I wanted to draw this for awhile, it's based on one post I found on Tumblr, but I unfortunately lost it, If someone'll find it, please let me know, because I want to tag the creator of the post to my comic and give a link to the original post :T
notes: hi it’s lolli back at it again with my logicality bullshit <3 thank you so much to @spicycreativity for beta-reading for me (please go check out their writing they’re amazing) !! i might start trying to write a bit more and make a taglist if anyone’s interested? if you’d like to be added please lmk!!
read on ao3
Patton is, decidedly, not much of a poet.
And if the way in which Roman’s face contorts in a sort of confused distaste as his eyes skim over his latest attempt is any indication, he evidently doesn’t think so either, though Patton can’t bring himself to take offence. Admittedly, he’s never had a particular gift in regards to lyricism, at least not one that resembles that which the other sides possess. He wouldn’t call it envy, but as he surveys the abundance of half-read poetry books littering the table, he can’t help but to dwell on his failures. Logan has always wielded words as his weapon of choice; Virgil had often dabbled in poetry during their teenage years, though he now abhors any mention of it; and Roman’s imagination can bear entire worlds into being. Why is it that he appears to be the exception to the rule? He’s never considered himself a bad communicator- in terms of effectively articulating what he means to say, under normal circumstances- so why isn’t he able to express himself fully? The bitter taste of doubt floods his tongue, but he swallows, forcing it down.
“Ah, it’s very, well-”
Patton tilts his head to look at Roman, who’s currently hovering over his shoulder, as he searches for his words. Patton finishes his thought matter-of-factly:
“Bad?”
“No- no! All art is subjective! I just- believe there are some areas that could be worked on-”
Roman’s flustered ramblings are suddenly hushed by the bubbling of laughter that spills from Patton’s lips, and the prince’s shoulders sag in something like relief.
“It’s okay, Roman. I know it’s not great.”
“You’re definitely improving!” he tries still, pawing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe it’ll be easier to write once you have more of a direction.”
“Direction?” Patton blinks.
“Yes!” He feels Roman’s hand seize his upper arm, the other gesturing grandly. “Dig around a little and find some inspiration! It doesn’t have to be from anything in particular, just- try looking at things in a different way. Ah!”
Roman’s touch disappears, and Patton cambers his neck to watch him sweep up the small potted cactus plant from its home on his windowsill. He holds it up victoriously as he revolves around to face Patton again, a bright, almost mischievous fire pooling in his eyes.
“There’s no better muse than Mother Nature herself! Okay, what do you see when you look at this plant?”
“It’s...green?”
“That’s a start; what else?”
“It’s...prickly?”
“Yes! What do you think of when you think of prickles?”
Patton puckers his lips in thought, and Roman can’t help but chuckle at the child-like expression.
“Oh, hedgehogs!” His eyes glimmer joyfully. “They’re so cute!”
“...Okay, good enough! And what do hedgehogs do?”
“...Curl up in little balls?”
“What emotion would you associate with that?”
“Um...fear? Maybe sadness?”
“And which colours could one associate with those feelings?”
“Black or blue?”
“Okay, and what’s something blue?”
“The...ocean?”
“So, if you’re, say, writing about sadness, you could add in some imagery that relates to the ocean, for example. Making little connections like this can lead you to find more creative ways of expressing or showing emotions in your writing that you might not have thought of before! If you’re struggling with what to write about, small exercises can be helpful to draw ideas from.” Patton nods slowly, though, in all honesty, he’s not confident in his own ability to employ such a method effectively. He doesn’t find it useful to voice this, however, and graces Roman with a beaming smile.
“Thank you so much for all your help, Ro! I’ll keep you updated.”
“Anytime, Padre.” Roman sets the little cactus back in its position on the windowsill, then ambles back over to lean against Patton’s desk. “I have to say I’m surprised at your sudden interest in poetry.”
Roman doesn’t speculate, at least not outwardly, but the expectant look in his eye makes Patton’s skin crawl, and he squirms under the perceived scrutiny.
“It’s, I mean…” Patton sucks in a breath then exhales it sharply, palms suddenly growing damp and clammy. “It’s...for Logan.”
Roman jolts slightly at the open admission, and for a moment he seems to flounder for a response, jaw slack and useless, however Patton fills the silence for him.
“I wanted to give him a proper apology, you know...after everything.” The mere mention of the incident scalds his tongue, and he sees Roman wince. “I wasn’t sure if he’d like a card, and he’s mentioned how much he likes poetry before, so I thought that maybe…”
“I’m sure he’s already forgiven you, but...it’s a really nice thought, Pat. Just be prepared for him to write a three page critical analysis on it with a supplementary Power Point presentation.”
Patton snorts quietly and shakes his head, eyes crinkling fondly as he notes the teasing smile coaxing the other’s features. His thumb mindlessly traces the lettering on the spine of a nearby book as he makes the innocent enquiry;
“What about your work? How’s it been coming along?”
Roman appears suddenly suffocated, and he quickly busies himself with straightening out some of the books on Patton’s desk. The smile abruptly evaporates from Morality’s lips and he’s flooded with immediate regret, his eyebrows furrowing unhappily as he watches Princey struggle to answer.
“Huh? Oh, uh, wonderfully, of course! Would you expect anything less from such a dashing prince as myself?” Roman cards a vain hand through his hair as he turns to face Patton, white teeth on display in a brilliant grin that doesn’t quite brighten his eyes. The moral Side slowly reaches out, fingers curling tenderly around the other’s wrist in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.
Roman doesn’t meet his eyes.
“I know you’ve been working really hard, kiddo.” Patton squeezes him gently, observing the tension detaining Roman’s very being. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
The creative Side hums, a low and quiet sound.
“I’m always here if you need anything, you know that, right?” Patton’s voice is soft and almost entreating. Roman’s gaze finally greets him, his palm raising to tousle Patton’s unruly curls, and he offers a small quirk of his lips in reassurance.
“I’ll see you at dinner, hm?”
Roman’s voice has always reminded him of a river, strong and boisterous and sure of its course. His heart clenches sharply in his chest at the ripple of melancholy that disturbs its usual clear waters, and as Roman proceeds towards the door the overfamiliar words are tumbling from Patton’s own lips, abrupt and desperate, before his mind even spares him a second thought.
“I love you, Roman.”
Maybe if he repeats it enough, Roman will start to believe him.
And perhaps he does, if only for the moment, because a warm flame seems to flicker somewhere beneath the flecks of amber in Roman’s eyes as he regards Morality for a final fleeting moment.
“I know, Pat.”
“You’re my hero.”
“I know, Pat.”
But as Roman departs with the husk of a farewell smile and the door closes in his wake, any feelings of comfort Patton may have permitted himself are replaced with the merciless gnaw of guilt. The other has always been quick to forgive, though stubborn and proud as he is- he’s never been one to outwardly betray when something is truly bothering him. His kindness shouldn’t set Patton at ease. He can’t- won’t- allow himself to forget the mistakes, the ignorance, the self-righteousness that had so carelessly wounded Roman and the rest of their family mere weeks ago.
He would be better. He has to be better.
Patton blinks pitifully down at his half-written poem, releasing a small huff from his nose as he plucks a marker from his pen pot and hunches over to mar the page with thick, deliberate scribbles, obscuring the sorry attempt. He replaces the cap and leans back in his chair, casting his gaze out towards the window and appraising the smattering of clouds against the sky’s pinkish cheeks as the sun peeks out from the horizon.
Roman is like the sun, he thinks- radiant and devout.
-
It then follows that Virgil is the moon: quiet yet constant.
Patton’s eyes habitually stray to him as he absentmindedly stirs the sugar into Roman’s coffee, fondness settling comfortably in his chest. His eyes are fixated on his lap as he presumably shuffles through his playlists, one hand moving up to secure his headphones over his ears. He’s in a strange, contorted position, however he’s at least sitting on the sofa today rather than the dining table or some other unconventional surface, and Morality can’t help but smile slightly. He feels his throat constrict with the wish to call out to him, to strike up a conversation, to have the other snicker at one of his jokes or roll his eyes at a silly viral video he shows him.
He wants his family back.
Virgil looks up, and Patton, fearing that he’s made some involuntary sound or that Anxiety can sense his gaze on him, abruptly ducks his head down. A dull remorse replaces the warmth he’d been feeling moments before, and his jaw clenches as he finally focuses his attention on the mug in front of him he’s about to fill with water. He pauses.
He’s forgotten to add the tea bag to Logan’s tea.
Patton exhales softly, the closest he’ll allow himself to a sigh, and stretches up to the cupboard above his head to retrieve one, his mind wandering.
Logan.
Not that any of you care, but I am unharmed…
…I will do you all a favour and spare you my company.
The memory of the other’s voice, a sound that has so often brought him comfort and reassurance, is almost unbearable. His hands tremble slightly as he struggles to open the tin, his eyes clenching shut as he tries to banish the feelings of self-hatred to the back of his mind until he’s back in the safety of his room to indulge in them. He knows he has to speak to Logan today, has to try and mend things between them; he’s tried to afford the other some distance over the past few weeks, but that doesn’t quite quell the fear that maybe Logan will only retreat further into himself if he attempts to broach the subject at all. He eventually drops a tea bag into the cup and reaches for the kettle once more, trying to gather at least a morsel of courage.
The bare minimum Logan deserves is an apology, Patton reasons. If he’s not ready to talk yet, then that’s okay. But Logan has to know he’s open to having a conversation. All Patton wants to do is show him support, let him know that he’s needed and appreciated and admired, tell him that being without him leaves a part of Patton cold and empty because-
He hisses as a splash of hot water from the kettle suddenly spatters across the back of his hand, and he quickly sets it down, turning towards the sink to run his hand under the cold tap to provide a semblance of relief. If Virgil notices, he doesn’t say anything, and although a part of Patton is thankful, his chest clenches selfishly. He quickly swallows the disappointment, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to focus on the cooling sensation of the water.
What right does he have to yearn for care from Virgil? From anyone?
After smothering his burn in some sort of gel he finds in the depths of the medicine cupboard, he finishes up quickly, unwilling to be left alone at the mercy of his thoughts any longer. After carefully arranging the other mugs on a tray, Patton picks out the Nightmare Before Christmas-themed cup brimming with black coffee, and heads over towards Virgil, who still appears oblivious to his presence.
He startles even at the gentle nudge of Patton’s elbow, gaze owlish until he registers the mug of coffee being pressed into his hands. Long, pale fingers curl around its warmth, and the slight nod he offers is thanks enough for Patton.
“Careful ki-Virgil; it’s hot,” is his only caution, before he pivots and returns to the kitchen to retrieve the other drinks. When he reemerges with the tray, he doesn’t miss the slight hunch of Vigil’s shoulders or the sinking of his gaze towards the carpet as the moral Side passes him.
Patton’s chest aches.
Roman’s room is the first destination, and his visit is unusually short. Even when the creative Side is immersed in some sort of project, he normally takes great joy in talking through his plans with Patton when he stops by, who more than mirrors his enthusiasm. However, there’s a certain tiredness in Roman’s eyes when he answers the door, and Patton still feels unwilling to intrude too much into his space.
“Thanks, Patton,” he says quietly as his Disney mug is passed to him.
“No problem, Roman! I won’t keep you too long since you’re busy!” He tries to ignore the visible relief seeping through Roman’s shoulders, and offers him a big smile. “Keep working out those brain muscles! I’ll see you?”
Roman nods, then gives a half bow as Patton turns to leave, raising his hand to give a precarious wave.
“Take care, kiddo!”
“See you, Pat.”
As he hears the click of Roman’s door he regains his grip on the tray, wincing when the mugs tremble and clink together at the movement. He shifts slightly and focuses on steadying his hands, keeping a careful eye on the mugs, and when he looks up again he’s stepping through the door to the dark corner of the Mindscape. He shivers slightly, squinting down the dim, ominous hallway, and pressing onwards towards Janus’ and Remus’ quarters. Admittedly, he doesn’t know this area well, and he already feels himself becoming disorientated in the eerie darkness. Something stirs in the shadows out of the corner of his eye, and as Patton’s head jolts to face it he suddenly notices that the patterns adorning the walls seem to be sentient murals. A startled yelp jumps from his throat and he stumbles slightly, eyes wide as he watches the art begin to glow a sickly green, illuminating horrifying images of gore and dark, fantastical creatures scrawled on the walls. He abruptly turns away, heart in his throat, and ducks his head as he hastens down the corridor.
It’s a moment before he realises that the glowing walls are directing him towards a door at the end of the hall, which he concludes must belong to Remus. He swallows thickly as he finally comes to a stop just in front of it, grateful that his arrival seems to tame the murals, and they cease their movements. He takes a moment to compose himself, and has just about mustered enough courage to lift a shaky hand to knock when the door suddenly creaks open. A long, black tentacle slithers out of the room, and Patton squeaks, staggering backwards. The limb simply seizes Remus’ cup of milk from the tray, and retreats back inside the room, the door shutting again behind it. Remus’ voice is just about audible from inside;
“Thanks, sugar daddy!”
Patton stands there blinking for a moment, quivering, before he shakes his head in an attempt to dispel his unease and evacuates the corridor as fast as he can. As he turns the corner into the adjacent hall, he immediately feels calmer, though the lack of light is still disquieting. To his relief, he spots Janus’ door almost immediately, the frame embellished with gold, serpent-like ornaments, and Latin words he can’t hope to decipher. He halts, suddenly hesitant.
“…Janus?”
Silence.
“I…brought you some tea. I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I made Earl Grey. I’ll just...leave it out here for you if you want it.” The peace offering is carefully lowered to the floor, placed off to the side of the doorway, and as he stands upright again Patton spots the portal to return him home to the Lightscape, and after pausing to see if he can hear the telltale sign of any movement in Janus’ room, to no avail, he elects to just head back to the Imagination, and makes the short journey to the end of the hallway. Before he steps over the threshold, he pauses to spare a glance behind him back down the corridor, revealing that the mug has vanished.
Patton smiles to himself, and steps forward.
He breathes out slowly when he finally resurfaces in the Imagination, the fear that had been clawing at his insides finally melting away into relief- clearly, he still has some adjustment to do before he’ll be making any regular trips to the Darkscape. After taking a moment to anchor himself, he looks down at the last mug on the tray, and his stomach immediately drops again.
Logan.
The swell of joy that usually seizes his heart at the opportunity to see the logical Side is muted by a strange, cold dread. His grip tightens on the tray as he slowly begins walking down the hall in the direction of Logan’s quarters. He adjusts the tray in his hands, cringing slightly at the still-clammy feeling of his hands against the plastic. It’s silly, he thinks, to feel afraid of seeing Logan. His friend, Logan. Still, as he mindlessly weaves through the familiar hallways, the Darkscape suddenly seems inviting in comparison to whatever awaits him, and a familiar pang of shame bubbles in his chest at the thought.
This is my own fault, and I have to face up to that. It doesn’t matter that I’m scared. Logan probably felt a lot worse than this when we ignored him.
Logan’s words once again ring in Patton’s mind, and his limbs are beginning to feel increasingly heavy, but he forces himself to keep walking, sucking in a sharp breath to try and steady himself. It does little to help, really, however he’s suddenly confronted with Logan’s door before him, and he jolts to a stop, his body freezing up. His plan to ‘speak from the heart’ is sounding more and more like a utterly terrible idea by the second as his heartbeat thunders in his ears.
Finally, he knocks.
“Uh, hi Logan! Patton here! I just wondered if I could...speak with you for a sec- if you’re okay with that, of course! I…brought you some tea!” His mouth feels like it’s full of sand, his words dry and bitter on his tongue.
“I…wanted to…” He swallows thickly, and suddenly the light around him is too bright, too hot, too revealing. His jaw strains, teeth puncturing his lower lip, his shoulders creeping up as he bows his head, desperate to escape, to hide, before Logan sees him- sees him for who and what he is. How can he look him in the eyes and confess his every sin, his every failure? He’s not supposed to fail. He can’t fail.
He has failed.
He doesn’t notice the tray slipping from his hands until it’s abruptly thrust back against him and cold hands clasp his forearms, steadying his grip. Patton’s head snaps up, and he’s suddenly accosted by the soft musk of worn parchment and freshly washed linen, and a gaze encompassing the brightest night sky he’s ever seen. And it hits him.
It just hit me that 07734 and 58008 is like a generational inside joke that kids right now already might not understand (or if they still do right now they won't someday)
