I just... I don't know. I keep thinking of all the ways it could go wrong."
Pat hummed, brushing a hand through Roman's hair. The action seemed to soften Roman, the corners of his lips quirking up into a soft smile.
"Okay, let's think about it this way. You like Virgil, yeah?"
Roman gave a decisive nod, his cheeks tinged a faint pink.
"So, you think they're a good person?"
He nodded again.
"Therefore, if they're a good person, they won't react negatively to you asking them out, even if they don't feel the same, right?"
There was another nod, this one marginally more hesitant than the last.
"And," Patton continued, "if they do react negatively, then they probably aren't actually a good person and their opinion doesn't matter anyway."
Roman screwed up his face a bit, seemingly thinking about that. Finally, he smiled—the expression more of a mask of confidence than a real expression of it.
"Ten out of ten logicing there. Logan would be proud."
Patton huffed a laugh. "Look, I'm not gonna pressure you but I think you should go for it. You deserve to be happy."
"I am happy," Roman protested instantly, "You make me-"
"I know, I know," they replied fondly. She cupped his face in her palm, smiling so sweet she could almost taste caramel in her mouth. "Even happier then—happier than any human being thought they could be. That's what you deserve."
"You too," Roman whispered back. His eyes had fallen shut with the sound and Patton's smile turned to an outright grin as their chest warmed.
Summary: The two of them were friendly now—the days of hurtful nicknames and angrily putting each other down had long since passed—but even still Virgil was hesitant to open up to Roman. And it seemed as if Roman felt the same.
Pairing: Platonic prinxiety.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virgil wandered down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes and only catching each step with his foot on sheer luck alone. He was barely even conscious—having woken up from a nightmare not more than a few hours after he'd gone to bed—and in his vaguely uncomfortable and jittery state, Virgil had decided that maybe a snack would make him feel better and started his move down to the kitchen.
The light was already on, he noticed vaguely, but it didn't really seem important until he came to the door of the kitchen and was greeted with a sight that woke him up entirely.
"You're crying."
Roman spun around abruptly, wiping at his eyes like Virgil was earlier but in less of an I'm-tired-and-trying-to-wake-myself-up way and more of a trying-to-hide-the-consequences-of-a-3-am-mental-breakdown way. Virgil would know; he had plenty of experience with both.
"I'm not crying, Charlie Frown," Roman insisted, "Your brain is playing tricks on you. Just go back to bed."
"Low blow, blaming a man's faulty brain for something you didn't want me to see," Virgil said, dropping into the chair across from Roman and ignoring the way he let out a sigh as he averted his gaze.
The two of them were friendly now—banter was easy and they were able to discuss things without it heating up to an argument every time—but there was still a layer of hesitancy when it came to being vulnerable. It wasn't just Roman either. Virgil had more than once entirely played off his anxiety or insecurities so that he could go deal with it himself or, if it got too bad, go bother Logan or Patton with it. It was stupid because they were friends and logically, he knew there was nothing to worry about. Even still, he was afraid. And he had a feeling Roman felt the same way.
"Do you want a hot chocolate?"
Roman blinked at him. "What?"
"I said, do you want a hot chocolate?" Virgil repeated, getting up from his chair. He threw open a few of the kitchen cabinets, rifling through it to grab the chocolate. "I mean, mine are nowhere near as good as Patton's—I really don't know how he does that—but they're still okay, you know?"
He glanced back at Roman to see him staring at him blankly and raised an eyebrow, prompting Roman to clear his throat.
"Uh, I mean, if you want to."
Virgil nodded, switching on the element and grabbing out a saucepan and milk, not bothering to measure any particular amount as he poured it into the pot.
"So... you wanna tell me what's going on?" Virgil asked, keeping his back firmly to Roman.
It's what he'd want, he thinks, to know that someone's listening without the pressure of having them stare you directly in the face—like, he loves Patton, but sometimes that earnest gaze can be a bit overwhelming.
"I promise, it's nothing. I'm just a bit tired-"
"Roman."
There's a long silence and if Virgil hadn't been listening intently for any sound, he would have thought that Roman had just up and left.
Then, there was a shaky inhale from behind him, let out all at once. "I'm... overwhelmed."
Roman paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts and as he did so, Virgil grabbed a rubber spatula from the jar on the counter, stirring the milk. He wasn't actually sure if it was necessary but it was something to do with his hands that wasn't simply wringing them or biting at the nails.
"Our fans expect a lot from us, you know? And the production value keeps getting bigger and we keep coming up with these new ideas but if we don't execute them perfectly it's going to seem like it was ridiculous for us to even try. And there's deadlines and short videos to keep up with and-" He heaved out a sigh. "There's just so much to do."
"There's always so much to do," Virgil interjected, breaking the chocolate into the boiling milk, "I think that's what life is."
Roman laughed but it wasn't particularly joyful, almost more like a sob than a laugh. "Maybe. I don't know. I just... I want everything to go perfectly but I know that's impossible."
There was something in that statement, some underlying insecurity that Virgil couldn't help but pull apart. With all his years being the literal embodiment of a person’s deepest fears, he’d become fairly well versed in feelings of inadequacy and leaving them alone to fester certainly wasn’t gonna do Roman any good.
"You're right. It is impossible," Virgil replied casually, "But why exactly do you think it needs to be perfect?"
"So that people will like it! People need to like-"
"You." Virgil switched off the element, turning around to look at Roman with something soft and sad in his eyes. "Is that right? You think that if the work we produce isn't perfect, if you don't make things that people love then you can't be loved."
Roman stared wide-eyed at Virgil, lips parted ever so slightly. "I- I just-"
And with a sob, he broke off, face crumpling as he failed to hold in his tears. Virgil winced, suddenly flooded with need to shield Roman from anything that could make him look so devastated.
"Roman, come here."
He opened himself up for a hug and Roman dove forward, gripping at Virgil's hoodie and shaking in his arms as they wrapped around him.
"We love you," Virgil spoke insistently but quiet, as if were he to speak any louder something inside him would break, "We will love you the same if you never create another thing ever again or if you create something new every day for the rest of your life. You don't need to do anything to be loved. You're here. That's enough."
Roman nodded into his shoulder. "I- I know that. I do. And you all keep telling me that's it's fine but-"
"I get it. It's hard. It took me a while to accept that you all love me too, you know? But you'll get there. And we'll be happy to remind you of it any time you need."
Virgil pulled away from the hug, leaving Roman blinking at the ground with still watery eyes. He seemed... more solid, somehow—less like he would shatter if Virgil looked at him wrong—and the relief he felt at that was almost palpable.
"And, Ro?" Virgil asked, prompting Roman to drag his gaze back up to him, "Yeah, the stuff you create may not be perfect but I haven't seen a single thing you accomplished that you haven't done a pretty fucking great job of."
Roman smiled—slight but real and filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Virgil."
"Anytime, princey."
Virgil turned to grab a few mugs from the hooks under the cabinet, placing them on the counter. A quick test of the milk revealed it to be plenty warm still and with a great deal of care, Virgil poured the hot chocolate into the cups, having apparently made more than enough for just the two of them.
The silence as Virgil moved wasn't uncomfortable—much more akin to the kind of silence you expect from two people alone in the kitchen at the early hours of the morning—and Virgil was immeasurably glad for it.
Eventually, he passed one of the mugs over to Roman. He hadn’t really put much thought into which ones he’d grabbed but he noticed now that it was one of Roman’s personal ones and written on it, in curling font, read the words, “Imagine. Create. Repeat.”. Virgil tried not to find the irony in that.
"So, uh, how about we finish this hot chocolate and then we head back to bed, yeah?" Virgil asked, picking up his own mug from the counter and taking a sip.
Roman didn't react for a moment except to rotate the mug he gripped tightly in his hands, holding it up by his face so the steam still coming off it warmed his cheeks. Then, he nodded, a smile barely turning the corner of his mouth.
Summary: The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and though Virgil has come all this way he’s suddenly struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other—so much can change in 15 years; so much has changed in 15 years.
Though, maybe things haven’t changed quite as much as Virgil thinks.
(AKA, a past-punk moxiety AU)
Pairing: Moxiety!
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, smoking, homophobia and nondescript injury. Vague allusions to past abuse (or at least mentions of terrible parental figures). Brief discussion of a parental figure having died.
AO3 Link
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It isn’t at all the place Virgil imagined for him. The flower pots all sit in a row on the steps, red ivy climbing up the fence like spider webs and a garden hose curled up on a perfectly manicured front lawn. Everything about it is picturesque—almost to the point of insanity—and as a butterfly floats by and lands delicately on a ladder leaning onto the fence from the backyard, Virgil wonders what in the world could have changed Patton so drastically to have led to this.
There’s an image, in his head, of teenage rebellion—of 2 am milkshakes and stolen bicycles, of broken glass and laughter, so much laughter, as they took advantage of what time they had left to live. It doesn’t fit in with this pastel blue sky in this pastel blue neighbourhood full of pastel blue people but he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew things would be different.
Though, that doesn’t make it all that much easier to comprehend.
Vaguely, Virgil hears the sound of excited squeals coming from the yard and he ducks his head over the fence just a bit, catching sight of a young girl flying off of a trampoline at a hundred miles an hour—hair a mess and grin bright.
The kid must be Patton’s—it’s unmistakable, that dark skin and reckless look, like she’s ready to take the world on at any moment—and Virgil can’t help but remember the nights the two of them spent drinking and talking and vowing to never tie themselves down to anyone or anything.
He supposes no one really does know what they want when they’re young.
It takes Virgil a while to gather up the courage to knock—he’s all too aware of his leather jacket and patches, his dyed hair and piercings. He couldn’t feel more out of place in this suburban neighbourhood and he hadn’t thought that around Patton he could ever feel out of place.
In the end, though, the choice is taken out of his hands. The young girl throws open the door, clearly looking to haul ass across the street to the park—the kind of place he and Pat would have smoked, once upon a time—but is stopped short as she notices Virgil standing in her way. There’s a moment where he’s afraid she’s going to scream or cry or something else he would have no clue how to deal with but instead, she just grins cheekily.
“Dad!” she yells, barely turning her head to face the soft white interior of the house, “There’s a man here for you!”
The sound of footsteps pad across the landing above and for a moment Virgil is so afraid that he’s gotten the wrong house or that Patton won’t want to see him and though he’s come all this way he’s struck with the feeling that he’s not ready. It’s been 15 years since they’ve seen each other; so much can change in 15 years.
“Riley, what do you mean? What ma-”
And then, there he is.
His face is void of any of the makeup he used to wear, his hair faded from turquoise to its natural black and left curly in a way he wouldn’t have been caught dead with once. And, over the top of a graphic t-shirt displaying some characters Virgil doesn’t recognise and unripped light-wash jeans, Patton had thrown a familiar blue flannel.
Virgil remembers that flannel, worn under heavy coats to help fight the evening windchill, tied around Patton’s waist as they scaled fences just to see if they could and left in a pile on the floor in his room as they finally escaped back to comfort and warmth. Honestly, he’s just surprised it still fits.
Patton does nothing but stare at him for a moment, his lips parted in shock and his eyes big and wide and god, looking at him now is like falling in love all over again.
“Virge?” he breathes, a melody of disbelief in his voice. Virgil can’t exactly blame him—it isn’t as if he’s someone Patton was expecting to see.
Virgil rubs over the fabric of his jacket, a nervous tick he’d had even back then. “Hey, uh… surprise?”
And in an instant, has Patton pitched forward right into his arms. Virgil catches him—of course, he catches him, he’ll always catch him—and Patton laughs, displaying some level of joy Virgil hadn’t known he’d needed to hear until now. He can feel Patton breathing against his neck as they hold each other and, distantly, the sound of light footsteps echoes away and up the stairs.
They pull apart, eventually, the separation like trying to peel a sticker off of a concrete wall—the easiest kind of graffiti to enact while still being tricky to remove. The distance Patton puts between them seems almost reluctant and Virgil wishes he had the courage to tell him to stay.
“What are you doing here?” Patton asks. It’s soft, like the white fuzzy carpet of his new home and Virgil realises suddenly he’d been so caught up in him that he’d forgotten that this him wasn’t the same.
Patton had always been soft but not soft like this. He’d been soft in redirected conversation and distractions, in Virgil’s favourite TV show on in the background and stolen chocolate bars in his pocket, guiding hands mimicking steady breathing. This Patton seems soft around the edges—worn down, almost—and Virgil feels those 15 years as more of a lifetime.
He doesn’t answer the question—truthfully because he’s not sure how, not sure where to start with the mess of events and near-misses and regrets that finally brought him here to Patton’s doorstep—and instead replies with one of his own.
“My mom died. Did you know that?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, they hadn’t spoken to each other in 15 years, there was no way he could have known. Virgil asks it all the same though. “I have her money now. Didn’t write me out of the will even after everything we went through. Guess she didn’t want how much she hated me and my “lifestyle” to come out even after she’d kicked it.”
Patton just looks at him. There’s something sad in his eyes, maybe, something regretful or sympathetic, something holding years worth of apologies and love confessions in not so many words that every night they'd pretended they hadn’t said.
Maybe not, he isn’t sure. He’s never been very good with stuff like that.
“You owe me a party,” Virgil continues impulsively. Patton grins and shakes his head and the urge to kiss him is so strong for a moment Virgil can’t breathe. “You promised me when she was dead and I didn’t have to worry about her anymore we’d have a party. With cheerio sausages and expensive liquor and-”
“Sparkling juice and bad karaoke,” Patton interrupts, “I remember.”
Nobody speaks. Patton doesn’t invite him in and Virgil doesn’t ask for fear of being turned away.
He knows there’s an element of worship in the way he looks at Patton. It’s worship like the way farmers pray for rain in a drought, worship like how sailors are drawn to the rough turn of the sea and worship like teens relishing in the night when they’re bored and alone and angry, yearning for freedom that only comes in years they feel they don’t have left.
But now, dark eyes gazing at him and breath catching in his throat, Virgil thinks maybe he isn’t the only one who feels it.
“I have a kid now, you know?” Patton asks and Virgil knows instantly that question isn’t about the party but everything that comes after it—all of the hundreds of possibilities that stem from this decision that neither of them can quite voice out loud, “Single parent. I made a lot of bad choices in those 15 years—gave myself away to a few people who didn’t deserve it, maybe—but she’s… helped. I want to be better for her.”
Virgil nods. It’s a little hard to reconcile teenage Patton with this one but he tries anyway. He has to; he owes him that much.
(In truth, he owes him so, so much more than that but right now this is all he feels he can give.)
“Yeah, uh, Riley, right? Seems like a sweet kid, if not a bit mischievous.” Virgil smirks slightly, somewhere between teasing and nostalgic. “Kind of like you were.”
At that, Patton grins and he laughs and it feels right—feels like early morning rainfall and crackling log fires, like the burning in your lungs as you run and the way your eyes slowly drift shut against your will when you’re up too late, like every ending and beginning in just a moment.
He shakes his head again, almost affectionately chastising and there’s a stuttering of Virgil’s hand as he goes to reach out, to brush a strand of hair away from Patton’s face but stops himself halfway through.
Patton doesn’t seem to notice. Virgil once thought Patton never noticed—never saw the longing in his eyes and the flushed red of his cheeks as they sat side-by-side on a park bench in the middle of winter, running from the heat of harsh words and high expectations.
He wonders if maybe that was naive.
“Well, I’ve gotta make sure to raise her right,” Patton jokes and his smile is amused—fond and familiar like the worn leather of Virgil’s jacket between his fingers, “If she’s not questioning authority and getting me called down to the office at least once a term then I’m doing something wrong.”
With that, there’s a flash—just a moment—of principal visits and angry rants, of cutting class to sit with the other in the silence of the school office and knowing, that outside of the two of them, there was no one else to come. And he thinks of Patton—this Patton, not his Patton—taking up the empty space of that office with kind reassurances and defensive words, protecting and protecting and protecting, fighting for Riley the way he had Virgil.
Parenthood suits Patton more than he’d first thought, perhaps.
“Ah, office visits.” Virgil nods sagely and can’t resist the quirk of his lips as Patton giggles. “A hallmark of a punk child. Next thing you know she’ll be dyeing her hair, running off to the park in the middle of the night to meet up with boys.”
It’s obviously a joke but still, Patton quietens, taking on a more contemplative look. It seems as if he’s remembering something and Virgil needs, all at once, to make sure he’s more to Patton than simply that expression on his face in the midst of just another day.
“Yeah,” Patton finally says, “Yeah, she was thinking purple actually.”
Virgil doesn’t reach up and drag a hand through his own purple hair but it’s a near thing. He hums—soft and low. “Good taste.”
A heavy silence rings in his ears—an echo of all the memories they share and all the memories they don’t, a collision of black and pastel blue on a canvas already painted with teenage angst and first love—and Virgil can't stand the way it feels like it may be too much to overcome. It isn't; he won't let it be.
He takes a step closer and Patton doesn’t move away, just lets Virgil crowd him against the doorframe till their chests are pressed together and each shuddering breath is a joint effort.
“I’d like to get to know her. If you’ll let me,” he murmurs and he’s so close that he can hear Patton’s heartbeat pick up as he slides a hand up to brush at the strands of hair against Virgil’s neck.
The air between them is tense and pulled tight—gazes tracing over freckles and foundation, their skin warm with each point of contact and the rushing of blood in Virgil’s ears drowning out the pounding of his heart. Each second that goes by without comment feels to Virgil like sinking into quicksand, like fingers losing their grip on the edge of a building and threatening to let him fall.
But, before he can draw away, throw up his walls and stumble his way through apologies like they’re nothing more than kids again, Patton tugs him forward and, softly, he brings their lips together.
The kiss is a teenage fantasy come true, the culmination of every moment—under streetlights or under blankets or under nothing more than the cover of night itself—where Virgil longed to reach out and tell Patton that he wanted to kiss him until the world faded away and all that he could focus on was the taste of cherry red lipstick and the joy and love pounding in his chest like a second heartbeat.
It's the comfort in late-night knocking, Patton taking Virgil in and patching him up and holding him as he cries because he has a mother that doesn’t love him and a father that’s always absent and a world that doesn’t care, muttered reassurances a quiet backdrop to his sobs.
It's the warmth in drinking their way through meagre retail paychecks, Patton’s soft touches like fire against his skin and the thread of restraint holding Virgil back from blurting out a love confession worn down to something as thin as a spiderweb and just as delicate.
It's the exhilaration in grocery store runs with no money and bags filled with spray paint cans, their gloved hands clasped tight as they race against the biting evening wind, giving in to the urge to let out a cry of victory that bounces off the empty alley walls.
So, yes, it’s the culmination of years of pining but it’s more than that too. It’s an apology, it’s acceptance and it’s an offer of a future, to stay here with them.
“I think I’d like that,” Patton gasps as he pulls away and Virgil’s so enamoured even after all these years that he barely knows what to say, “For you to know her, I mean. She’d like you. She’s like you, or at least the way you used to be—always a bit loose with self-control.”
Virgil doesn’t tell Patton that all his self-control had been going towards keeping himself from telling him he loved him. He doesn’t think he’d know how.
Slowly, Virgil blinks and he nods and it’s all he can do to keep himself standing as Patton beams up at him with a smile reminiscent of stars colliding—bright and beautiful enough to take his breath away. And suddenly Virgil feels like maybe he can fit in here, that maybe he can fit in anywhere he needs to if Patton keeps looking at him like that.
He smiles back, smaller than the one he’d received but the way Patton’s eyes light up makes Virgil feel like maybe that doesn’t really matter. “Okay, yeah. I want that; I want to stay.”
“Okay,” Patton parrots and he’s barely holding back giggles, Virgil can tell. It’s okay though because he feels it too—that sense of happiness and disbelief that has almost no other way to present itself—and giving in feels more like an inevitability.
So, laughing and hands joined together, Patton pulls Virgil inside to the soft white of his suburban home. And he closes the door.
Summary: “It was vulnerability and adoration and safety in nothing but his name and Roman would say he doubted he'd ever hear a more perfect sound but Logan always managed to surprise him. Every time he said his name it was different; every time it was more beautiful.”
Pairing: Logince!
A/N: This is my birthday present to Roman, written entirely without planning like two hour before I’m posting this!!! And it’s soft as fuck logince, of course, because what else could we possibly expect from me?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You know, it's interesting," Logan whispered, the silence of the room parting for his words, "I never thought that my life could ever be so intrinsically tied to someone else's."
Roman didn't sit up from where he lay against Logan's chest, a hand carding steady through his hair like the ocean tide. It was late evening, their work was long completed and their food had since been eaten, the day collapsing alongside them into a bed filled with blankets and silk and warmth. Roman felt tied up here too—in Logan, in their life—and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to leave.
In reply, he hummed and Logan correctly took that as cue to continue.
"I just- I'm sure I don't need to reiterate to you that I spent much of my childhood alone. I spent much of my teenage years alone. I've spent… too much of my life alone."
He paused. For a moment, there was just the sound of breathing as Logan seemed to think through his next words. Roman knew he wasn't finished; there were still sentiments echoing in the air around them that Logan hadn't had the chance to articulate and Roman hadn't ever known him to leave things unsaid. It was both deeply frustrating and terribly endearing.
Logan inhaled, the action pushing Roman's head up with his breath. "I love you."
It wasn't a revelation or a confession, it wasn't the first time it would be said and it wasn't the last but it warmed Roman's heart all the same.
"I love you too, darling," he echoed.
Jarringly, Logan began to move, displacing Roman from where he'd begun to grow roots and sitting up to flick the lamp on. Roman blinked through the brightness and came around to both sight and a sense of coherency with Logan standing in front of the bed, a small box clutched in his hand.
For a moment, it didn't click.
Then, Logan got down on one knee.
"Oh my god."
Roman blinked, then blinked again since the first one hadn't quite jolted him out of what must be a dream. There was absolutely no way this was happening, he couldn't believe it. He didn't deserve it.
"Roman," Logan spoke softly and gods, was it soft—not just in volume but in tone and in shape, like a brand new winter jacket in the middle of a snowstorm or a cat rolling over to show you their stomach because they trust you not to harm them. It was vulnerability and adoration and safety in nothing but his name and Roman would say he doubted he'd ever hear a more perfect sound but Logan always managed to surprise him. Every time he said his name it was different; every time it was more beautiful.
Logan inhaled again and Roman watched his chest rise and fall, shaky but sure. He could imagine the way Logan's heart must be beating, thumping like his own in the quiet of their bedroom and he wondered, for just a second, if they were beating in time.
"Roman, I am so frequently uncertain of whether you truly know how much I love you. I know that I am the way I am, I know that I am difficult. I don't… communicate the way other people do and I often feel as if I'm not making it obvious enough what you mean to me, the fact that you're the star I feel I revolve around. You're bright and shining and golden in a way I can barely fathom, you're life and warmth and the kind of excitement you feel on the drop of a roller-coaster—anticipation and joy paired with the sense that nothing could ever truly go wrong."
Logan smiled ruefully then, shaking his head. It seemed almost bitter and though Roman longed to reach out and brush those thoughts away like nothing more than a strand of hair from his face, he didn't dare move.
"Truthfully, I think the me of five years ago would be appalled by this development but I've let myself… grow in the light that you give off. I've learnt and I've understood and of all the things that I've come to know, I don't think any of them are worth quite so much to me as the things I've discovered about you.
“The way you sing to yourself as you carry out small tasks, so under your breath you often don't even realise you're doing it until the task is completed. The way you trap pencils between your teeth when you're thinking—not quite biting or sucking, just rolling it back-and-forth in your fingers. Your affinity for scented candles despite the fact that you rarely light them. Your insistence that sweet is the superior popcorn flavour despite the fact that you're blatantly incorrect—"
"I am not—" Roman spluttered wetly in protest, entirely unable to help himself, and in response, Logan beamed. It felt almost impossibly bright, like every light on earth had turned on all at once in an attempt to rival the sun in its glow.
Roman recalled Logan once informing him that fire continued to burn by consuming surrounding oxygen. He assumed, then, that Logan must operate on a similar principle because Roman found himself entirely devoid of breath, his lungs filled instead with longing and all-too-familiar warmth.
"The truth is," Logan continued, as if Roman wasn't burning up from the inside out, "I think every day I come to love you even more than the last. It feels entirely impossible to quantify the feeling in my chest when you look at me but, honestly, this might be the one thing I am perfectly content to remain ignorant of. I love you, more than I think anyone could ever truly comprehend, but if you give me the rest of our lives I will certainly try my best to show you.
"So…" He reached up, grasping onto Roman's hand and squeezing—lips quirking at the corners when Roman weakly squeezed back. "Roman Prince, will you do me the incredible honour of becoming my husband?"
For a moment, Roman could only breathe. His face was hot with tears, with a blush of red against his skin brought out by the layers of affection Logan had seen fit to smother him in. The idea of speaking seemed almost impossible—if he had lungs left at all, if the space wasn't entirely taken up by his love for Logan, they certainly weren't functioning as they should.
Logan's face was beginning to close off though and so Roman pitched forward, pressing their foreheads and narrowly avoiding straight up headbutting him.
"I love you," he choked out because it felt like it was maybe all the words he had left, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
It wasn't quite a yes, so Logan just held him—clutching him tight with all the surety of two celestial bodies, rotating eternally, providing the other with a sense of belonging that they hadn't quite had before. His tears ran dry eventually, evaporating against his skin, and Roman felt air fill his lungs again as he sucked in a breath.
Briefly, that's all there was. Their breathing echoed each other, chests rising and falling in time and when Roman finally pulled away, he felt the absence like someone had pulled out the ground from under him.
"I love you," he repeated once more because, truly, he didn't think it could ever be said enough, "And getting a chance to continue to do so for the rest of my life would be a dream come true, starshine."
Logan paused, furrowing his brow slightly and Roman stifled a smile at the small expression of hesitancy that flit across his face. "Just to be entirely clear, that is a—"
"Yes, Logan, I would love to marry you."
"Oh," Logan said, the utterance completely at odds with the rather besotted look on his face, "Good."
Roman laughed, bright and almost startled, as he reached to cup Logan's face in his hands. He didn't even need to lean forward before Logan's eyes were fluttering shut—trust and love shown clear in every plane of his body—and even if Roman had wanted anything more in that moment than to kiss his fiance, he isn't entirely sure he would have been able to.
And so, slowly, Roman pulled them together, drawing the air from both their lungs and filling the room with light.
Summary: When a quiet evening alone is interrupted by one of their boyfriends, Janus has to reveal a little more than they had been in any way prepared to.
Pairing: Analoceit with briefly-mentioned, background royality.
Warnings: Panic attack, anxiety spirals relating to transphobia (no actual transphobia), mention of underage drinking.
AO3 Link
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t meant to go like this.
Janus had planned perfectly for their coming out, down to mentally scripting all the possible reactions their partners could have. They knew neither Virgil nor Logan were transphobic—after all, Virgil was trans himself—but still, they’d been nervous about going through with it.
Their boyfriends were gay. They liked men, they liked each other and yes, they liked them but they didn’t know. Really, it was only natural to be worried about the effect this could have on their relationship.
So, they’d put it off. The flinch every time Virgil referred to them as his boyfriend wasn’t picked up on and the slight frown they adopted when being told how handsome they were was taken as nothing more than insecurity and though, maybe, they were a little put out by how their boyfriends never seemed to notice, they couldn’t blame them. It was their fault for not telling them after all.
It was all their fault.
“Jan, please, open the door,” Logan said, the concern in his voice leaking in through the cracks between solid wood and drywall. Janus could barely hear it though for the rushing of blood in their ears and the heaving sounds of their breath seemed to take up all the space left in the bedroom.
They tore at their clothes, ripping several of the buttons off their blouse as they yanked it over their head, their skirt tossed to the other side of the room as if throwing it to where it was no longer in view would somehow mitigate the weight of what had already occurred.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! They’d been careless. Their boyfriends’ schedules were predictable—Logan worked till 4:30 pm every weekday, Virgil slept in but stayed out later—and as such, they hadn’t even considered the fact that they would be caught. It was foolish to think they were ever safe, utterly foolish.
Their chest was tight, heavy, and they dropped to the floor—curled up with their legs hugged to their chest and their whole body shaking.
Logan’s voice trickled its way back into Janus’ mind, softer than they had ever heard it outside of late-night love confessions and Virgil’s panic attacks. “Jan, honey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Do you remember Virgil’s breathing exercises?”
And with a jolt, Janus realised that is what this was. A panic attack.
Their breathing hitched and they ducked their head down to press against their knees, hands gripping to each other until the knuckles turned white.
It was a fact that was more terrifying than it had any right to be. Janus was always the one to comfort their boyfriends when they were panicking, they knew all of the techniques, they knew each of their boyfriends’ preferences on touch while they were experiencing particularly heightened anxiety but right now it was all useless. The only thing looping in their head was visions of their boyfriends laughing at them, outing them to everyone, leaving them, kicking them onto the street where they’ll be alone, alone, alone, just when they had finally gotten comfortable enough to let them in.
Pulling in a stuttering breath, they tried to count, managing to hold it for around four seconds before blowing it out.
It felt almost impossible—like climbing the rough side of a rocky cliff face when your body only wants you to stay at the bottom of the ravine to die—but they knew it wasn’t. Despite the siren sounding in their mind, they knew there was no physical danger. And anything else could be dealt with later.
So, they tried again, this time slightly more successfully and with each breath, they could feel the weight of their head getting heavier, the static in their limbs fading away to almost nothing. By the time they could breathe again they were so tired, all they wanted to do was sleep for a year.
Unfortunately, their boyfriends would probably have some qualms with that notion.
There was murmuring outside and Janus knew without a doubt that Virgil had arrived, so they figured the locked door likely wouldn’t hold them back much longer. Virgil had learned to pick a lock as a teen—a skill they’d occasionally utilised to break into their parents’ liquor cabinet when they were both too young to drink—and with the level of worry Janus was sure Logan was holding, they doubt he’d have much of an issue with trying to break into their room.
To the sound of the doorknob rattling, they clambered up from the ground, pulling on a large shirt they’d found beside them on the floor. It must have been Logan’s because it smelt like him—sort of like paper and metal but mostly just like Logan—and Janus tried not to acknowledge the way something in their chest lurched.
They approached the door with probably more hesitance than was warranted and, standing with their hand on the doorknob, they took a moment to catch their breath before turning the lock and throwing it open.
Virgil was on his knees on the ground, a hairpin held in his hand and his tongue sticking out ever so slightly as he concentrated. As the door swung open, though, his expression changed to one of shock, glancing up at Janus in a way that made them feel somewhere between adored and uncomfortable. Logan was much the same—though he wasn’t on his knees—his expression shining with relief and barely contained concern.
There was a moment of silence, punctuated with Janus clearing their throat.
“Go on then,” they said, their hands on their hips and their voice wavering much less than they had been expecting, “Say your piece.”
But instead of the anger or the betrayal Janus had been half-expecting, Logan threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around them and cradling them like they’d been missing for years, like they were something precious, like they were loved.
And Janus melted.
They let out a gasp as they felt the breath being punched out of them, hands going up to grab at the back of Logan’s coat and it was barely a moment before Virgil stood up to join them, his long arms reaching around them both like a shelter from the wind and the rain and the fear.
Far sooner than Janus would have liked, they both pulled away, leaving Janus feeling cold and somewhat lost.
“I’m sorry,” Logan said softly. His gaze was cast to the ground and Janus took the opportunity to run their gaze over his slumped shoulders and furrowed brow, vaguely feeling the urge to soothe the stress he seemed to be holding, “I should have warned you that I was coming home early but I had wanted it to be a surprise.”
Janus laughed but the sound was void of joy, seeming instead rather hollow. “Well, you certainly accomplished that.”
Visibly, Logan winced and Janus felt a stab of guilt go through them. It wasn’t Logan's fault—they knew it wasn’t Logan’s fault—and it was unfair of them to make him feel bad for something that could have been so easily avoided if only they were more careful.
Janus was not known for being impulsive. They thought things through and they made plans and they certainly didn’t jump into things without being entirely sure of them first. The problem with that, however, was that sometimes you can’t be entirely sure.
And now, unfortunately, seemed like it was one of those times.
“I’m nonbinary. I use they/them pronouns.”
They wouldn’t say it was quite blurted but it was certainly close—their words hurried as if given the chance to think for even a moment longer would prevent them from being said. Maybe it would.
Glancing at the two of them, it was clear that they were surprised but it was eclipsed quickly by a look of understanding and though part of them was relieved—breath exhaled, shoulders dropping, loved, loved, loved—part of them could only feel that this was much too good to be true.
“Okay.” Logan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Thank you for telling us.”
Janus narrowed their eyes. “That’s it?”
Something of a bewildered expression crossed Logan’s face and he tilted his head slightly, as if Janus were some puzzle that he had yet to figure out. In response, they folded their arms tight across their chest. That look always made them feel a little too much like an ant under a magnifying glass and while sometimes they were grateful to have so much of Logan’s attention, now it just made them feel exposed.
“What do you mean?”
They gaped at him for a moment before throwing up their arms in a gesture of incredulity. “You’re gay! You like boys-!”
“We like you,” Logan interrupted. His voice was calm and caring in a way that sort of made Janus want to cry but they refused to show that kind of weakness right now, “In fact, we love you and learning your gender identity doesn’t change that in the slightest, at least not in my case.”
They fidgeted a bit with the hem of Logan’s shirt, feeling the absence of their usual outfit—the weighted jacket and full coverage shirt—like a missing limb. “Virgil?”
Cautiously, they glanced over to him and almost took a step back in shock at the unexpected shine of Virgil’s eyes—wet and teary and full of an unquantifiable amount of love. Janus and Virgil had been friends since they were children and, outside of panic attacks, they’d barely ever seen him cry.
“I’m so proud of you,” he murmured, making something in Janus’ chest crack open like a geode, leaving bits of rock scattered around but exposing something a lot more valuable, “Coming out is really hard and I’m really, really proud of you. And I love you. A lot.”
Janus exhaled, their breath shaky. “Oh.”
There was a moment of silence as the three of them just stood there, unsure of what to do next. Then, Virgil laughed. It was sort of wet but full of love and the others couldn’t help but echo him, feeling all the stress and the tension and the fear melting away with each second that passed. It was ridiculous, really, but Janus thought that maybe they deserved it all the same.
Virgil shook his head incredulously, his lips teasing at a smile but his eyes soft. “God, c'mere, asshole.”
Biting at their bottom lip to stop the way it was wobbling ever so slightly, they stepped forward into Virgil’s open arms, slotting in like they were made to be there.
“Pretty rude of you to call me an asshole while I’m baring my soul over here, dick,” Janus laughed into his shoulder.
They felt a kiss being pressed to the top of their head from behind, Logan worming his way in to join the hug and bringing with him a sense of completeness that made Janus exhale softly into the space between them, their eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.
It felt safe here—truly, safe—and though they are aware that it was okay to be afraid… they couldn’t help but wonder why they were ever worried.
After a long moment of soaking in the comfort their boyfriends brought them, they pulled away, gently extricating themself from the embrace. Despite the fact that they were no longer touching, nobody moved too far apart and Janus could still feel echoes of Virgil’s skin brushing against theirs and the soft exhale of Logan’s breath as if they hadn’t moved at all.
“Gods, this is far too many emotions for me,” they joked, though there was truth in the words still, “And I swear if either of you tells anyone about any of this they will not find the body.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, my love.”
“Not in a million years.”
They rolled their eyes, fondness barely hidden behind a look of exasperation. Their boyfriends were so stupidly earnest sometimes, though they’d be lying if they said it wasn’t endearing.
“Saps.”
Wandering back into their room with their boyfriends trailing after them, they began to get redressed, stripping Logan’s shirt off to pull on one of their own. It wasn’t the first time they’d changed in front of their boyfriends but even still they were cautious of the way the two of them were looking at them, bumping their shoulders together every so often as small talk picked back up.
The conversation was familiar, dotted with exclamations from Virgil about how much he hates his job and overlaid with Logan’s recapping of Roman and Patton’s ridiculous pining recently, Janus occasionally butting in to affectionately berate their twin for being so oblivious. Even they’d figured out their relationship faster than that and the three of them were experts when it came to putting up emotional walls.
It felt… normal. Good, even. And bit by bit, comment by comment, word by word, Janus felt that sense of comfort creeping back in until eventually the three of them were lying on the bed, limbs tangled together and someone’s hand in Janus’ hair, unsure of where one body started and another began.
“Thank you,” they whispered, just loud enough that they knew the others could hear them.
Logan pressed a kiss to the back of their hand, intertwining their fingers and keeping their joined hands pressed tight to his chest. “There’s no need to thank us, my darling. Our love for you was never in question. Not for a single moment.”
And to the murmuring affirmations of Virgil, twin heartbeats echoing in their ears, Janus let themself believe that.
I'm thinkin' about losleepxiety and like,,, can we just imagine the three of them tangled together on the couch at 2 am, having been binge watching Netflix since they'd finished eating dinner several hours ago.
Logan's snoring quietly, his glasses falling off his face and he's wearing a borrowed band shirt from Virgil which is falling off his shoulder because his boyfriends have always been taller than he is. his legs are intertwined with Remy's and Remy thinks that his foot may be falling asleep but he couldn't even fathom the idea of moving.
Virgil's face is buried into Remy's chest, gentle breaths ghosting against his skin and hair tickling his neck. his hand is gripping tight at the bottom of Remy's t-shirt, balled into a fist like he's in danger of losing him despite the fact that there is nowhere else in the world Remy would rather be than right here.
he's sleepy but content, happy to watch his loves' faces for as long as he can possibly maintain consciousness. every breath they inhale, every little mumbling noise they make, every time they snuggle in further to the warmth Remy is putting out making him just a little bit more sure that he's never been this in love.
he's going to spend the rest of his life with them, he's so sure of it. he'll buy them the prettiest rings and they'll both insist it was unnecessary whilst also being unable to keep the grins off their faces. he'll be breathless at the ceremony because he's got the world's loviest husbands, grinning up at him in a way that makes his heart stutter in his chest every single time. he'll wake up to them every single morning, fall asleep with them every night and he's sure he'll never stop feeling exactly like this. like the world revolves around the people in his arms, like he's holding onto something more precious than a lifetime supply of coffee, like he's exactly where he needs to be.
and with a soft kiss to the crown of Logan and Virgil's heads (and gentle removal of Logan's glasses), Remy finally falls asleep with a smile on his face, dreaming of their future together.
