#labhwrites
Text
Masterpost
of all of my sanders sides fics (under a cut because there is. Quite A Few More than i thought)
Chaptered
As Above, So Below - AO3 - 35,700 words
Warnings: cursing, blood, knives, fighting, OCD
Ships: platonic moxiety, platonic logince, platonic LAMP
Summary: Roman is a prince and Logan is his advisor-not-quite-friend. Virgil is a street rat runaway and Patton is his friend-not-quite-advisor. Unfortunately for Virgil, staying out of the castle is going to be his biggest struggle.
Arbitrary (choose your own ending) - AO3 - 4,007
Warnings: none
Ships: platonic LAMP
Summary: It’s Patton’s birthday! Who’s ready for a birthday party surprise? ...Guys?
Some Kind of Magical - AO3 - 45,113
Warnings: fighting, fire and burns, blood, deceit as a character
Ships: platonic LAMP
Summary: Senior year can kind of suck. A lot. Toss in some deadly oversized creatures and a final project that literally determines the rest of your life, and some problems are bound to get tangled up in there somewhere. Just keep your head down, finish your project, and everything should be just fine. Right?
I’ll Bring You the Moon - AO3 - 94,659
Warnings: Major character death, cursing, arguments, unhappy ending
Ships: romantic analogical, platonic LAMP
Summary: Logan has had his life planned out since, well, forever. Get through college, get an internship at NASA, rise through the ranks, get into space, something, something, happy ending and he’s set for life. The first couple steps were easy, out of the way in a snap. Meeting Virgil, however, kind of threw a wrench into those plans.
But it’s fine. Logan can navigate a job at NASA, flirt with a cute museum tour guide, and deal with everyone’s inexplicable hatred of Neptune at the same time. It shouldn’t be too hard—after all, it’s not like it’s rocket science.
...Well, okay, so it is kind of like rocket science.
Abandoned Chaptered
Can’t Fake What I’ve Never Felt - AO3 - 3,826
Warnings: panic attack, sensory overload, cursing
Ships: platonic royality, background romantic prinxiety
Summary: “AU where everyone is emotionless until they meet their soulmate and upon meeting them they slowly gain one emotion at a time as the soulmate does something that triggers the emotion into existence” - me, oil on canvas in a discord chat, 2018
Kintsugi - AO3 - 3,021
Warnings: fire (a candle)
Ships: none
Summary: Virgil is just about fed up with this fancy little school, so he takes advantage of a quiet night outside. Difficulties ensue.
The Hypothetical Lower Bounds of the Glass - AO3 - 3,946
Warnings: food mention
Ships: platonic (or at least vaguely civil) analogical
Summary: Logan has multiple ways of working through frustrating emotions, on the rare occasion that they do arise. One such method is taking a long drive to an unplanned destination.
One-Shots
Taxi Cab - AO3 - 8,050
Warnings: none
Ships: platonic moxiety
Summary: Virgil needs a ride somewhere, anywhere, so of course, the nearest person with a car obliges
What Was Missing - AO3 - 3,983
Warnings: blood, major character death (kind of)
Ships: none
Summary: Something is missing in the mindscape. You don’t know what. Just... something.
Waves - AO3 - 4,241
Warnings: smoking cigarettes
Ships: platonic moxiety, royality, and logicality
Summary: People outgrow each other all the time. It’s perfectly normal. So why should Patton be so unhappy about it? He’s not technically a person, after all.
Bleeding Out - AO3 - 5,008
Warnings: blood and injury, intrusive thoughts, cursing, unhappy ending
Ships: platonic prinxiety
Summary: Roman takes Virgil on an adventure through the creative corner of the mindscape.
Purple - AO3 - 1,111
Warnings: really abstract writing
Ships: none
Summary: spiritual successor to Bleeding Out
Monster Under the Bed - AO3 - 1,207
Warnings: none
Ships: platonic Roman & Patton & Logan
Summary: When Roman is afraid of something, he goes to Patton, and Patton always knows just what to do.
Exoskeleton - AO3 - 3,850
Warnings: OCD, derealization, fighting (verbal and physical), food mention
Ships: platonic LAMP (mostly)
Summary: an honors zoology-inspired fic about Logan struggling to be A Person.
Lying From You - AO3 - 4,666
Warnings: blood, manipulation, deceit as a character (kind of)
Ships: none
Summary: As the core of Thomas’ feelings, it had always been Patton’s responsibility to care for his emotional wellbeing. Whether this was done in the healthiest ways remained to be seen, but he was trying, and that’s what was important. Keep Thomas happy as best he could.
Colorful - AO3 - 2,371
Warnings: blood, swearing, character death, unhappy ending
Ships: platonic Virgil & Roman & Patton, romantic analogical, background romantic royality
Summary: you know the au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate? yeah this is that but less happy
Detention - AO3 - 1,800
Warnings: light bullying
Ships: platonic moxiety
Summary: Virgil meets a kid named Patton in detention and decides to investigate further.
Come Back Home - AO3 - 3,540
Warnings: alcohol abuse (written poorly because I didn’t know how to write drunk people)
Ships: past romantic logince
Summary: Logan and Roman broke up and went their separate ways, coping as they could. So why are they both still thinking about the other?
Palindrome - AO3 - 6,006
Warnings: cheating in relationships, break ups
Ships: romantic prinxiety (for a minute), romantic royality (for two minutes), romantic moxiety (for three minutes), platonic analogical
Summary: Palindrome /ˈpalənˌdrōm/, n. - a word, phrase, or sequence that reads the same backward as forward
Just In Case - AO3 - 3,200
Warnings: (conceptual) major character deaths
Ships: none
Summary: A fail safe, for another term. Something to ensure that if the worst situation presented itself, they wouldn't be at a loss for how to function. Maybe Virgil ducking out the first time is what instigated it, but as problems continued to pop up, they came to realize that the absolute worst imaginable thing was well within the realm of possibility.
Bubble Tea - AO3 - 8,175
Warnings: none
Ships: romantic prinxiety, background romantic logicality, platonic royality, background platonic analogical
Summary: alternative title - i've never read nor written a coffee shop au, but here's some nonsense that's basically the same thing with a slightly different menu
And They Were Roommates - AO3 - 1,551
Warnings: some swears, sarcastic first person author
Ships: platonic logince
Summary: unedited nonsense that started out with having a point but eventually devolved into me lamenting my lack of inspiration and turning to spicy memes for comfort
Gone and Never Coming Back - AO3 - 4,453
Warnings: (Mentioned) major character death (it’s a plot point), nightmare describing a car crash, grief
Ships: platonic moxiety (sort of), platonic LAMP (sort of)
Summary: alternative title: patton learns how to cope with loss by being tossed directly into the deep end with three sets of ankle weights
The Sun Is Running Late - AO3 - 3,400
Warnings: death mention, implied suicide, the entire thing centers on the end of the world, first person POV (its roman)
Ships: (past) platonic LAMP
Summary: (to the tune of R.E.M.'s 1987 WENZ promo song that looped for twenty four hours) it's the end of the world as he knows it!
Creative Burnout - AO3 - 1,142
Warnings: major character not-quite-death, negative self talk
Ships: none
Summary: Roman is creativity, and he’s all out of ideas again.
Know Your Mark - AO3 - 2,514
Warnings: blood mention, stabbing, knife mention, negative self talk
Ships: none
Summary: Virgil has a target, so Virgil sets about to take them down. Should be perfectly simple, right? Right?
Of Royalty and Revelry - AO3 - 6,109
Warnings: blood mention, death mention, food mention, cursing
Ships: Romantic (one-sided?) Prinxiety, platonic Moxiety
Summary: Prince Roman fancies a newcomer, who isn’t too quick to speak up about their own opinion on the matter. Life lessons and begrudging companionships ensue.
Staying Up Late - AO3 - 3,292
Warnings: discussion of insomnia, nightmares, vague car crash (it’s a dream), spiraling thoughts
Ships: platonic analogical, maybe romantic if you squint
Summary: Virgil can’t fall asleep. Logan comes over to try to help. Everyone is tired.
Simulated Human Contact - AO3 - 1,195
Warnings: insomnia, medication mention
Ships: platonic analogical (romantic if you squint)
Summary: fluff and projecting onto analogical because i was incredibly tired
Coffee’s for Closers - AO3 - 22,222
Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers
Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy(Sleep)
Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it’s just that this gayness only occurs at Logan’s cafe.
Love Is a Four Letter Word - AO3 - 12,758
Warnings: implied major character death, Less Than Happy backstories, some bullying, unhappy ending
Ships: platonic logince (more like acquaintances tbh)
Summary: Everyone has magic, and it’s really nothing special at all. Just another skill, sort of like a sixth sense. Roman is not particularly fond of his brand of magic, and sets off to find Thomas—the one person rumored to not have any magic at all.
#labhwrites#mine#masterpost#alright team im off to try to put a link to this in my bio wish me luuuuuuuuuuck
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I’ll Bring You the Moon - Masterpost
Summary: Logan has had his life planned out since, well, forever. Get through college, get an internship at NASA, rise through the ranks, get into space, something, something, happy ending and he’s set for life. The first couple steps were easy, out of the way in a snap. Meeting Virgil, however, kind of threw a wrench into those plans.
But it’s fine. Logan can navigate a job at NASA, flirt with a cute museum tour guide, and deal with everyone’s inexplicable hatred of Neptune at the same time. It shouldn’t be too hard—after all, it’s not like it’s rocket science.
...Well, okay, so it is kind of like rocket science.
Relationships: Romantic Analogical, platonic LAMP
Warnings: Major character death, cursing, arguments, unhappy ending
Word Count: 94,656
MAJOR props to @ts-storytime for hosting this challenge again and getting me to write a story i’m actually proud of, even after having rewritten it three times?? whomst?????
Check it out on ao3!
Amazing art by @the-feels-are-coming (ur amazing mdude i owe u my entire life i would die for u)
T minus 60 seconds [chapter 1] / T minus 58 seconds / T minus 56 seconds / T minus 53 seconds / T minus 50 seconds / T minus 48 seconds / T minus 45 seconds / T minus 43 seconds / T minus 40 seconds / T minus 38 seconds / T minus 37 seconds
T minus 35 seconds / T minus 32 seconds / T minus 28 seconds / T minus 26 seconds / T minus 23 seconds / T minus 21 seconds / T minus 18 seconds / T minus 15 seconds / T minus 14 seconds / T minus 11 seconds / T minus 10 seconds / T minus 9 seconds / T minus 8 seconds
T minus 7 seconds / T minus 6 seconds / T minus 5 seconds / T minus 4 seconds / T minus 3 seconds / T minus 2 seconds / T minus 1 second / T minus 0 seconds [final chapter]
#TS-Storytime 2019 Submission#analogical#labhwrites#mine#i'll bring you the moon#ibytm#major character death#cursing#*giant exhale* im done#im DONE#on to the next story i guess
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Love is a Four Letter Word
Summary: Everyone has magic, and it’s really nothing special at all. Just another skill, sort of like a sixth sense. Roman is not particularly fond of his brand of magic, and sets off to find Thomas—the one person rumored to not have any magic at all.
Ships: platonic logince (more like acquaintances tbh)
Words: 12,758
Warnings: implied major character death, Less Than Happy backstories, some bullying, unhappy ending, let me know if there’s anything else needing tagging
Check it out on ao3!
Roman shoulders his bag up higher, nodding a farewell to everybody in one swift motion without directly acknowledging any of them. He glances over the crumpled piece of paper one last time, reassuring himself that he knows what he’s doing. Past the end of the line is a man free of magic by the name of Thomas. Sticking the page back in his pocket, Roman triple-checks that he has more than enough money for a train ride that long. At the very least, it should be enough to get him well past the reach of anyone in this city.
Everybody falls over themselves to bid him farewell as he makes the trek down to the train station, trying to offer absent smiles to anyone drawing near enough to see his expression. Their words all sound the same after an incredibly short while, all impersonal pleas for him to stay, to help.
“Roman, please hang around, I need your magic to lock down my boyfriend!”
“Roman, can you use some of that energy to bring up the positivity for after you’re gone?”
“Roman, would you bloom this flower early so I can impress my wife?”
“Roman, I need you to funnel me some confidence for my interview tomorrow!”
It only becomes more obvious with every plea that chases him further from the center of town that these people only kept him around to boost their own spirits—always at the expense of his own happiness, but no one ever asks about that. Not when they can get manufactured love for free. Sure, it saps Roman’s energy to use his magic, but doing so is the only way he can feel wanted anymore, and isn’t that enough to justify exhausting his supply for these people? No, he doesn’t know their names, their faces, their histories, but at least they keep him around.
Roman has been waiting for weeks to board a train heading in this direction, all the way to the end of the line. He passes the engineer a fistful of bills, requesting to ride the train as far as it’ll go. The engineer nods him on, seemingly unsurprised by the destination. “Passenger cars are that way. Bit of a bumpy ride near the end, though.”
“Where would we be without some good old ominous foreshadowing?” Roman mutters to himself, slipping through the cars and tamping down the bubbles of joy trying to stir in his stomach. He’s already wearing an oversized turtleneck to hide his face, so there’s certainly no need to broadcast his reputation as the resident magicker of love to the whole train.
None of the cars he sees are empty, but the third to last one is about as close as he suspects he’ll get. Just one passenger, who’s busy fiddling with a pile of shiny silver shards in his lap. They share a brief nod, acknowledging each other’s presence the way only two complete strangers can, after which Roman allows the neck of his shirt to slip just a little lower down his chin. The guy doesn’t seem like the type to jump up and fawn over Roman for a little extra cheer boosting his day, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. Roman has seen many a person desperate for his help simply for the sake of an easier day, completely ignoring how much it saps his own energy. Hopefully this trip will solve all of that.
Roman continues on to the third to last seat—three is his lucky number—and exhales as quietly as he can manage, resting his head against the glass and watching the incessant crowds waving from the station. He doesn’t recognize a single person among them.
It’s pretty obvious that they’re searching for a sign of him through the tinted glass, hoping to siphon off just a little more love before he goes, and Roman wonders whether his resolve will hold out long enough to avoid that. He almost wants to leap through the window and into their adoring arms, to feel them welcome him back home, even if he knows it will help absolutely anyone except himself. Better not to, given what happened the last time he gave too much. Roman is terrified of ever giving too much again. He feels himself on the verge of breaking this time, and he might’ve just let himself give in, were it not for the train engine rumbling to life and knocking his head against the window.
Roman allows himself a soft, agitated ow under his breath, wincing as he presses his palm to his skull. By the time the pain wears off, the station is shakily bouncing off into the distance. He doesn’t allow himself to watch as it disappears.
The steady rocking of the train drags him into a fitful sleep, promising no rest behind his closed eyelids. His dreams are messy, just distant flashes of memories, of things he should’ve done, should’ve said, things he wishes he hadn’t and the letter R swirling in in dizzying circles around his head, hammering his brain like so many wasps forced through a long winter with minimal warmth and food. Amidst his short bouts of wakefulness, he tries to ignore the pounding headache on the rise, instead watching the rolling hills of lively green give way to dirt and mud, then to hundreds of thousands of barren tree stumps, all melting together in a mix of nothingness that envelopes his dreams in a cushion of hollow green love.
When he wakes, Roman shouts the name ricocheting inside his head, then immediately claps a hand over his mouth. He holds it firmly in place with the other, then glances at a beanpole of a man hovering to his left.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” beanpole interrupts. The guy that was messing with the silver stuff when Roman first boarded. Beanpole jerks his chin toward the window, then offers a hand to Roman. “Train’s down. Everybody off.”
Roman absently takes his hand, looking back at the window. Depot town. Not the most clever name, to be sure, but he’s got nothing against this place. Well, one thing, but it’s not a big thing. Well, it’s a pretty big thing. Well, it’s actually the only thing Roman can hold against a place, but it’s fine. He’s fine. It’s the worst possible place this train could have broken down, but it’s fine and he’s fine and everything’s fine, so stop asking.
“Name’s Logan,” beanpole continues, leading Roman to the front of the train. “Guess you slept through the announcement, since you took so long to hear me asking you to get up. They hit some problem in the engine or something, and they’re enlisting anyone that can offer specialized magic to fix it.”
“That’s, um, I don’t think I can help you there. My name’s Roman, by the way.”
“Pleasure. I wasn’t asking for your help, merely informing you of the situation. At which stop were you intending to depart?”
“I don’t know its name, but whatever the last one is.”
Logan stops at the last step leading out of the train, turning around to squint at Roman’s face—well, as best he can, what with the turtleneck in the way. “End of the line guy, hm?”
“Something like that.” Roman shuffles off the train behind Logan, glancing around the town. Well, the area just before the town—they pretty much broke down right outside civilization, not to mention that the designated train station is well near the opposite end of the town. Certainly not ideal. “Did they say what was wrong with the train?”
“Just that it’s down. Something with the machinery. I’ll figure it out.”
“Why you?”
Logan whips his head around—sharper this time, almost indignant. “Why not me? Why anyone else but me?”
Roman pulls his lips between his teeth and looks away, his face flushing bright red under the scrutiny of such an imposing figure. “Never mind.”
Logan sighs and pulls off his glasses—there’s an odd green glint along the lens, something Roman hadn’t noticed before. He watches Logan hold them aloft with one hand, lifting his other as if to present them to an enraptured audience. With a simple flick of his fingers, the glasses wobble themselves into the air, hovering a few inches above Logan’s open palm.
As the glasses levitate on their own, listing just a touch to the right, Logan whirls his hands around them, pinching and pulling as if he were trying to knot a length of string without overlapping the loops. Slowly but surely, the sleek frames stretch and pull at each other, separating into hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny pieces sparking with bright blues and fiery purples. The sparks flicker off, and Roman flinches away from one on instinct—even showy magic can scar.
There’s a soft pop, like someone blowing a sharp puff of air into a closed pair of hands, and the glasses click back together, almost identical to when Logan began his little charade. The only thing is that now, well, they look ever so slightly different. The green of the lenses is much more prominent, almost a pastel tone that nearly blocks out Logan’s eyes when he replaces them on his face.
“Neat party trick,” Roman says finally, uncertain how to react to Logan’s flat manner of demonstrating his magic. Most people only tend to use their magic when they need it or when they’re hassling Roman for favors, not to impress some stranger beside a broken down train.
“It’s not a party trick,” Logan says, rolling his eyes. “I manipulate any technology I’ve taken the time to sit down and understand, which includes those that I’ve built.” He adjusts his glasses, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that that’s what he was talking about. “What I just did, crossing these wires, fusing those pins, what you so callously called a party trick? I switched around the core function. I can now effectively see any major malfunction that may not be immediately apparent to untrained eyes.”
Roman instinctively crosses his arms over his body, not wanting to know what major malfunctions might lie under his thin cotton shirt.
“Not like that, that’s a different setting. This is more for inorganic creations, like the train engine.” Logan gestures to his left, surprising Roman with how quickly they’d arrived at the front. “Remember what I was saying about specialized magic?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m the specialized magic. Thanks for the entertainment. It shouldn’t be long before the train is up and running again, though I wouldn’t hang too close by. Don’t want any techno flares flying off at the wrong moment.” Logan flashes a grin as he holds up a finger, letting a burst of sparks shower from the tip like fireworks. Roman takes the hint, quickly backing up to join the small group huddled a decent distance from the tracks. Not too many people staying on this far down the line.
He watches as Logan kneels beside the engineer at the base of the train, the pair quietly mumbling to each other as Logan waves his slender fingers around a large sheet of metal. In a flash, it smoothly glides off and hovers in the air over Logan’s head, easily poised to slice through skin at a moment’s notice. Logan doesn’t seem to care. He only leans in further, picking at some of the pieces inside the train, none of which Roman can see through Logan’s body. Quickly bored with watching Logan’s relatively still back, Roman glances around at the other stranded passengers.
A few talk amongst themselves, debating whether it’d be worth it to just walk the rest of the way to town and grab a drink while they wait for the specialized magickers to do their thing. Others lean forward over an invisible barrier, desperate to see what kinds of tricks the magickers can pull off with such a large and detailed engine, but clearly hesitant to get too close. There’s a lone mother standing off to the side, desperation in her eyes as she tries to maintain her composure while soothing her wailing baby. A few of the passengers that were discussing getting drinks shoot her nasty looks, but these, of course, do nothing to silence the distressed child.
“You told yourself you wouldn’t do this anymore,” Roman mumbles under his breath, more of a soft chastising than a reminder of a promise destined to be broken the moment it was made. He focuses in on the sound of the mother’s soft voice, amplifying it in his head until her hushed tones, her reassuring coos, her indescribable love flows like a serene river through a spring of endless flowers in his mind, growing and expanding and opening the world into the hope and joy and life that supports the love flowing through it all.
Roman takes this energy, feels it course around his heart, doing cheerful little loop-de-loops and excited hops that lift the corners of his lips, and he sighs softly, picturing his breath floating on the breeze, buffeted by the whispered gossip of the cherry blossom petals dancing across the landscape. He imagines his breath taking life, a pure wave of bright blue that almost blends in with the picturesque sky above, drifting over the heads of the grumbling passengers, teasing at the ends of the mother’s hair and lifting the tips as if there were fairies playing hide and seek on her shoulders. The mother’s voice takes on a new strength, bolstered by a laugh with no source as she bounces the baby and smiles in relief at its face, watching those rosy cheeks puff up with a big breath as the baby inhales the delightful air and releases a bright, burbling laugh, an elated giggles that echoes back into the wind, returning Roman’s joy to the air and spreading a thin layer over the world with the rebound of its happiness.
Roman smiles to himself, feeling the muted sparks of magic intertwine with the spirits of the passengers, all of whom seem to exhale just a little bit in tandem with the baby, suddenly filled with an inexplicable and untraceable sense of rightness. Something in their lifted attitudes allows Roman to forget just how much energy that one sapped out of him.
He glances back to the engine, where he can almost see Logan’s stiff posture relaxing as a display like an explosion of colors shoots out from his hands, whipping his hair up into a quiff for just a moment before it settles back into its usual stern state. Logan sits back on his haunches and cocks his head to the side, pointing at something as he speaks lowly with the engineer.
Specialized magic, indeed.
“Ahem, your, ah, your attention please, esteemed passengers!” the engineer calls, rising to all his four foot eleven glory. Roman turns to face him along with everyone else. “We have gotten the train back, ah, back in working order, it seems, but we want to, erm, we are going to run a quick diagnostic check to ensure the problem will not, eh, reappear.” Roman is pretty sure he catches Logan rolling his eyes at that, but the tint of his green lenses makes it too hard to be certain. “It will probably take us, erm, at least a couple of hours, so I suggest you all, ah, head over to Depot town and see all the attractions they have to offer and enjoy!” This is met with far fewer grumbles than might be expected, and Roman tries not to preen at the knowledge that his magic played some part in that. “I hear they have, eh, an excellent selection of pubs!”
Roman gnaws at the inside of his cheek, watching most of the passengers turn toward the town. One of them lags behind to walk beside the mother, and they both share a hearty laugh when the baby does whatever baby thing it is that they find so funny. He looks to the engineer, who is profusely shaking Logan’s hand, while Logan looks just a little bit bewildered as he adjusts his glasses.
Once Logan finally frees himself from the engineer’s grip, he ambles over to Roman, who busies himself looking anywhere but at those green glasses. “Y’know,” Logan says, removing the frames and scrubbing at them with the underside of his shirt, “I am pretty good at what I do. I’ve fixed many a mechanical issue, simply by applying my knowledge regarding the technology at work behind the problem. What I do not understand is how a train engine, the exact model of which I have never personally seen before, suddenly put itself back into working order with me only needing to lift three fingers in the process.” Logan cocks his head to the side and peers at Roman, a strangely personal expression without the glasses to deflect his gaze. “It usually takes at least five.”
“Magic’s funny that way,” Roman says with an uncomfortable laugh.
Logan lingers on Roman’s face a moment longer, just beyond what could be called reasonable, before he straightens and looks toward the town. “I suppose it is. Let me buy you a drink, and we’ll discuss what else is so funny about magic.” Roman swallows thickly and nods, watching Logan take a few steps toward the town as he begins whirling his fingers around his glasses again. It’s not until Logan gets a solid fifteen feet away that Roman realizes he’s supposed to walk with him, and he trips over himself to catch up.
“You ever been to Depot town before?” Logan asks, holding his glasses over his head and squinting through the lens at the sun.
“Once or twice,” Roman says. Try a hundred times.
“Interesting.” Logan puts his glasses back on and turns to Roman, quirking his mouth to the side. “I don’t know if you could tell based on the mechanical manipulations, but I’ve just reworked the lenses to allow me to see when someone isn’t being entirely honest with me.”
“Oh, is that—I, um—okay, I did come here a lot with my family when I was little,” Roman admits.
“That so?” Logan chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Well, if I may be so candid in return—” He drops his voice to a whisper, forcing Roman to strain to hear it. “These aren’t truth-seeing lenses. I just know when someone’s a bad liar.”
“I am a great liar!” Roman protests.
“That so?” Roman is quickly getting tired of this refrain. He wonders how many more times he’ll have to hear it. “I suppose you’ll have to show me around town, then. I certainly don’t know which pub is the best.”
“Definitely not that one.” Roman waves a hand toward the bar nearest to the front entrance of the small town, where all the other passengers are flooding in like a line of ants. “They put it up to attract tourists like us, but the good stuff is way in the back, like a little secret for the locals.”
“Makes sense.”
With that, they weave their way through the town, careful not to trip over outcroppings of metal gears and wooden planks lining the dirt paths. Roman points out certain buildings as they pass them, returning excited waves from people who know him well enough not to question why he’s here without his family in tow.
“So over there’s the mill—they bring all the best raw wood in there, and the top magickers get their pick of the lot, since they’re usually sworn to funnel about ten percent of the work it brings them back into the town’s funds. Hey, Sigma, how goes it?” Roman nods to someone sitting in front of one of the only shops in town, lazily floating a steady stream of water from one pot to another. They wave back at Roman, the distraction big enough to shatter the rainbow of water over their head, the flow crashing down and soaking their hair.
“Stop doing that!” they shout, shaking their head and sending droplets flying.
“How else will you learn to focus?” Roman retorts with a laugh. The water charmer makes a motion like a conductor cutting off an orchestra, easily drawing all of the water into one big ball just beside their ear. A wicked grin crawls onto their face.
“Run,” Roman says softly, nudging Logan’s shoulder. As that smile grows, he says it more insistently, picking up the pace and urging Logan to “run, technerd, run!”
Logan complies easily, his long legs allowing him to keep up with Roman as they sprint away, dodging the drops of water that come hurtling for their heads.
“Sigma,” Roman huffs, “has never been,” huff, “one for,” huff, “practical jokes,” huff huff huff.
“It might help if you didn’t trick them into drenching themselves,” Logan points out, not struggling for his own breath in the slightest.
“Did I ask you?”
“You didn’t not ask me.”
“Well, I’m not un-didn’t asking you now.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
Roman forces his feet to slow down as they approach a pathetic looking building near the outer limits of the town, where there’s hardly anything but homes and patches of dirt with a little more life than the other patches of dirt. He leans hard into the front door, ramming his shoulder into it a few solid times before it flies open and he goes sprawling across the floor.
“I believe I’m about two pages ahead of you now,” Logan says, bending down to offer him a hand. He helps Roman to his feet, and Roman can’t help but wonder whether that will be a recurring theme with this guy.
“Roman!” an angry voice yells from behind the bar. “I thought I told you to stay away!”
“Hey-ho-de-low, Jackie,” Roman says smoothly—well, as smoothly as anyone can say something so ridiculous. “What if I said I brought a peace offering? A technerd to fix that juke of yours?”
A sturdy little lady who just about tops out at Roman’s chin rounds the corner, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “I didn’t ask for no techie guy in my shop, either. Where’d you hide your family this time, huh? Where’s that boy y’had on your arm? Where’re the fancy stories and lies about why you didn’t bring your brother back around?”
“Your juke has been broken for ages,” Roman says, neatly dodging the other questions. “Let me let you let him fix it.”
“I never agreed to any such thing,” Logan sighs, but he grins at Jackie anyway. She returns the smile—an odd move, in Roman’s opinion. She never smiles at people she hasn’t met before. Although, despite her temper, Jackie always was a charmer. Maybe she just doesn’t like Roman. Of course, that’s an absurd theory, but it’s the only one he’s been able to come up with. Maybe Roman just isn’t that smart.
He moves for his usual seat in the corner, pressed up against the window with one wobbly stool and one wicker chair. He goes for the stool. To the sound of Logan and Jackie discussing the jukebox’s latest malfunction, Roman spins the stool round and round, until it won’t turn any way but right, and rests his chin on the windowsill.
Right out there, in the middle of that large ring of messy tire tracks dug artlessly into the mud, he allows his thoughts to wallow in their own emptiness, swirling up eddies of the forgotten carelessness of childhood hidden in the green grasses, the whole mess struggling to grow against the world of dirt trying to choke them out.
Roman sprinted across the open field, baring his teeth to the wind and imagining someone was using the sun as a camera to capture his every movement. He let out a whoop over his shoulder and yelled, “I’m eating bugs!”
“No you aren’t!” a voice behind him whined. “Stop eating the bugs!”
“I’m gonna eat all the bugs!” Roman insisted. Quick as a whip, he hit the dirt and dragged his hands through it, smearing the colors over his teeth. He spun around and grinned, feeling the mud squelch under his knees. “Look at all these yummy bugs!”
“You’re so gross,” Remy informed him, tripping over his feet as he stumbled to a stop beside Roman. “You didn’t even eat them, liar!”
“Did so!”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
“Did not! I can still see them all up on your teeth!”
“Nuh-uh!” Roman didn’t even flinch as he ran his tongue over his lips, wiping off the mug and flashing his not-very-pearly whites. “See? Ate ’em all! Told you so!”
“Guh-ross!” Remy shouted, planting his hands on Roman’s shoulders. He shoved him backwards, cackling as his brother’s back made a spectacular splashing sound as it collided with the mud.
“You’re gross,” Roman retorted, burrowing his short fingernails in the dirt. Before Remy could dodge it, Roman tossed up the chunks of earth, laughing without a care in the world as they splattered across Remy’s face. “Told you so! Told you so!”
“Boys!” a sharp voice yelled from the building at the far side of the mud ring. Roman and Remy both froze, taking in each other’s filthy faces.
“Bet she yells at you,” Roman muttered, getting to his feet without bothering to dust off his pants. No use trying to hide it now, anyway.
“Bet she doesn’t,” Remy said in a stunning imitation of Roman’s voice. “Older siblings always take the blame.”
“Not if I’m really good at crying.”
“Not if I cry first!”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Remy only grinned, putting on a burst of speed as he ran for his mother. Roman shook his head and laughed, sprinting to catch up, and if he stuck out a leg to trip his brother on the way and take the lead, well, the past is the past, what’re you gonna do about it?
“—his peace, he doesn’t get much of it,” a familiar voice says, floating over the cotton candy skies and ripping Roman out of his sugar-sweet memories. He blinks and shakes his head, trying to ignore how much the green has faded from the grass outside.
“Sorry, what?” He looks up at Jackie and Logan, the latter of whom is staring at him with confusion. Not nearly as bad as the former, whose eyes betray naught but pity. “I’m fine.”
“Didn’t ask, but I guess I’m glad to hear it,” Logan says, settling himself on the wicker chair.
“Drinks for you boys?” Jackie asks. Roman hates the way she softens the edge of her voice when she looks at him. She never used to put on that tone when he still brought Remy around. Granted, it’s kind of his fault that can’t happen anymore—by which he means it’s entirely his fault, which means it’s also his fault that she’s taking that tone, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it, does it?
Roman’s lips feel chapped. “Just a couple waters would be—”
“Your hardest ciders, please,” Logan interrupts. He waves off Roman’s protests, continuing, “I’m buying, remember? No worries.”
Roman nods, forcing his eyes not to stray toward the window. There’s a reason he hasn’t been back here in years. “Thanks.”
“Now, do you think you might want to tell me what your deal is with this place?”
“Not really.” Roman briefly considers pulling on some of the upbeat music pouring from the jukebox, wrapping it around Logan’s head and forcing some semblance of tranquility into his mind, but no, bad idea. It was a mistake to cheer up that baby earlier, a taste of what he knows he can’t have. He swore off of messing with emotions a long time ago, back when there was nothing he could do to keep himself in check. No more.
“Think this might help loosen your nerves a little,” Logan says, pushing a mug of cider across the table. Roman hadn’t even noticed Jackie setting it down. He takes a tentative sip, all too aware of the way the other patrons along the bar are very pointedly not looking at him. Having a reputation to precede you isn’t always a good thing.
“Fine, I’ll go first,” Logan says. He takes a long swig from his own drink before plunking it down on the table, ignoring how some of the foam splashes out onto the wood. Roman traces his eyes along the grain of the surface, remembering when his dad let him sit in on the magicking process of converting a useless tree stump into functional furniture. That always was his signature move, wasn’t it? Magicking life into things that were long dead. Well, most things. Even his dad wasn’t one to magic life into things that never had any business being alive in the first place.
“The town where I live—well, used to live—was incredibly strict about when and how we could use magic.” Logan stares into his mug, and Roman has to wonder whether he hears the words leaving his mouth. “They didn’t like that I could disassemble things at will and put them back together according to my tastes, thought I might get carried away and start taking apart people.”
“That doesn’t—”
“Make sense? Sure it does. Remember how I said I can manipulate any technology I take the time to sit down and understand? If you think about it, people are just a different kind of technology, and I was studying to be a surgeon, and, well, one suspicion led to another, and that obviously made some people uncomfortable, so I left. And I left again. And I left again, and again, and every single town I went to was exactly like the last, all nice and welcoming until it came out that I could do more than just basic reparations on junky radios.” Logan furrows his brows, glaring harder at the ripples in his mug. “Well, huh. Didn’t mean to say that last part.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I can manipulate any technology I understand.”
“Right, that’s how you—”
“Fixed the train and did my studies, yes, but more than that. I can do that to almost anything, even intangible things, if given the right parameters.” Logan clenches his fist, and Roman almost thinks he sees the frames on his face flicker like a flame. “I don’t like talking about it, but you’ve obviously got some stuff blocking your system, and since you clearly helped me out with the train—no matter how much you try to deny it—I’d be willing to return the favor, but only if you’ll consent to it.”
Roman tries to laugh off the notion that he had anything to do with the train, but Logan isn’t buying it. “Don’t kid yourself, obviously that train didn’t just fix the engine on its own. We’ve been over this. You don’t have to tell me what your magic is or anything like that, I get it if you’re one of those ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ types, but have you ever turned on a garden hose to full blast and stepped on the line about halfway down?”
“I—er, yeah, why?”
“That’s you. You’ve got some personal nonsense blocking the main flow in your system, and if you don’t release it soon, it’ll explode on its own, and it’ll do a lot more damage than if you let it leak out slowly right now.” Logan leans in with an earnest look on his face, much more sincere than anything Roman had come to expect from him so far. “I’m trying to help you here, Roman. You need to release it now, or you will regret it later.”
Roman takes a long pull from his mug, wishing he was talking to the mother and baby from the train rather than this oddly perceptive stranger. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Logan blows out a large breath, puffing up his cheeks and looking past Roman at the ring of mud outside. “I can take apart your psychology, physically and metaphorically speaking. You’re holding something in, and you need to let it out.”
“I don’t need to do anything of the sort,” Roman snaps, watching the liquid slosh around in his mug. “Nor do I appreciate your trying to say as much.”
“I merely wanted to make the offer,” Logan relents, raising his hands in surrender. “You are free to refuse my services, if it so please you, in which case I will make no further advances.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Roman mutters, looking up as the main doors swing open. Great. Just who he wanted to see.
“Heard the old love magicker rolled into town!” a gruff voice jeers. Sigma peers out from behind a man who has to be almost seven feet tall and two hundred stone. They mouth an apology to Roman, who just stares blankly back.
“Just get lost, Trev, would you?” he sighs, pointedly not making eye contact as the pair crosses the room in a few long strides to leer down at him.
“Aw, that don’t sound like much fun, does it, Sigma?” Sigma stays silent, only looking closely at Roman’s mug. He glances down to see the ripples taking the vague shapes of letters—probably some half-hearted apology—so he lifts the cup and turns it over, letting the contents splatter onto the floor.
“Hey!” Jackie yells, but she doesn’t sound too upset—at least, not upset enough to do something about it. She merely hangs back and watches the scene unfold. After all, no one’s ever helped before, so why should she lift a finger now?
“Hear you skipped town to keep your magicky love a secret,” Trevor continues, slamming his hands down on the table. “Little boy got too popular with his little love spells, came crying home to Mom and Dad—or, wait, you can’t do that, can you? Don’t got no one to cry to anymore, do you?”
“Shut up, Trev,” Roman whispers, hoping the agitation in his voice will mask the way his words wobble like dictionaries balanced on cooked noodles.
“Wittle baby gonna cwy to the pawents he don’t have!” Trevor whines in a shrill voice. Roman rests his hand on his cheek, all too aware of Logan’s stiff silence across from him. What good is having a silent observer around if they won’t do anything?
“That’s not your information to share,” Roman mutters, wishing Sigma would defend him and knowing full well they won’t.
“Well, somebody’s gotta tell our newcomer here about your deal, don’t they? Guess it falls to me, since you don’t wanna go clarifying it yourself. Forgive me if I decide to embellish some of the details, you know how I am with the dramatics.”
“Shut up,” Roman says again, wishing his voice were stronger than it is.
“Roman,” Logan says. Yes, very helpful addition, thank you for your groundbreaking contributions to this conversation. “Roman,” he repeats, more insistent this time. Roman glances across the table to see Logan removing his glasses, waving his hands in that familiar way again.
“Oh, the glasses are off now! Wittle Roman got a wittle techno dork to help him?” Trevor cackles, folding his impossibly oversized arms and giving Logan a once over. Seriously, his biceps are like sausages on steroids. “Just stay out of this, kid. It’s for your own good. Nothing worthwhile ever comes out of hanging around this guy, y’got that?”
“I don’t know that I’d say nothing,” Logan replies coolly, swirling his fingers faster now. Roman watches, not sure whether to be horrified or amazed as the frames split apart into tiny spears, their tips sharp enough to pierce metal. The flurry of miniature blades organizes itself into a sheet of steel, poised directly in front of Trevor’s face. Logan slows down his fingers, keeping the pieces in a careful rotation mere inches from Trevor’s eyes.
“Woah, okay, let’s just take it easy here,” Trevor says nervously and, as Roman is happy to note, with some degree of fear in his voice.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Logan says with a sickeningly sweet smile. “I’m simply demonstrating my magic for my friend here, while maintaining a casual discussion with a fellow patron of this fine establishment. Trev, was it?”
“I, uh, I didn’t—”
“Neither did I, but here we are.” Logan jerks his head to the side, hard enough that Roman is genuinely concerned he might snap his neck, and the needles rearrange into the silhouette of an arrow that rises to Trevor’s forehead. Something in Roman’s gut twists at the achingly familiar sight. “Anything else you’d like to share with the group, or should you like to be excused?”
Trevor makes a sound similar to that of a kicked puppy before bolting for the door, leaving Sigma shaking beside the table. One pointed glance from Logan, and they’re gone.
“Wh—you didn’t—I mean, I would’ve—you could’ve—” Roman splutters, watching Logan calmly reassemble the shards into normal frames on his face.
“I did, you wouldn’t have, and neither would I,” Logan says. “Now, you are naturally under no obligation to explain what all that was about, but I would recommend filling me in, if it so pleases you. I do think I’ve earned it by now.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Roman admits. “No matter how much I want to. So there’s this guy—”
“Isn’t there always?”
Roman pouts. “There’s rumors of this guy, Thomas, who doesn’t have any magic.”
Logan seems taken aback by this, and Roman finds a considerable amount of satisfaction in having silenced him. “People have had magic for thousands of years, even in just trace amounts. Surely he’s got some semblance of it.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” Roman shrugs, trying to decide how to proceed without bringing up the reason he even started looking for Thomas. “Anyway, he lives out near the end of the lines, of any train there is. I’ve never seen a station that reaches farther than this train’s last stop, and I want to find him.”
“Why?”
“I want to know what it’s like to be free of the magic.” Roman clenches his fist against his thigh, feeling the mud rings outside burning a hole in his back. “I want to know if he can pass it on.”
“You want to take his inability to do magic? Sounds kind of antithetical, no?”
“Well, yeah, but I just—I need to know if it’s true. I need to know if there’s an escape.”
“An escape from what?”
“From magic, from magickers, from all of it, I don’t know. I don’t want to deal with it anymore, with any of it. I just want to be done.”
“What kind of magic could you possibly have been stuck with that’s bad enough to hate it so much?”
“Hate? I don’t think it’s physically possible to hate my magic, actually.”
Logan twists his mouth to the side and considers Roman for a long moment. “Did it ever occur to you that this Thomas—whether or not he actually does exist—lives so far out of reach because he doesn’t want to be found?”
“It has crossed my mind,” Roman admits. “I just want to be done with my magic. I don’t want to mess up again.”
There’s another commotion from near the door—friendly faces, this time, but they sort of remind Roman of starving raccoons. They peer around the room before their eyes come to rest on Roman’s face, and from the way they almost seem to salivate at the sight of him, he knows exactly what they want. He wants no part of it.
“Roman, won’t you please fix my relationship—”
“Roman, my grandmother is sick, can you pull some sunshine—”
“Roman, I love your magic, is that enough to fuel me with—”
“Roman!”
“Roman!”
“Roman, I love the idea of you—”
“Roman!”
“Roman!”
“Roman, I haven’t seen your parents in a while, is it true that you—”
“Roman, where’s Remy these days, did you scare him off? I thought it was just a rumor that your love—”
“Roman!”
“Roman!”
“Roman!”
“Roman, what happens when you run out of—”
“Roman, can I have some of—”
“Roman, I love your—”
“Roman!”
Roman feels sick. He hides his head in his hands, propping his elbows on his knees and wishing his stomach would stop turning as their words bounce around his skull, Roman Roman Roman Remy Roman Remy Remy Roman Remy Roman messed everything up and everyone knows it and Remy knows it and it’s too late for Remy so it’s too late for you, Roman, what ever will you do with all the love you can’t have when no one will give you more?
“Right, that’s enough of that,” Logan says suddenly, swiping Roman’s wrists out from under him. He jolts up, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder as Logan yanks him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Logan ushers Roman out the door, leaving some coins and bills on the counter for Jackie and ignoring the shocked looks from the other patrons of the bar, all of whom quickly trade their surprise for awe as they realize this really is that Roman, right there in front of them.
“Logan, I—”
“Don’t need to tell me anything that you don’t want to. Keep moving.”
Roman bites his lip, numbly leading the way back to the station, where the train is slowly pulling up to the appropriate departure area. All in working order, then. No more engine problems.
He moves to step on board, only hesitating when he no longer hears Logan’s feet behind him. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Nah,” Logan says, looking back at the station. “Jackie was telling me about a bunch of things that need reparations around here, and it’s a neat little town. Think I might hang around a while, try to fix it up for them. Maybe get to work on repairing some of these people’s attitudes, too.
“I—” Roman falters, uncertain what he could possibly say to Logan after all that just went down. “It’s love, I think.” Logan says nothing, doesn’t even nod for Roman to go on, but he does anyway. “I take different types of love and put them into different places and forms as it’s needed, and I did it wrong this one time, just one time, just one mistake, a big one, and, well—” Roman glances at the engineer, who impatiently waves for him to hurry up and get on board already. “I burned the only bridges that I had, and it was my fault, and I can’t take it back. That’s what all that was about, because Trevor and Sigma and Jackie and, well, everyone—they all got caught up in the fallout. Trevor’s the one holding the biggest grudge, I think, since he was such good friends with—um, well, y’know, with one of those bridges. I—”
“That will more than suffice,” Logan interrupts, gesturing for Roman to board the train. “You needn’t bare your soul to the first stranger that shows you any semblance of decency, you know.” With that, the door slips shut, barring Logan from having to see Roman’s confused expression.
Roman wanders down to the car he arrived on, collapsing on the third seat and wondering where all the sudden candor came from. Didn’t Trevor’s magic have something to do with compelling honesty? Although, Roman could’ve sworn Trevor condemned magickers after what happened last time things got out of control. Maybe he just had a special passion for condemning Roman, and that one mistake was the nail in the coffin that Roman built for himself.
He glances down at the cushion of the seat, shifting uncomfortably against an odd lump as he belatedly realizes that this was where Logan was sitting when he first boarded the train. He fumbles around with a blind hand beneath him, feeling for the source of the discomfort as the train sputters to life, sending him lurching forward. At the same moment as his head slams into the next seat, something dislodges from the cushion beneath him. His hands fumble through the air to catch it, carefully clasping around the figure and hugging it to his chest. Once his balance adjusts to the steady rocking of the train, he opens his hands and peers into them, tilting his head to the side in confusion.
A little 3D heart, vaguely pixelated with all the different pieces of metal and plastic lacing together to create its surface. Roman squints at the thing, turning it under the weak light of the train’s overheads, but there’s no note, no pull tab, no secret compartment, no nothing. Just a heart, and everything Roman is left to interpret from finding it. Did Logan know?
Maybe Roman’s reputation precedes him more than he realized.
----------
“End of the line,” a voice announces over the train speakers. Roman slowly rouses, blinking as his eyes come into focus on the little heart still clutched in his hands. He stuffs it in his pocket, careful not to tear the fabric on the sharper edges, and moves for the exit door. On his way, he tosses a flippant wave toward the ceiling, just in case there’s security cameras watching him go or something. A little politeness can go a long way.
He stumbles out into a cool, dark night, populated only by the densest of shadows. The sole clue that the train station is even designed to be used beyond as a set piece in a creepy picture is the dilapidated set of tracks that end just past the edge of the building, and even those on their own are a pretty flimsy sign. Once the train finishes looping around the track to reposition itself for the return to the inner cities, Roman plops himself down in the middle of the rails and lies on his back to stare at the sky.
As if the travel time weren’t a big enough hint that he’s farther from home than ever before, the stars above look completely different, almost unrecognizable compared to those rare nights in Depot town, much less back home.
Home. Roman turns the word over and over in his head, his thoughts dancing around that saying. How did it go again? Home is where the heart is?
Roman gives a hollow laugh in cheers to that, feeling the outline of the metal heart in his pocket. Hearts, as in love, which is something he never earned enough to make a home with. Foolish of him to try, really. A breathing mannequin in princely makeup, designed to give love, to spread hope and joy, but never to dare try receiving it. He’s not that kind of magicker, something of which he’s all too aware. Everybody seems to know that better than him.
He runs his hands over the dirt beneath him, feeling how solidly it molds around the cold metal tracks, and wonders whether Remy would appreciate the texture. Always did have a thing for mud and dirt, he did. Mom hated it to no end, which just made it that much funnier that Remy couldn’t go ten minutes without another smudge of brown across his cheek.
Roman allows himself to smile at that, trying to ignore the stirring in his chest at the memory of Remy’s toothy grin, how excited he was to show off the latest bruise or scratch to Roman, how his face would light up when Roman joined in on the fun.
All of it gone in an instant, because Roman was too selfish to acknowledge the part of it that Remy actually cared about. The part that everyone cares about, much more than they ever cared about the person behind it. Not that anyone asked. Not that anyone ever asks.
He rolls onto his side and curls up in a ball and waits for the night to pass.
“This you?” a voice demands. Roman blinks blearily, wondering how long he’d been asleep. Not very, if the stars shining proud overhead are any indication. Unless it’s the opposite, and he’s been asleep for days. It’s anybody’s guess, really. “Hey, wake up! This you?”
He reaches up toward the sound of someone shaking a paper in his face, rubbing at his eyes and trying to make out the contents of the page amidst the darkness. A wanted sign, with strikingly accurate details about his magic, his past, and a picture of his face that’s unnervingly spot on, but—
“Why did they make my forehead so big?” Roman whines, dropping the page and glancing around for whoever handed it to him. A hand snatches the paper back, and a pair of eyes appears inches away from his own.
“Look, I’m not exactly an artist magicker, but I did my best,” that same voice mutters from beneath the eyes. “Let’s just head over to the station, okay? You squinting like a bat in sunshine looks really stupid.”
“Your face looks really stupid,” Roman mutters, walking toward the station anyway. He’s been in weirder situations. Mostly because people get too much enjoyment from toeing the line with pestering him about his magic, but still.
“You don’t know how my face looks, but I can assure you it’s worlds better than yours.”
“I look amazing!” Roman’s protest echoes on the hollow breeze of the night, but the voice doesn’t return a snide remark this time. He continues on, seemingly alone, to the lamely flickering light at the station, half expecting someone to jump out and shout at him.
Beneath the sole light bulb, Roman waits for the owner of the voice to reappear and join him on the bench. No one shows up, so he starts talking to the stars instead. “How did you get that information about my magic, and about my family?”
“I think it’s pretty generous of you to call them your family,” the voice says from somewhere over his left shoulder. Roman turns to trace it, but the sound shifts to the shadows beneath his shoes. “You refusing to share information doesn’t mean no one else is allowed to know it. Especially if they know which shadows to shine a light on.”
“Doesn’t give you the right to go spreading it around with a crappy wanted poster.”
“Who said I made more than just the one copy?” The paper reappears in the shadows just past the reach of the station light, and accompanied by the sound of fingers snapping, it disintegrates. “I know what should and shouldn’t be shared. Give me some credit.”
“How am I supposed to do that if I can’t even see you?”
“Right, because seeing is believing. I always seem to forget that. Almost like it isn’t true.” Another snap, and those eyes materialize where the paper shattered. They stare at him like a feral cat, poised to attack. “Now have I earned your credit? Does your seeing me count as believing?”
“Pfft. Hardly.”
“How about now?” Another snap, and Roman finds himself on the edge of Depot town, watching everyone shutter their windows for the night, watching Jackie kick out the last few lingering drunks, watching Logan in deep conversation with Trevor as Sigma keeps a ball of water hovering over them.
“How did you do that?” Roman demands, whirling around with his fists raised.
“Right, because it’s so easy to fight a voice.” There’s an obvious tint of mockery this time, and Roman starts punching at the air. He feels ridiculous, but he doesn’t have it in him to care. “Hey now, no need to be so rude.” Another snap.
Back at the end of the line.
“How are you doing that?”
“You tell me. I’m just bending the shadows. You’re the one connected to the locations and the times.”
“I—what?”
Another snap. Back to Depot town, but it’s different than before. It’s daytime, for one thing, but artificially so. The moon still hangs among the stars, but they wear torn veils of sunshine and clouds, the rips in the fabric shining a spotlight on the mud ring, Roman follows the lines of pure white to the center and walks closer, not entirely certain why.
“No fair!” Remy’s voice echoes across the field. The boy stumbles over his feet, rushing to catch up to another silhouette while trying to hold up the cardboard box around his waist. The crude scribbles along the side try to make it look like a car, but they aren’t the most effective of artistic statements.
“Take me back,” Roman says coldly, desperately trying to tear his eyes away from the scene. But he can’t.
“No, I really think we should watch this play out,” the voice replies.
“I’m gonna beat you!” Roman’s voice shouts, but it’s not this Roman, not now, not quite. His lips move in time with the words, but nothing more than a strangled squeak escapes his throat. Other Roman, the littler Roman, is taunting Remy. What Roman wouldn’t give to hold them both back in the safety of this moment, for just a few seconds, to yank them out and hide them at the end of the line until the awful moment has passed. But he can’t.
As it is, he can only watch as the boys chase each other around the mud ring, bashing into each other with their cardboard boxes and making vroom vroom noises as they go.
“Sneak attack!” little Roman yells in time with Roman mouthing the same words. Little Roman drops his car and produces a long stick from within, grinning triumphantly. The fury of the moon masquerading as a sun burns down on it, and Roman can almost see smoke curling out of the tip, dark and grey and angry.
“Take me back,” Roman pleads, more desperate this time. He can feel the tremors of his voice all the way down to his feet, shaking the ground and sending his knees wobbling.
“Just another minute,” the voice says, completely unfazed. “Don’t forget, we’re only here because you brought it up. I’d happily return to the station if you would let yourself abandon this whole charade.” Roman feels something inside himself shatter as he watches the leaves spiral upward around the boys.
“That’s cheating!” Remy complains, watching little Roman fling his arms to the side. Roman can almost taste the negative pulls of love rising in his own body, and he hates it so, so much, the way the heat of the sun burns in his throat as his smaller self absorbs it, combining it with the dewy sweetness of the grass, the richness of the life in the mud, before it filters over his fingers, twice as bad now that Roman feels it both in his own hands and in his smaller self’s hands. He can feel it eating away at his skin as little Roman sends the emotions blasting into Remy’s chest, knocking the stick sword aside as if it were even less than the mere twig it already is.
“Please take me back.”
“Almost there.”
Roman can hardly stand to watch, yet he can’t force himself to look away, as the wind whips harder, faster, tearing the beautiful pink petals dancing in the air to shreds as they zero in on Remy. Roman falls to his knees, pleading with his younger self not to do it, but it’s far too late, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“Say you love me!” little Roman demands, his voice forcing Roman’s jaw to move in time with the words. It might almost be a sweet sentiment, were it not for the millions of shreds of leaves hovering over his head like an arrow, poised directly above Remy’s heart, the moon in the sky using the stars as the bow waiting to release it.
“I—I—” Remy splutters, shaking his head. “This isn’t funny anymore, Roman, I don’t like this game anymore.”
“Say you love me!” little Roman insists, and the words are like a stab to Roman’s heart as he hears how awful, how hopelessly desperate and venomous they sound. They taste like poison as they spill from his own lips.
“Roman, please, I don’t—”
“Just say it before I go completely empty!” little Roman howls. With every quiver of his voice, the leaves over his head split again and again, more and more pieces of the love little Roman is desperate to give, more and more pieces of the love Roman has long since learned he cannot receive. Not unless someone gives it to him freely. No one ever has. Roman learned that the hard way, and here he is taking the same lesson again. He can’t look away.
Remy is frozen, a wild panic in his eyes as he searches for an escape from the sharpening arrow. A wilder look falls over little Roman’s face as he grows desperate, the lines etched in his skin wearing deeper, tearing claw marks over the surface that spawn into scars on Roman’s face. “Please, Remy, I need you to say it!”
“Roman, I don’t—”
“Roman!” an achingly familiar voice shouts from the door of the house nearby. Both Romans whip their heads around to see their mother racing barefoot through the mud, her shoes abandoned at the door. In a flash, she’s at Remy’s side, knocking little Roman out of the way and gathering the smaller boy up in her arms. She shoots little Roman a look of pure disgust, and it’s enough to curdle two stomachs at once, across the span of several years. “What were you thinking?”
“I—I don’t know, I just—” Little Roman’s lower lip wobbles dangerously, and Roman feels his own resolve shaking. His mind does everything it can to ignore the way the arrow overhead is spinning now, slowly breaking up into several smaller daggers. They shake and sink, trying to collapse, but they can’t. “I just wanted him to say he—”
“What, that he cares about you enough to let you force him to give you the magic back?” Though she’s not talking directly to him, not this him, not now him, Roman feels his heart shattering at the hatred in his mother’s voice. “Did it never occur to you that we don’t say it because it hurts too much? Just because you can give that love freely, it doesn’t mean we can, and it certainly doesn’t mean we’re obligated to.”
Roman lifts a hand to warn his mother, watching aghast as the leaves pick themselves back up, a sharper arrow than either of the ones before, aimed squarely at her heart, all the love in the world that little Roman could possibly muster, now a weapon Roman wishes he could turn away. She doesn’t hear him.
The arrow splits in two, one for mother, one for brother, and for a split second, Roman makes eye contact with Remy. The desperation in his face is enough to turn Roman’s heart to stone.
The arrows fall.
Roman’s world shatters.
A snap. The end of the line. “Well, that sure was an exciting little encore, wasn’t it?”
“You son of a—” Roman hisses, building up all the power of the moon back to its natural state, the knowledge of how many lovers use that little sphere as a landmark for their affection, a perspective around which to dance, amidst all the small creatures of the night and the life of the grass tipped in dew and the hum of creation buzzing down the train tracks, whipping it into a storm and bringing it down in tandem with his hands to smash the source of the voice into the ground, flatten and pound and hammer it until it has no chance of escaping, and when it’s all said and done, Roman pants heavily, bent over his knees and letting the energy of the twisted thing he calls love drain out of him.
“You certainly know how to put on a show, I’ll give you that,” the voice says from over his shoulder. Roman feels his body pulling in the energy again of its own accord, but the voice continues on unabated. “Have you considered that I’m just a figment of your imagination, a cursed fragment of your own mind? A shadow among shadows to remind you of all you’ve thrown away?”
“A shadow among shadows,” Roman repeats. He laughs, an empty sound that rings as dull as a cracked bell. In an instant, he pulls in all he can from every painstaking detail of each brick propping up the station building, funneling it into the sky and willing it to tear a hole directly through the secondhand sunshine dripping from the moon. “Any guess where I got the idea for that exciting little encore?” There’s a flash of brilliant light and a bang of sound, and a silhouette appears for a split second in Roman’s peripheral vision.
His whips around and seizes it, wrapping his hands around its throat and squeezing, squeezing, hating the image of the arrow that glows behind his eyelids like stolen sunshine whenever he blinks.
The silhouette still has those achingly empty eyes, which are hazily focused at best—they look over Roman’s shoulder, watching something take shape behind him. Roman glances back, stunned into silence when he sees that oh-so-familiar shape of the arrow of leaves. He swallows around a lump in his throat and slackens his hands, watching the leaves collapse to the ground as harmless debris. With every inch his hands relax, the leaves scatter weaker and weaker into the breeze, normal pieces of nature and not awful tools for something that only a heretic would call love.
The silhouette rocks to its knees and coughs, hacking up every ounce of air as it rubs gentle circles into its neck, and Roman scrabbles to get away from it. Even in the aftermath of that flash, he can still make out those eyes, still almost see the reflection of Remy hiding behind them.
“Like I said, putting on a show,” the voice says, sounding all kinds of broken and tattered. “What was it you called your magic again? Love? That’s a laugh, really, I can’t believe you’d call that love.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do, don’t I? We both saw that little scene of yours. I’m not the one that made that happen. It’s your own connection to the world through the twisted thing you call ‘magic’ that brought you there. You’re the one who was so desperate for love, he would throw away his family’s lives for the chance to get it.”
“Shut up. You don’t know anything.”
“And yet here we are, me knowing all this information about you, and you knowing nothing about me. Do you think I didn’t notice all those times you pleaded for someone to love you before? Do you think those dark nights in empty alleys on your own were really so private? You’ve just been waiting for someone to say they love you, and I’m here to break the news that it’s never gonna happen, so you might as well accept it now.”
The silhouette lurches closer, a smattering of purple appearing around his neck. They pulse in time with Roman’s heart, a feeling like fire lighting up on his hands. He wipes them on his pants, trying to separate the bruises from what he doesn’t want to believe he tried to do. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, the silhouette pulls him up to his feet with impossibly strong hands, pressing their faces together even as Roman tries to resist, tries to ignore the faint details masked almost completely by the shadows surrounding its features.
“What was it you wanted to hear again?” it asks. “Love, was it?” There’s an agonizing ache behind the voice as a clear face takes shape over top of the blank silhouette, an awful recreation of his mother’s face, undercut by the same purple bruises. When it opens its mouth, it has her honeysuckle tone, and Roman feels his stomach turn. “Oh, Roman, darling dearest, I love you.” It shifts, cycling through an impossible list of features and expressions before settling on something gut-wrenchingly similar to his father’s face. “Hey, kid. I love you, you know that?” Another shift, this time to a face that Roman doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to picture, hates it hates it hates it let me go—
“Look at me, Roman,” Remy’s voice says, now aged well beyond any years it had the chance to experience. Roman can’t make himself look, but he feels matching bruises appear on his own throat with every second he ignores the face. Selfish, disgustingly selfish how he forces himself to look just to make the pain stop, but when he meets those eyes, he sees everything all at once—the arrow, the fall, the love that tore apart his mother, his father, ripping through Remy all at once as if it weren’t love but hate, hate, hate hate hate coursing through Roman’s veins as he meets the eyes that have no right being on this bastardization of Remy’s face and hears those awful terrible words echoing through his body, shaking him to his core. “I fzzt you.” Remy raises an eyebrow, trying again. “I fzzt you.” He smiles, an awful toothy expression. “Seems even you can’t imagine him saying it. Think I like this face best.” Remy leers at Roman, eyes wide enough to show the burning white on all sides. “I hate you.” Remy cocks his head to the side and grins, dropping Roman to the cold metal tracks and vanishing.
The voice does not come back.
Roman hates how relieved he is to drown in the silence. He’s starting to think finding Thomas might not be worth all this trouble, and that realization is enough to crumble the last of Roman’s dwindling spirit.
The shadows fold in around Roman as he buries his face between his knees and feels his body shake, his skin prickling as if it were being stabbed by millions of tiny arrows.
And he lies there.
And
He
Lies
There.
“Well, this simply won’t do,” a new voice, a warmer voice, a softer voice says. Roman doesn’t move, doesn’t even open his eyes. “I see that shadow boy got to you first. Can’t imagine what dark corners of your mind he brought to light to get you like this. I know you can hear me, but you don’t have to say anything. I’m going to pick you up now, okay? Lift one finger if you can hear me and don’t want me to do that.” Roman doesn’t move. “Okay, I’m picking you up now. Please stop me if you’re uncomfortable.” With that, Roman feels a sturdy set of arms wrap around him, lifting him carefully into the air.
Then, oddly, the arms seem to expand, growing more arms like branches on a tree trunk, completely enveloping Roman in a soft blanket of tentative warmth. He stubbornly keeps his eyes shut, still feeling all those tiny arrows, still hearing the echoes of that cold voice in his head, still seeing Remy’s eyes stare out as his whispered those damning words.
He loses track of how many times they play over in his head, I hate you I love you I hate you I hate hate hate hate hate you Roman I hate you, simply letting them wash over his soul because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. They must reach a breaking point eventually, because he falls back into himself in time to feel the blanket retracting, returning to a normal pair of arms, gently laying him down on what feels like a mattress. Roman stares at the backs of his eyelids,, wondering whether they’ll force him to start talking soon.
I hate you, Roman.
Surely it wouldn’t have been possibly for the voice to replicate it so perfectly without hearing Remy say the words himself. Right?
“Now, you’re under no obligation to talk about what happened if you don’t want to. Trust me, I know how thorough that shadow boy is about people who find themselves out here.” The return of the kind voice is jarring in comparison to the cold anger flickering in Roman’s head, the reassurance in this tone almost enough to convince Roman to open his eyes. Almost.
“I’m sure you had some idea of what you were doing if you made it this far,” the voice continues, “so you’re probably here because you heard about that Thomas character.” At this, Roman’s eyes fly open. The voice laughs softly. “Thought so. Nice to see you’re alive, at least.”
Now having no choice but to keep his eyes open, Roman sits up and surveys the area. A greenhouse, it looks like, incredibly humid with the sun beating in—when did it turn to daytime?—through the concentrated glass and reflecting off innumerable green leaves and yellow flowers and brown dirt. The person owning the voice almost blends into it all, his skin a dark tan and his fingers stained green, his hair a sandy blond and his bare feet covered in scrapes and dried mud.
“Name’s Patton. Pleasure,” he says, extending a hand to Roman. Roman stares at it, uncomprehending. “That shadow boy,” Patton tuts. “Never does know when to quit, does he?”
“Can you blame me?” the colder voice asks. “This one’s a downright monster.” Roman leaps to his feet, brandishing his fists like the arrows he so hates, searching for the source of the voice and hearing a low growl escape his lips. “Whoa, Patton, you see? Call off the dog, yeah?”
“What have I told you about harassing our guests?” Patton chastises. “Go on, get out. You’re only permitted around here at night, and you’ve lost even those privileges for the next couple days.” Watching Patton converse with the distant voice is a silly enough sight to relax Roman, who lowers his fists and settles back down on the mattress. “Now, onto you. How can I help you? A name would be beneficial to me, at least.”
“Uh, Roman. I, um, I came here to find Thomas.”
“Roman,” Patton repeats carefully, chewing on the second syllable. Something twists in Roman’s gut at the sound. “That so? Yes, yes, we’ve established the reason you came here, but in order to help you, you need to tell me why you wanted to find Thomas.”
“I want to know how he did it. How he escaped having magic.”
“I would hardly call it ‘escaped.’”
“So he does exist, then.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, where is he, if he does exist? I want to get rid of my magic, and if you can’t help me, I’d like to get going sooner than later.”
Patton cocks his head toward the more crowded section of the greenhouse, folding his arms and squinting at Roman through mud-splattered glasses. “He’s in the back, but I don’t think you’re going to like what you find.”
“I don’t think I asked you.”
“I don’t think you didn’t ask me,” Patton mutters, stepping aside as Roman darts past him. Roman barely remembers to keep his feet under himself as he barrels for the back of the room. Nothing in the world could prepare him for how sharply his heart stops.
“It’s a statue,” he whispers, staring in confusion at the cold marble figure. “He’s just a statue?”
“Just a statue,” Patton confirms, appearing behind him. “Just an idea of a person, for people like you who want to believe in that idea. But I know you didn’t really come here to get rid of your magic because of some fairy tale idea, did you?”
“Yes, I did,” Roman murmurs, staring at the statue, at the complete lack of life in its eyes. It was a lie, wasn’t it? It was always a lie, he never really had a chance. “I came here to get rid of it, all of it.” Something hot and wicked coils up in his chest.
“That so?” Patton rests a hand on Roman’s shoulder, ignoring how he flinches at the touch. Actually, he squeezes harder, holding Roman still. “And why is it that I don’t believe you, hm?” His nails dig in deeper. “Maybe it’s what you’re doing to my plants.”
Roman glances around to see all the petals and leaves and branches wilting, browning, slowly dying, their colors filtering through the air and into his lungs as he starts gasping for breath.
“My strongest love has always been for nature,” Patton continues, his grip almost too much to bear. “I pour my heart and soul into my plants, into growing life from the ground and letting it blossom into the air, and I think that’s pretty evident right about now.”
Roman hardly hears the words, still taking in more color, more light, more life, more love from Patton, feeling the room squeeze out its very essence into his body as he pulls and pulls and pulls, his gaze drifting back to the statue, to the dead silence behind those eyes.
“Go on,” Patton murmurs, an impossibly loud noise amidst the silence Roman has created in the room. “Fill an empty husk with love and see what happens.”
Roman can’t exhale, taking in more and more and more air and colors and life and love, his lungs well past full as he swallows more breaths than he can take and he’s choking on all the love in the room, all the energy Patton is funneling into his plants which are spitting it right back out into Roman’s throat and then he sees Remy in his head and looks closer at the statue’s eyes and it hurts, oh God it hurts, and he’s coughing and sputtering and releasing the colors and the life and the love in broken breaths, barely noticing as his body collapses beneath him, not strong enough to hold up his throbbing head, emptying himself of all the colors and the life and the love in his heart that he’s always given, the thing that hurt the worst when he took it for himself, all spilling out in a rush like a slash across the chest and filtering into the statue and flowing around it, the petals of the smallest flowers floating up and dancing around its head like a wreath as Roman exhales and exhales and blessedly exhales and when he’s finally empty of it all and there’s no more love left to give, Roman wonders whether this is what the love he’s always yearned for feels like.
Patton nudges Roman’s still form with his toe, wincing at the way the skin squishes like mud. “That went better than I expected it to, given how much you had to pull at the shadows.” He looks up at the statue, at the flowers slowing their rotations around its head, each coming to rest along the shoulders. His foot strikes something solid.
“Oh, now that’s interesting.” He reaches down and feels around in Roman’s pocket, producing a little metal heart from within the fabric. “We’ll call it an offering.” He lays it at the statue’s feet, and if he were a sentimental man, he might comment on how for the briefest of moments, a spark of life flashes behind the statue’s eyes before it falls dead and silent once more. In the instant after the light disappears from the face, his plants turn a brighter green, growing a solid few inches in mere seconds. “Change the name and restart the rumors.”
“On it,” the voice says. A very familiar wanted sign materializes behind Patton. By nightfall, word had traveled all the way back past Depot town and to the inner cities and into deaf ears that have already forgotten the person who could spin the sunshine into hope. Past the end of the line is a man free of magic by the name of Roman.
In the darkest corner of a neat little pub tucked away in Depot town, beside a jukebox slowly breaking apart its inner machinery, a man disassembles his glasses. He watches the pieces swirl around his head like a crown as he crumples the paper into a ball and stuffs it in his pocket. “Jackie, I’m heading out again. Got a train to catch.”
Tag List:
@sakurahayasaki @erlenmeyertrash @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @milomeepit @leesacrakon @virgilmood @mollycassmith @zerogettie @five-hour-anxiety @ashrain5 @allthemetalsoftherainbow @faacethefacts @rileyfirstname @sassy-in-glasses @virgil-has-a-houseplant @redundant-statements-for-400 @zennyo @extremistwateragenda @breloomings @jamthefan @narniasfinestavengingsociopath @crownswriter123 @rosesandstuff @dedaartist @unring-this-bell
#sanders sides#roman sanders#logan sanders#virgil sanders#patton sanders#mine#labhwrites#major character death tw#bullying tw#yaLL this. was supposed to be like 5k max as a qUiCk BrEaK from my big bang#that clearly did not happen#i wrote it all in one night but still#oof homeboi got Long(TM)#also i. have no idea what happened to the plot after that line break like??#roman snatched the keyboard from me and wrote the ending himself bc that is. Not How I Expected It To End#uwu catch me posting stuff explicitly for the validation that comes with doing so#i came up with the title first and it s h o w s
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Coffee’s for Closers
alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry
Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe.
Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more
Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy
Words: 22,222
Check it out on ao3!
Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.
Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’
Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.
Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.
Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.
“I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.
Ten minutes.
“Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.
“Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”
“Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”
“Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”
“Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.
“Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.
Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”
True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.
“Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!
Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.
And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.
By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.
You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.
You would be wrong.
“Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”
“—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.
“Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”
“It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”
“Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”
“Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.
The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.
“Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.
“He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.
A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.
Yeah, no thanks.
“There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”
“That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”
“Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.
“So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”
“Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”
“My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”
“Of which you have none.”
“—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”
“Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”
“Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”
“Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”
“Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”
“Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”
“I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”
“I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”
“You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”
“I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.
Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.
While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.
When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.
“Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”
“Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”
“Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.
“See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.
“Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”
---------------
“How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.
“Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”
“And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”
“Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”
“I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”
“Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.
“I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”
“I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”
“You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.
“Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.
“Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”
“Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”
“Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”
“Legitimately.”
“Tomato, potato.”
“To-mah-to.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.
Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up, he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.
“Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”
“I am not changing the mugs.”
“He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.
“Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”
“We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”
“No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”
“Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”
“Your ass is trans.”
“What’s your point?”
“I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.
“Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”
“I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”
“What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”
“I don’t think you know what literally means.”
“I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”
“You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”
“What’s your point?”
Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.
“I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”
“Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”
“Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”
“Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”
“And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.
“Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”
“Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”
“You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.
“Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”
Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.
“Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.
“Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”
“Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”
“Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”
“Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”
Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”
Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”
“I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.
“You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”
“Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”
“Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.
Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.
“Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”
“Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”
“I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”
“I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”
“What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”
“Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.
Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.
---------------
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.
“Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”
Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”
“Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”
“Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.
“Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”
Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.
Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.
“Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one, but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’
“Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”
The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.
“Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”
“It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.
“Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?
Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.
“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”
“Breakfast sandwiches.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”
“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”
“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”
“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.
“Virge? Seriously?”
“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”
“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.
“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”
“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.
“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.
“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”
Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”
“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”
“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”
“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.
“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.
In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.
The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?
This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.
A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.
“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”
“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”
“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”
“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.
“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.
Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.
“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.
Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”
“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.
“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”
“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.
“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.
“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.
“I’ll have that right out for you.”
Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”
“We really don’t do tips—”
“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.
“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.
Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.
Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?
Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”
“First guess.”
“Green tea latte.”
Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”
“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”
“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.
As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.
“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”
Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”
Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”
“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”
“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”
“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”
“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”
“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”
Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”
Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—
“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.
“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.
“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.
“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”
“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.
“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.
“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.
---------------
“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”
“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.
Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.
Logan has never been one for analogies.
He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?
“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”
“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.
“So five?”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”
“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”
“Stop stifling my creative energy!”
“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.
“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”
For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”
Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.
“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”
“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”
“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.
“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”
“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?
Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.
“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”
“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”
“Explain how,” Roman says.
“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”
“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.
Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.
“Where does he work?”
A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder. The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”
“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”
“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.
“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”
“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—
“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.
“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.
“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.
“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?
“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”
Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.
“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.
“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”
Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.
“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.
“I’m older than you.”
“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.
“I’m older than Patton, too.”
“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”
“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”
“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”
Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.
He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.
“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”
“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.
“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”
“If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.
“By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.
“You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”
“Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.
“Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”
“You cannot,” Logan says.
“What what,” Patton agrees.
“Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”
“Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.
The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.
Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.
“Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car. Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.
“One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”
“Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”
“When did he tell you his name?”
“He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”
“Where does he work?”
“If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”
“Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”
Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”
“That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.
“Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.
“How are those supposed to drum up business?”
Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”
“Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”
Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”
Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”
“I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.
“You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”
“They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”
“You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”
“That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”
“Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”
Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.
“I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”
“That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.
When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.
Elegance, indeed.
---------------
Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.
“Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.
You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.
Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.
Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.
Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.
As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.
Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.
One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.
At least it’s a slower stream of guests.
“I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.
“Anything else for you?”
Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”
“Sure.”
“—and your number?”
“No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”
Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”
“Definitely not.”
“What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”
“I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.
“Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.
“I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”
“I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”
Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”
“Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”
Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”
“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”
“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”
Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”
This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”
Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.
“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”
“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”
“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”
“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”
“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”
“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”
“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”
Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”
Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”
“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.
“Promise.”
“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”
“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”
“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”
Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.
“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”
Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”
“You don’t even work here.”
“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”
“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”
“Make it four.”
This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.
Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.
Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.
“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”
“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.
“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”
“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”
“Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”
“You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”
“If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”
Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”
“Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.
“Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”
“No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.
“Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”
“No.” Patton puts the tickets away.
“I found this book of stickers that has—”
“No.” Patton puts the stickers away.
“You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”
“I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”
“Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”
“Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.
“Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”
Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”
“Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.
“I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”
“No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”
“He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.
“Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.
“So,” Logan says.
“So,” Virgil agrees.
“How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.
Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”
“My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”
“Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.
“Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”
“I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”
---------------
Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.
“Does that work for you?”
Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.
“Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”
Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”
“Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?
“So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”
Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”
“Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’
“You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”
“We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”
“Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.
Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.
“Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”
“Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”
“I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.
“What don’t I know?”
“He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”
“But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”
“Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”
“Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.
“Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.
“That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.
“Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”
“Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”
“Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”
“Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”
Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”
Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”
“Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.
“Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”
“Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”
“Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”
“Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”
“You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”
Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.
As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.
The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.
“That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.
“You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.
“Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”
“Among,” Virgil corrects.
“What?”
“You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.
“Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”
Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.
“This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”
Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”
“Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.
“Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.
“Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”
“Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.
“Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.
“Roman?”
“Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”
“It is June.”
“Yes.”
“Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”
“Yes.”
“June is not July.”
“You lost me.”
“Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”
“Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.
“For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—
“Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”
Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.
“We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”
“I am not doing that.”
Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”
Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”
“Unless you want to be doing—”
“Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”
“That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.
Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.
“You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”
“It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”
“All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.
“Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.
“So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”
With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.
“Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.
“Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”
“That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”
“That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”
“Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.
“Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”
“Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.
“Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”
“Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.
“Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—
“Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”
Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.
---------------
Virgil is having a bad day.
He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.
Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.
This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.
Virgil wants to go home.
“Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”
“I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”
“Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.
“Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.
This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.
“Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”
Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”
“You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.
“Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”
“No, I want you to give me a refund.”
“Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”
“Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”
“No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”
This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.
“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.
Virgil.
Wants.
To.
Go.
Home.
“Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.
“Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”
Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.
Virgil does not want to be here.
Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.
“There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.
She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”
“Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”
“No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.
He might just scream.
“So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.
“There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.
And flicks this one square at his chest.
“Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”
“Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.
Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.
Virgil is leaving this hellscape.
“I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.
Virgil is going home.
At least, Virgil thought he was going home.
No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.
“Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”
“Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.
He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.
He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.
“Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.
“Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”
With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.
“When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”
“I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”
“I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”
“Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”
Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.
If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.
Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.
“Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.
“Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”
“And where, exactly, do you work?”
“Starbucks north.”
The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”
“Rude guests?”
“Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”
“Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”
“We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”
“Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”
“I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”
“How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”
“Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”
Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”
“It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”
Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”
“Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”
“Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”
The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.
Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.
“Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”
“Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.
“Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.
“Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.
“Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.
“Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.
Mistletoe.
To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.
“If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.
“Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”
“No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”
Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”
So he does.
#labhwrites#analogical#romantic analogical#royality#romantic royality#virgil sanders#logan sanders#roman sanders#patton sanders#remy sanders#cursing tw#mine#this is. so. long. omg#i feel myself pushing my boundaries of what constitutes a oneshot#but my rage cannot be stopped#i demand all the words for my left brain boys#dorky as they may be#// i'll reblog later for time zones with the ao3 link and the taglists#fun fact - the word /okay/ appears twenty three times in this#a word from lab post-italics formatting: lab what the FUCK stop using so many damn italics#also i bash starbucks a lot in this but its mostly for the memes#its actually a really nice place to work depending on who's working the shifts around you#anyway here's this monster of a fic
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I’ll Bring You the Moon - T minus 60 seconds
Masterpost - Previous Chapter [this is the first chapter] - Next Chapter - ao3
Words: 3,492
“Yikes, already dipping out for the day?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, hey, at least you finished all the major work for the week, right? Now you just get to relax on breaks.”
“That’s what you think.” Logan grins as he squeezes into the stairwell, nodding his thanks as one of the other interns holds the door open for him. She hefts her messenger bag higher on her shoulders before stooping to grab something off the floor and hand it to Logan.
“Butterfingers.”
“Thanks, Almond Joy.” Logan tilts his head as she slides the pen behind his ear, where it’s rarely obedient enough to stay. “It was Joy, right?”
“Right.” Joy lets the door slip shut as Logan begins his descent, still cocking his head to the side in hopes that the pen won’t fall again.
Five flights of stairs and two near-fumbles with the stack of papers in his arms later, Logan averts his gaze as he strolls through the front door. Lingering just outside the entrance is one of his bosses, holding a cup of coffee and a travel thermos of oatmeal. Logan stares at his shoes as the warm spring air smacks him in the face like a soggy paper towel, hoping against hope that his boss won’t—
Nope. “Hey, Lucas, can you hang back a sec?” To be fair, it wasn’t Mx. Oatmeal calling him, but Logan holds in a groan anyway. He begrudgingly turns to see another of the fifth floor interns—Cassidy, if memory serves him correctly—rushing for the exit and clutching a mess of folders to her chest. The blue and red symbols decorating the logo on her cap look frayed enough to fall right off. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you! Here, they wanted us to do these reports, too,” Cassidy says, fanning out her burden flat until her eyes come to rest on a thick manila folder. She holds it out to Logan, continuing, “I heard you were set to be done early today, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t walking in to a master disaster of aluminum and plaster tomorrow because they decided to wait until the last minute.”
As a floormate of hers, Logan has long since grown used to the haphazard, uh, cadence with which Cassidy talks. He barely lifts an eyebrow, merely thumbing through some of his new papers and scrunching his nose to adjust his glasses. His heart comes incredibly close to tottering right off the cliff it calls home when he sees the bright red seal obscuring the last few pages. Classified information enclosed—NASA clearance level eight.
“Ah, Cassidy?” Logan says, squinting at the bold words and praying she hasn’t left yet. “Which ‘they’ are we talking about when we say we’re waiting until the last minute?” When she hesitates to answer, Logan glances up. Saying the gleam in her eye is disorienting would be an understatement.
“Oh, you know, only the tippity toppitiest, higher uppitiest ‘they’ we have. Higher than Mx. Oatmeal, actually. Higher than Katie-Lee, too, I think. We’re not even supposed to discuss the contents of our own folders with each other, that’s how secret it is. Why, what’s in yours?”
“I feel like you kind of missed the whole thing you just said about these folders being secret,” Logan says, snapping his folder shut and placing it in the middle of his already oversized stack. “Was that it?”
“Yup!” Cassidy spins on her heel and walks back in through the out door, shuffling her feet so she doesn’t cross paths with Mx. Oatmeal. Logan waits until she disappears into the elevator and the lobby appears silent before turning to leave again.
“Well, I can’t exactly take this straight home,” Logan mumbles to himself. Work life separate from home life, and all that fun stuff. “Maybe to a cafe? No, too loud, too public. A bookstore’s probably too shady to walk into, dressed for work like this.” Realizing he’s blocking both the exit and the ramp from the sidewalk to the street as he currently stands, Logan’s feet carry him to the right, pacing alongside the bike lane as he continues muttering and arguing with himself.
Before he can win and lose at his own squabble that everyone occupying the world around him is politely pretending not to notice, Logan’s feet deposit him in front of a long, wide, concrete staircase. Crowning the top is a set of sleek marble pillars, which frame a pair of gleaming gold and umber doors. Logan shrugs and starts climbing.
Just inside the doors—cool to the touch and smooth along the center from how many people handle them, if anyone’s keeping track—are a few white foldout tables, with a set of downdressed security guards to match. While the other three cast disinterested looks at Logan before focusing back on their pebbly table, one leaps to his feet and bounds over to Logan—that is, if a five foot man with wrists thick enough to wear headbands as bracelets can bound. The smile on his face is a stunning contrast to the bulky biceps rippling beneath the strict set of a pressed blue button-up and khakis.
“Visitor, student, or lost?” he asks. His voice sounds like someone tried to cut construction paper with safety scissors drenched in glue and glitter. But, like, in a good way. A youthful glow sort of voice, if that makes sense. Logan doesn’t get paid enough to be this observant at his internship, but at least it’s a decent form of entertainment.
“Sorry, I don’t—” Logan begins, but he can barely get the words out before the guard’s eyes drop to his stack of papers.
“Oh, ten dollars says you’re from Otalini High. Uniforms and a heavy workload, am I right?” The guard bends down to brace his hands on his knees, looking up and down at Logan’s pile. “Or maybe Allognathini, I hear there’s a major crackdown on physical evidence this year. Finals, am I right?”
Logan blinks.
“Nah, go with your gut,” the guard continues. His companions looks incredibly bored, but when Logan glances at them for a daring rescue, they make themselves look incredibly busy counting the tiles along the vaulted ceiling. “Anyhoodle, you got your student ID so I can sign you in?”
“I, um.” Logan hesitates, not sure how to dash this guard’s dreams of correctly guessing his high school. Especially when Logan graduated years ago.
“Gotcha, gotcha. Hands too full, am I right?” The guard scrabbles for a pen and paper from one of the tables. “How about I just write your ID number, and you can get back to me when you sign out?”
Logan decides bluntness is best. “I’m not a student.”
The guard freezes. “Are you sure you aren’t a student?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Really? Wow. Really?”
Logan does not particularly appreciate this guy’s incredulous tone. “Really. I’m just an intern at an office nearby, and I didn’t want to take my work home.”
“Got any ID to prove that?”
“No, but I’ve got this badge with my name and building clearance, and twenty dollars for a day pass to come in here.” Logan tilts his left shoulder forward, displaying the name badge.
“Oh, that’s not necessary—it’s free admission on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Logan is doing his best not to be exasperated at the apparently unnecessary delay. He does not succeed. The guard claps Logan on the back with a laugh, watching him struggle to keep his papers in order. “If y’ever need anything, just holler. Name’s Patton, but I bet you knew that.” Logan bites his tongue to keep from asking how he could have possibly known that.
As his mind traces back over the stern red warning packed in his stack of papers and folders and, apparently, top secret developments, Logan absently hugs his arms closer to his chest. He veers left for what looks to be an abstract art exhibit, mercifully lacking in attendees. The expansive tiled room is dotted every few yards with an oversized (probably fake) palm tree, around which are plush red benches. Logan sits on the bench smack in the center of the room, hoping most people’s instincts to hug the walls will benefit him here. He sets the stack at his side and slips out a few pages, hiding the manila folder between plain, unassuming blue ones. Maintaining a cool nonchalance, he casts his eyes at a new painting every so often, pretending to take notes on them in the manila folder. He wonders whether he looks like a fool to be doing this, but ultimately decides he doesn’t care. At least, not until a gaggle of kids—clearly high school students—sweeps in.
Logan lowers the folder to his lap, pretending to deeply consider the mess of squares (with one disobedient circle, of course) on a canvas a few feet away from the storm of newcomers. A swarm of teens in deep maroon and navy blue, with the occasional plaid skirt or preppy blazer tossed in for flavor, stands in an obstructive huddle blocking the entrance. Some of the kids have their phones out and are typing furiously, others scribble on clipboards with pens and highlighters, and still more have their sleeves pushed past their elbows to scrawl along their forearms in sharpie.
At the head of it all is a single person in a dark green cardigan and tattered skinny jeans, waving his arms like a skydiving penguin and somehow commanding the undivided attention of a solid fifteen teenagers. One of the kids raises a pencil in the air—one of those overly expensive, engraved family heirlooms, to be sure—and points the eraser at the painting the guy in the cardigan is blocking. Cardigan Man wags a pair of finger guns at the kid before smacking a hand on the wall beside the painting. He opens his mouth as if to yell something, but only a whisper comes out, whatever it is sending the whole pack of students into a giggling fit. Logan scrunches his nose to adjust his glasses and pointedly stares at a corner of the painting, peeking out just past Cardigan Man’s right shoulder. It looks like a paintbrush sneezed on it. On—on the painting, not on Cardigan Man’s shoulder.
Logan shifts his focus to a different painting, panning his movement ahead a moment before the tour group continues to catch up to him. He finds his eyes drawn to the way the cardigan swishes, bouncing to the rhythm of the guy’s stride. Almost a glide, really, with how smoothly he moves. His head hardly bounces between his steps. Logan wonders whether he doesn’t have some dance experience under those heels that barely touch the ground.
“Group Theta of Otalini Prep, you are late for your report time to the lobby,” a cold voice announces from an outdated set of speakers mounted along the walls. “Proceed to the entrance doors immediately. Any delay in arrival will result in a ten percent dock to your final grade.” A panic flies through the group as they pocket their phones, clip their pens to their clipboards, and roll down their sleeves to hide the notes inked on their skin. They scramble for the exit, tossing out farewells and thank you’s to Cardigan Man as they barrel for the unsuspecting security guards. At least Patton will have people whose energies match his own for a while.
Cardigan Man—or Cadmium, as Logan decides he’s going to call him, because that makes so much more sense—rolls his shoulders forward and cracks the kinks in his neck, watching the last of the students race for the lobby. When no more teens appear to be forthcoming, he moves for Logan’s bench, sitting on the opposite side of it from him. Logan slips the manila folder back into his pile of papers, praying it hadn’t been sitting open on his lap that entire time as he feels for the pen Joy slipped behind his ear. Gone, of course, but that’s hardly surprising.
Logan slips a spare pen out of his pocket and tries to inconspicuously toss it across the floor, probably looking incredibly conspicuous as he does so. He scoops his papers under an arm and stands, bending down as he does so to pretend to search for his ‘lost’ pen. Every time he reaches it, he kicks it a few steps further, feigning lighthearted frustration at himself. It rapidly turns to genuine surprise when he walks straight into Cadmium—or, rather, into his legs, which are sprawled out and away from the bench. Logan snatches his pen and drops onto the bench a couple cushions away, staring at the ground and willing his face to stop burning. Oddly enough, Cadmium didn’t seem to notice. Logan pulls out his phone and fumbles around with the chess app, looking at absolutely anything besides Cadmium, who mercifully hasn’t questioned Logan’s blunder.
After what seems like hours, Logan dares a glance to his left and sees Cadmium’s head lolling back on the top of the bench. A peek at his phone reveals that only eleven minutes have passed. Logan decides his phone must be lying, but he looks closer at Cadmium anyway.
His lips are slightly parted, and if it weren’t for his closed eyes and the way his soft breaths are gently buffeting his purple bangs, Cadmium would look for all the world like he was simply admiring the underside of the fake leaves overhead. Logan cranes his own neck, wondering how that could possibly be a comfortable position for sleeping, but his curiosity subsides when he notices the design on Cadmium’s shirt. In a bright tennis ball green—or yellow, if you’re the kind of monster who thinks tennis balls are yellow—and a font that looks like comic sans got itself a two year degree in baking with a concentration in chocolate croissants, it reads ‘tour guide?’ Logan can’t decide whether it’s supposed to mean people are supposed to guide him on tours, ask him for tours, or question the validity of the tours he’s about to guide them on.
Near the entryway where Cadmium had first swept in, dripping in all his green cardigan-clad glory, a huddle of kids in shirts with ‘Allognathini’ scrawled across the front peers around the corner. They survey the room and murmur amongst themselves, several of them pausing to give Logan a once-over. His work clothes probably aren’t helping his whole ‘not a tour guide’ image. He elbows Cadmium on a hunch, looking anywhere but at him when he wakes.
Cadmium jerks up, recoiling from Logan’s touch and sweeping his fading purple bangs out of his face. His eyes lock on Logan’s obvious attempt at excessive nonchalance, then shift to the group of students. As Cadmium stands and rubs the sleep from his eyes, Logan dares another glance at him. Cadmium, of course, chooses that exact moment to turn back, his gaze locking with Logan’s.
Just to be clear, it isn’t love at first sight, so put that out of your mind before anything else. It’s hardly acquaintances at first sight. Cadmium shoots Logan a quick nod of thanks—barely a smile, let alone verbal acknowledgement of the favor—before setting off for the group. He properly musses up his hair as he goes, and Logan finds himself lingering on the army of bracelets and rings peeking out from under the cardigan sleeve. With every step he takes, Cadmium melts deeper into the swagger he had with the earlier tour group—a complete and near-unrecognizable one-eighty from the exhausted (albeit peaceful) face passed out on the bench mere minutes ago.
If you asked Logan why he kept coming back to the art museum after that unplanned first visit, he’d tell you it was because of the calm atmosphere and visually interesting environment. This would be a lie, but it’s still what he would tell you. What he probably would not tell you (the truth, to be clear) is that he’s incredibly interested in seeing the other hundred and seventy nine degrees woven into Cadmium’s cardigan.
But yes, all of this to say that Logan returns to the museum several times, long after completing the workload in his top secret packet, and he almost never says a word to Cadmium. He simply arrives, deals with Patton, and observes the rest. A few failed attempts to cross paths with the tour guide make it increasingly obvious that Cadmium only ever makes an appearance on Tuesdays and Thursdays—free admission days, though Logan is still waiting for the jury to come back on whether that’s a coincidence or not.
More often than not, Logan will actively try to avoid Cadmium (once he’s verified the tour guide is, you know, there ), but apparently his tours span the entire museum, so there’s no escaping the guy. He eventually sheds his pride over the whole thing about eight visits later and tags along on a tour populated by small children with bookish helicopter parents. He makes a point not to join any of the high school tours, though, as that would look more than a little odd, but he admires how differently Cadmium presents information between students getting a grade and people just enjoying a day at a museum. Where students hear all about the artist’s lives and how their upbringing could provide a unique perspective on possible interpretations of the underlying meanings in their work, children tend to get illuminati-style rabbit holes. One of Logan’s favorite pastimes—after finishing any leftover work he didn’t leave at the office, of course—is tracking how many layers Cadmium can go into about each painting. While eight tours isn’t a very big sample to pull from, Cadmium has managed to not repeat any of his conspiracy theories, not even when discussing completely disparate works.
The best rabbit hole Logan has heard so far is as follows: “The tree is green, which is the color of money, the printing of which is directly correlated to inflation, which is also a noun used to discuss blowing up balloons. Bombs also blow up, and bombs are the bob-ombs in super mario bros. I used to play the demos of those games on the display consoles at Target. A target is used in archery, which is a sport. Soccer is also a sport. Soccer is called football in Germany. Germany participated in a war. So did the United States of America, also known by the acronym ‘USA.’ JPEG is also an acronym, which is a manner of lossy compression for digital images, circa wikipedia’s contribution from Richard F. Haines’ 1992 technical report. Therefore, this painting is loss dot jpg.”
Logan still hasn’t worked out whether Cadmium rehearsed all that or just made it up on the spot.
The first time he finally spoke to the guy—this being right after Cadmium had made a stunning connection between petticoats and ukuleles, mind you—he was wrapping up a tour and making a beeline for the door. Even as Logan held back, content to watch him push up the sleeves of his cardigan to check his watch, Cadmium seemed a little hesitant to go. He turned back and spoke in a much less cheery tone than Logan had come to expect from the tours. “What’s your deal?”
This gives Logan a moment’s pause, to put it gently. To put it bluntly, it feels like a flying bowling ball buried itself in his abdomen. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re always hanging around my tours, so what’s your deal? Do you want, like, a private tour or something? Are you an overachieving Otalinite? Because I don’t really do personal tours, if you couldn’t tell.”
“Oh, no, I, um,” Logan stutters, his fluttery hands finding a panicked home near his collarbone. “I’m, ah, I’m not a student.”
“Good for you, fight the system. I still don’t do private tours.”
Logan bites at his lower lip, uncertain how to respond. “Got it. Sorry, did you want me to stop tagging along on your tours, or…?”
Cadmium crosses his arms and looks Logan up and down. Logan wonders whether he’s secretly unimpressed with what he sees. “Nah, you look smart enough to draw in parents that want to breed genius children. Just stop pretending not to notice when I pass you with a group of students in tow, yeah? It’s weird, and you’re not fooling anyone.” He sticks his hand out. Logan stares at it, baffled. “This is the part where you shake it,” he says in a stage whisper. “Stop peddling your D level act of passivity and you can keep tagging along, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Logan finally says, shaking the hand. It’s colder than he’d expected—somewhere around freezing, actually.
“Cool. See you Tuesday, then.” Cadmium breaks off the handshake first. Logan watches him go, warming up his chilled fingers with his other hand.
#sanders sides#logan sanders#virgil sanders#roman sanders#patton sanders#labhwrites#mine#i'll bring you the moon#ibytm#im gonna put all the ships and triggers and everything in the masterpost but not the individual chapters because they dont really apply#and this chapter will be the only one with the characters#being tagged i mean
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Ibytm - T minus 53 seconds
Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3
Words: 3,665
Logan wedges his finger in the impossibly tight space between his neck and the collar of his shirt. Is it normal to be this nervous? He’s just waiting for coffee in front of a museum. It’s not like it’s a date or anything. Of course, that negates Logan’s decision to wear a nicer tie than normal. He could always claim it was laundry day, but laundry day is Sunday, so everything is clean for the upcoming week. Not that Cadmium would know that. Would he? Is he even going to show up? Just because Logan specifically requested Cadmium as his fetch kid, that doesn’t guarantee he’ll get him. Being the creator doesn’t mean pulling every string, but it’s not like it even matters, because Logan doesn’t really care if it’s Cadmium or not, no siree, pure apathy here all the way.
He loosens his collar again, then fidgets with his tie for a few minutes. Covered in a gentle plaid of purple and blue, it’s the only pop of color he allowed himself over a dark grey shirt and khakis. Will Cadmium think Logan is trying too hard to mimic his color scheme from the park? Cadmium will probably hate it, will say Logan’s just some weird guy from a museum tour, that he’s nothing more than his little eccentricities, a light piece of entertainment and nothing more, that—
“It’s not very often that I get special requests for a personal fetch quest fulfillment, you know.” Logan sees Cadmium’s shadow before gathering the courage to meet his eyes, clearing his throat and giving his collar one last tug. “Of course, I thought it couldn’t’ve possibly been you, since I know how much you love my usual drink. Here’s your fancy pants latte with all the fix-ins.” Cadmium thrusts a styrofoam tray at Logan, angling the smaller drink for easier access. His other hand remains behind his back.
“Oh! Oh, yeah, um, right, let me just finalize the—”
Cadmium waves off Logan’s attempts to pay him back for the order. “I stole both your drinks last time, call it even.” His face flushes a soft pink as he seems to realize something. “You, um—you did get the delight one for me, right? I’d hate to just assume—”
“Yeah, no, for sure, that’s all yours. If you want it, I mean.” Logan finally takes his drink in both hands, rocking back and forth on his feet and laughing uncomfortably. Cadmium echoes the sound, looking anywhere but at Logan, who takes the opportunity to admire Cadmium’s outfit. Under the green cardigan from the first time Logan saw him, Cadmium wears a pale grey T-shirt with a pastel alien across the front, paired with skinny jeans that proudly bear no holes. Possibly a first, as far as Logan’s seen. Logan opens his mouth to say something—compliment the outfit, mention the matching shirt colors, something , but Cadmium beats him to the punch.
“Oh! I, ah, I actually did bring something. For you, I mean. If that’s okay, I mean, like, I brought it because I assumed the coffees were, well, you know, so I, um, I just, yeah, you know? I mean, here you go.” Cadmium pulls his other arm out from behind his back, revealing a single red rose in front of an even redder face. “I don’t, like, know anything specific about the color meanings of flowers or whatever, but I thought maybe, I mean, if you didn’t—”
“It’s great,” Logan interrupts, gingerly accepting the flower. “It’s really, really nice.” Cadmium huffs what Logan can only hope is a sigh of relief. “Um, shall we?” Logan gestures toward the entrance doors with his coffee hand, poking out his other elbow—far enough for Cadmium to link in his own if he were comfortable with that, close enough to himself that it could be mistaken for a casually awkward pose. Hopefully.
“Well, how about that?” a familiar voice says at the entrance. Patton scratches the back of his neck with one hand, flicking his wrist to check an imaginary watch with the other. “I never expected to see the famed Virgil here on a day that doesn’t start with ‘T,’ much less with a suitor on his arm!” Cadmium yanks his hand quickly away from the crook of Logan’s elbow, his eyes brimming with panic. Logan busies himself with looking absolutely anywhere else. “So, which of you’s paying for this little date?”
Logan trips over himself to protest how it’s not a date, but once again, Cadmium beats him to the punch, all the panic gone from his face. Or maybe Logan was only imagining it to begin with. Cadmium slips his arm back into Logan’s. “My little nerd here will be paying, as I already did him the honor of getting us drinks. Logan, pay the nice man.” Too numb to do much of anything else, Logan switches his rose to his coffee hand and passes Patton the first bill he finds in his pocket—a gently crumpled twenty.
Patton trades it for a ten and waves them in, laughing to himself. “I’m surprised at you, Virgil. I would’ve thought you’d try to argue that free admission days begin with ‘T,’ and ‘today’ starts with a T, or something like that.”
“Gotta keep ’em on their toes,” Cadmium calls over his shoulder, tugging a dumbfounded Logan inside. Once they’ve burst into the cool air conditioning of the lobby, Cadmium takes a long drink from his cup and stares at Logan. “So I guess that secret’s out, huh?”
“I’ll still call you Cadmium, if you prefer.”
“Nah, nah, it’s out, it’s too late, it’s fine. You were probably gonna find out eventually, right? Plus, I mean, it’s not like you can just walk around calling me a bone-strengthener forever.”
“That’s calcium.”
“Close enough.”
“I mean, not really close at all. Cadmium is usually found in batteries, and—”
“Close enough. Gimme that rose for a sec, would you?”
Logan hands it over and patiently waits for his feet to catch up with his mind as Cadmium—well, Virgil—walks away, fiddling with the stem of the flower. “What’re you—”
“Shh, just hold on. Walk next to me and pretend I just said something really funny.”
Albeit in a confused manner, Logan complies, bumping shoulders with Virgil. “Why did you—”
“One of your coworkers over there, from that first fetch quest at your office.” Logan tracks the angle of Virgil’s jerked chin to see Roman glancing sidelong at them. “Okay, hand out.” Virgil slips the rose—now fashioned into a thorny bracelet—over Logan’s wrist, careful to keep the sleeve between the thorns and his skin. “Here, try to look lovestruck or something.”
“I don’t—”
“Come on, we can pretend we’re on a date, it’ll be fun.” Logan (surprising no one) doesn’t know what to do, so he just stares at the rose. “It’ll screw with your coworker so bad, c’mon.” Taking Logan by the rose-adorned hand, Virgil drags him out of the lobby and into the room opposite from where they first met—well, first made eye contact, anyway, but who’s keeping track? (Logan. Logan is keeping track.) It’s probably just his imagination, but Logan can almost feel Roman’s eyes burning holes into his back.
“Alright, my dude, my guy, my home slice of pineapple and cheese,” Cadmium— Virgil , Logan reminds himself, that’s going to take some getting used to —says . “Walk me through the deeper meaning of this statue here.”
Logan adjusts his glasses, then adjusts them again. It’s admittedly weirder than he expected, being on the other side of this whole tour business. “Right, yes, um, see here, how it’s got blue coloring—”
“Paint,” Virgil corrects.
“Right, so it’s got blue paint along where the front of its teeth should be, and on the CMYK spectrum, blue—”
“Cyan.”
“Is opposite yellow, which represents the sun, and since they don’t have white or yellow on their teeth, but instead yellow’s opposite, it’s implying the absence of sun in their life, which leads to a lack of Vitamin D, the lack of which is a common catalyst for bone pain and muscle weakness. Many people break bones earlier in their life due to being more adventurous, so the artist is lamenting the loss of child-like wonder throughout adulthood by displaying the lack of it in their muse’s smile.”
Virgil rubs the flats of his knuckles along his chin, nodding slowly. “You took more leaps than I’d recommend for a first timer, but it wasn’t entirely terrible.” He angles his head across the room to where a couple of children are complaining loudly about their boredom to an unimpressed chaperone. “Let me show you how it’s done. Don’t take notes, that’s intellectual plagiarism.”
Virgil strolls to the painting just beside the one cluttered with children, folding his hands behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet. A dumbfounded Logan follows close behind. “You know, Logan,” he says in a much louder voice than necessary, “I always knew it was the adults that were wrong.” The kids seem vaguely disinterested at best, but Virgil continues undeterred. Lots of practice, Logan supposes. “I mean, forcing them to do boring stuff like chores and homework when they have the audacity to do this kind of nonsense for fun?” The kids hardly bother to hide it as they turn to listen. However bored they might be, Virgil’s nonsense is surely more interesting than a soccer mom on her phone.
Logan loses the conversation thread almost as soon as he picks it up, but he’s pretty sure Virgil hits some objectively irrational points, including (but not limited to, because Virgil is apparently nothing if not limitless) nature, sticky glitter, scissors, trampolines, cats, a family-friendly version of a particular being in possession of three separate mammary glands from a particular sixth location with a four mile disaster zone radius, and key lime pie.
Once Virgil finally, finally, finally stops—for a breath or dramatic effect, Logan couldn’t say—he looks expectantly at the kids. Wide eyed and mouths agape, they simply stare at him, waiting for more. Virgil nudges Logan’s shoulder, gesturing vaguely at the mom that is still paying approximately zero iotas of attention. Logan, understandably bewildered and running low on improv-based creativity, crouches down to balance on the balls of his feet, levels his eyes with theirs.
“Do you know how he knows all that?” The smaller one—a girl of a slight build with braids shooting out the sides of her skull—shakes her head slowly. The boy—her brother, probably—just stares back at Logan. Logan leans in closer, willing a mischievous glint into his eyes as he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “It’s ’cause he’s from Neptune.”
The girl nudges the boy, her braids whapping against her face. “That means he’s an alien!” As his face explodes into a grin, the boy knocks his head against the woman’s leg.
“Mom, mom, that guy’s an alien! He told me so!”
“That’s very nice, Virgil. Is this your way of saying you want to see a different exhibit?” As the mom tugs the still stunned kids away, Logan straightens and glances at his companion.
“What’re the odds, huh? Heck of a coincidence.”
“No such thing as coincidences,” Virgil replies. “Just cloning experiments gone wrong.”
“That is quite possibly the most upsetting thing I’ve ever heard out of your mouth that wasn’t part of a tour.”
“How upsetting are my tours?”
“You did find a way to argue that Julius Caesar was responsible for the decrease in skittle flavored chapsticks.”
“One of my best rabbit holes, if I do say so myself.” Virgil glances back toward the lobby and shrugs off his cardigan.
“What’re you—”
“Patton and your coworker dude are both looking over here. Put this on and try to look cute.”
“Try?” Logan pretends not to feel just a little wounded by the implication that he doesn’t already look good and slips the cardigan on over his shirt. Well, he tries to—the bulky sleeves do a remarkable job of getting in the way and preventing literally any leeway past his elbows.
Virgil considers him for a moment before taking the cardigan back. “Got anything on under that shirt?”
“Yeah, an undershirt, but—”
“Sweater off. I’ll hold your bracelet. Quickly, boys, museum’s not open forever.” Logan complies, more out of fear than anything else, and wonders if anyone else has ever gone from ‘fine’ to ‘deeply uncomfortable’ in an art museum before. Mercifully, Virgil is quick as a whip in slipping the cardigan over his bare arms. Logan wonders whether it would be weird to comment on the complete lack of an outstanding smell to mark it as Virgil’s. Rather than supplement the question with evidence, he just watches as Virgil takes his discarded sweater and tugs it over his head.
“Check it out, sweater swap! Here, give me your tie, I want to play with it.” Hardly waiting for permission (which Logan would’ve given anyway), Virgil undoes the tie—a full windsor, if anyone’s curious, which Virgil isn’t and wasn’t—and fashions it into a bracelet. He holds it up to Logan’s rose bracelet and grins. “Matchy matchy?”
Logan huffs a laugh. “Matchy matchy.”
With that fascinating wardrobe change out of the way, Virgil leads Logan into the next room, asking for various opinions about various artworks as he goes. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you stalk my tours when I tell you this, but the next room has, like, amazing lighting. There’s this pink and orange mosaic that shines on the floor where—”
True to form, Logan loses track of Virgil’s words as his attention turns to the feel of the cardigan against his skin. He only really finds his way back to the physical plane when he feels Virgil’s hand leave his arm.
“Okay,” Virgil says, “stay right there, put your hand on your hip and strike—yes! That’s it, hold it right there.” Virgil switches from framing Logan’s silhouette with his thumbs and index fingers to snapping pictures with his phone. “Look at the second to last painting on the east wall. No, the east wall—okay, that’s south, one more try—hold it! The light here is perfect , Logan, hold still! Oh, perfection.”
Logan wonders idly whether he looks as ridiculous as he feels. Probably. As he drops the pose and joins Virgil in pretending to terrorize a statue for the amusement of more children, he opens the camera on his own phone. Two can play this game, it’s just that Logan can play it better. At least, provided Virgil doesn’t know he’s playing.
At every chance he gets, Logan snaps a candid of Virgil, doing a very poor job of hiding it. Maybe Virgil’s just pretending not to notice. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, since Virgil stops basically every ten feet to demand Logan use the full potential of the environment. Where Virgil’s shots are all artsy and dramatic and well lit, Logan’s are blurry and consist largely of Virgil fidgeting with the tie wrapped around his wrist. Logan can almost see the headlines now— Bigfoot: Spotted en Route to a Job Interview at the Museum!
“Oh my goodness, you two are so cute!” a little old lady exclaims, shuffling over with a pale pink purse clutched to her chest. To Logan’s relief, she interrupts Virgil from noticing Logan taking a picture of how the filtered light washes golden dust over the sleeves of the grey sweater bunched up to his elbows. Pure luck, nothing more. “Are you on a date? Do you boys want me to take a picture for you?” Logan hides his phone as Virgil glances at him suspiciously in response to the mention of a picture being taken. Perhaps not Logan’s best move, but at least he got a good shot out of it.
“That would be wonderful, actually, thank you so much!” Virgil says, stepping beside her. “Okay, so you just press this button here, and—ope, that was a selfie, whoops! Okay, and just—yep, that’s it, and just press the white button!” The lady grins as she holds up the phone between two quivering hands, waiting for Virgil to finish fixing Logan’s sleeves. Once he’s finally content, he wraps an arm around Logan’s waist and hugs him to his side, resting his head atop Logan’s hair. They both flash bright smiles as Logan leans into the embrace, kind of surprised that he doesn’t have to fake the happy expression. The weight on his head is admittedly pretty alien, but by no means unwelcome.
“Alrighty, I think I got it! I might’ve taken too many, though,” the impromptu paparazzi says.
“Nonsense, I’m sure they’re perfect.” Virgil flutters his hands as if to shoo away the preposterous notion, chattering politely as they look through the pictures. Logan busies himself with staring at a painting to keep anyone from noticing how beet red his face is.
“How long have you two been together? It looked like you were still getting to know each other, what with all your picture taking!”
“Ha, yeah, we just met pretty recently, actually! I do tours here sometimes, mostly at a cheaper rate for high schoolers on field trips.”
The lady places a dainty hand over her lips, her eyebrows shooting up. “My word , are you the famous Ya Boi Virgil? My grandson raves about you, he swears you’re the only thing that kept him from failing his art history final!”
Virgil ducks his head, catching Logan’s eye and grinning. “Oh, please, he had it in him the whole time, I’m sure.”
The lady pats his elbow affectionately and sets her sights on Logan. “You better hold onto this boy tight, before someone else snatches him up, y’hear?”
Logan is taken aback, to say the least. “I, uh, yeah. Yes. Um, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.” Nodding like she’s satisfied that Logan can hold onto Virgil long enough to last, she gives both boys a little wave and disappears in the direction of the lobby. Logan sidles up to his companion. “Ya Boy Virgil?”
“Boi, with an I,” Virgil corrects. “‘Mister’ is too official for someone of my caliber, so I modified it to suit my standards. My job here is unofficial, so my title might as well be the same, right?”
“Yeah, speaking of which, what is your job? I mean, do you just talk at teenagers for a living, or what?”
“I don’t know, it just kinda happened out of nowhere, y’know?” Virgil moves on to the next room, still scrolling through the pictures. “I’ve been coming here ever since I was little, and I was basically a talking fixture that would history rant at anyone who would listen. The mid-higher ups just kind of unofficially brought me on board and started advertising my tours to schools, since I was already an unpaid tour guide, so I might as well have been bringing in revenue, y’know? I just do Tuesdays and Thursdays because I don’t love charging kids, but sometimes they’ll give me tips, so I get more than just fun out of it.”
Logan nods, trying to reconcile this information with how he’d been raised—attend college, get a job in a competitive field, rise through the ranks, reach the top, then quit and take half the company with you to start your own business. The real company you’d take along was literally the friends you made along the way. “Does that really net you enough to live off of?”
Virgil seems to stiffen at that, and Logan immediately wishes he were off being the only population on Neptune right now. “The fetch quests help, but I do well enough. Thanks for the assumption that I can’t keep my own life in order, though, I really love being looked at as a child. Because of course anyone without a steady nine to five job must be missing some crucial key necessary for surviving adulthood.”
“I—I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“M-mm,” Virgil interrupts, shaking his head. The seconds of silence stretch on, but Logan doesn’t dare speak again. Finally Virgil continues, “It’s fine. I’ve just had a lot of people get on my case about this stuff, and I didn’t really consider it to be first date discussion territory.” Logan nods, an almost imperceptible dip of his chin as he waits for the tension in the air to suffocate him. At Virgil’s continued silence, it becomes increasingly clear that he won’t be speaking first. Logan exhales.
“I really am sorry.”
Virgil stops walking.
“I promise you, it’s fine,” he says, turning to face Logan. “Not even a thing, as long as you don’t bring it up again. I am perfectly alright, see?” He peels his lips back from his teeth in what might be callously called a smile to prove his point.
“Okay, well, um, I’ve got a topic change for you. We’re at the end of the museum.” Logan gestures to the lobby, where Roman is still loitering. Weird. “I, uh, am I going to see you again? Er, can I?”
Virgil hesitates, then holds out his hand. Logan stares at it. “Phone?”
“Oh. Oh!” Logan unlocks his phone and hands it over, watching Virgil add himself to the contacts list—‘Cadmium,’ followed by a battery emoji.
“And to answer your question, yes, we have to see each other again.” Virgil holds up the tie looped around his wrist. “You’ve still got my headphones and that cardigan, so I’m holding your tie hostage until both items are back in my possession.” With that, Virgil spins on his heel and walks out the front door, waving to Patton as he goes. Patton barely acknowledges it, too absorbed in conversation with Roman, who’s pretending not to stare at Logan. Logan doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on how Virgil’s silhouette is imprinted in the ghost of the sunspots in his eyes.
#labhwrites#mine#i'll bring you the moon#ibytm#just realized ao3's html puts a space between italics and a comma but im too apathetic to fix it now
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Ibytm - T minus 58 seconds
Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3
Words: 2,594
Aside from the one confrontation post-petticoat ukulele conspiracy, Logan still hasn’t talked with Cadmium. Really, truly talked to the guy. Tagging along on his tours doesn’t count. Granted, a fair amount of his Tuesdays and Thursdays are occupied with thoughts of Cadmium, but Logan does still have a life outside of him. It comes with no small amount of annoyance that this other life involves dealing with unsolvable problems at his internship.
“I heard there’s no real answer,” Cassidy says. She stabs her pen in the air, writing imaginary equations and scowling at the empty space.
“I heard they had this problem, like, years ago,” Joy says. Logan steeples his fingers under his chin with his elbows propped on his knees, watching Joy spin circles on her chair with her nose pointed at the ceiling. “I bet they already know the answer, and any intern that can’t crack it gets kicked to the curb.”
“Somehow, I feel like excessive alliteration isn’t the answer, Joy,” Micah calls from the water jug. His perspective might seem more valuable if his cheek weren’t flattened against the top of the machine in an utterly pitiful display of boredom.
“Oh, and I bet you already figured it out, huh, smart guy?” Joy’s retort also seems less valuable, as it comes at the same moment that she smacks her ankle into the leg of her desk, her spinning cut short. Logan is getting the sinking feeling that he chose the wrong scientific field.
“Maybe we’re looking at it from the wrong angle. Does someone want to read it again, and we all think of it with clean slates?” Logan glances around the room, hoping that his non-contribution will be sufficient. “Or, hey, Alex, have you got an idea? You haven’t said too much yet.”
Alex’s shock of dyed yellow hair jolts as they lift their eyes to peer over the top of the computer. “Can I get you a handkerchief, or did you dodge the splashback when you threw me under the bus just now?”
“ I’ll read it, you bunch of babies,” Cassidy sighs. “Okay. Riddle me this, folks. Thought experiments for the modern era.”
“Lay off the Mcelroy references and finish the question,” Micah grumbles.
Cassidy wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue before continuing. “The ship of Theseus proposes that a ship leaves a location and has every single part of itself periodically replaced before reaching a second location. The question is whether the ship to arrive is a different ship than the one to depart. Bear this in mind while assuming all cultural divides and disparities—cultural, political, scientific, or otherwise—are held in an impenetrable stasis that has no effect on the contents of the riddle, and conclusively solve the following. Jeez, talk about a run-on sentence.
“NASA launches a rocket to Neptune, and the only passenger is the child of a Russian and an American, where the parents were born on Earth and the child on Mars. The inhabited rocket was built half of parts from NASA and half of parts from Roscosmos. It contains enough parts to make an entirely new rocket, all of which were created on the moon. Allowing adequate suspensions of disbelief in favor of the passenger’s ability to build the new rocket and touch down on Neptune alive, which flag should be placed on Neptune as the first to arrive: That of Mars, the Moon, Earth, America, or Russia?”
“Does the moon even have its own flag?” Micah muses.
Joy slams the side of her fist on her desk hard enough to rattle the pens scattered across the floor. “This is such a stupid question. It barely even has anything to do with space!”
“It is about non-mathematical rocket science,” Alex points out.
“You could take the exact same problem and change a few key words to make it about a fish being flushed down a toilet,” Logan counters, “and nothing would change.”
“Is the fish dead?” Micah asks. “Because now you’re introducing aquatic zombies to the equation.”
“No aquatic zombies!” Joy and Alex shout in unison. Logan joins in the cry with a muttered mimic of his own, and even Cassidy looks quite done with Micah, who traces his finger along the side of the water tank before patting the top.
“Aquatic zombies,” he whispers forlornly. Logan isn’t entirely sure how Micah managed to weasel his way into an internship here, but he stopped questioning it a long time ago.
“It’s the moon, isn’t it?” Cassidy tries. This brings about a chaotic storm of argued disagreements through which Logan couldn’t possibly begin to sort.
“But the passenger was born on Mars, so it’s the Martian flag.”
“But their parents were of Earth, do we know where the passenger was conceived? Earthling parents mean it can’t be Mars’ flag.”
“Oh, like the Opportunity rover would plant a flag on Neptune.”
“Rip in pieces, Oppy.”
“Well, wouldn’t it be the country of origin of the mom, since she’s the one that had to carry the passenger to term?”
“That’s sexist, and we don’t know which parent is which.”
“It’s heretonormative, anyway.”
“You mean cisnormative.”
“I know what I meant to mean.”
“Unless you meant both. Trans father for the win.”
“Trans father, transformer, illuminati?”
“Does Earth even have a flag?”
“Where was the passenger raised? That might change the answer.”
The door opposite the stairs slams open as another intern with dirty blond hair and a beanie stumbles in looking particularly disheveled—well, more so than usual, at least.
“The passenger opened a wormhole immediately after being born, and raised themself on Neptune,” Logan deadpans. “Roman, if you haven’t got any good news, I swear to—”
“They cancelled the level eight project,” the man at the door says. Were it not for the bright gold name embroidered along the breast pocket of his shirt—Roman—Logan might believe him to be a random guy from off the street. “They figured out the missing sections—without our input, obviously—and decided the clearance rate was excessive. Basically, they said a toddler with a functioning search engine could crack it, so we should stop wasting our time.”
“Has the toddler ever been to Neptune?” Logan asks dryly. A hollow chorus of laughs ricochets around the room, quieted only by the click of the hour hand on the only analog clock hung on the wall. It must’ve been ages since Logan souped up the old thing to announce clockins, breaks, and clockouts.
“For the next hour,” Joy declares, “Neptune does not exist.”
“Seconded,” the other interns agree, putting their respective monitors to sleep and shuffling for the break room.
Roman lags behind to enter after Logan, prodding the small of his back and tilting his head toward the computers. He clears his throat meaningfully. Logan sighs, casting one last doleful look into the breakroom before joining Roman out on the floor again.
“They did want me to give you this,” Roman murmurs, “but keep it cazh.”
“Nothing is less ‘cazh’ than you shortening the word ‘casual’ like that,” Logan says, nonchalantly stretching an arm over his head. On the downswing, he takes the item from Roman’s hand and threads it between his fingers.
“I think I got the same deal, but don’t mention it, yeah?” Roman steps into the breakroom first, allowing Logan a moment to dawdle and inspect his acquisition. A flat disc, about the size of a well-used roll of scotch tape, with the NASA logo on both sides. Logan pinches the edges beside the first and last letter experimentally, and a USB plug pops out from the bottom of the logo. He pinches again, and it slides away. It looks for all the world like an overly expensive keychain one might find in a cheap museum. Logan shrugs, pockets it, and joins the others in the breakroom.
Only Roman appears to be in any semblance of a good mood—then again, he got clearance to visit the upper offices while everyone else pondered that stupid riddle. After teasing Roman about how he was probably about to get The Talk (the firing talk, that is) from the higher ups, it only took the rest of the floor about five minutes to give up on individual glory and try to solve the problem together. Obviously, it didn’t help.
“We could send someone for coffee,” Cassidy says. At least, Logan thinks that’s what she said. Her voice is a little muffled, what with how her face is pressed against the table.
“And get yelled at for prioritizing caffeine over the crappy cloud juice we’ve already got here?” Alex replies, tracing their finger over the glass front of the vending machine. Its only products are bottled water and expired heath candy bars. Four bucks a pop. “I’d rather dehydrate than take that kind of reprimanding.”
“I am literally going to commit multiple federal and moral crimes if I don’t get some real bean juice in my system in the next hour,” Joy grumbles. A true testament to her name.
Micah, apparently having moved on from the destruction of his aquatic zombie idea, springs to his feet from where he was sprawled across the floor. “We could use Logan’s app!”
This might be a good time to mention that, in padding his resume to apply for this extended internship, Logan made a brief foray into coding, which resulted in an app he dubbed ‘fetch quest.’ Basically a personalized coffee order service, more specialized than door dash, where instead of ordering food straight to your location, you put out a request for coffees—usually from Starbucks, Tim Hortons, Biggby, the like—to be delivered by the colloquially nicknamed fetch kids. Upon getting their coffee, the buyer reimburses the fetch kid for the coffee, as well as an obligatory tip so the fetch kid can turn a quick buck.
To tell the truth, Logan was genuinely too lazy to walk to the campus cafeteria for a coffee while working on homework, and paid his roommate five dollars to do it for him. (He paid in nickels, by the way.) So lazy was Logan, in fact, that he made an app to avoid ever dealing with the inconvenience again.
“I’m down for that,” Cassidy mumbles. “Who’s got the app? Seems kinda rude to do six separate orders, y’know, like ordering a different personal pizza from different locations and having them arrive at the same time, then fight to the death for the right to deliver their pizza first, so they miss the thirty minute limit and no one gets paid.”
“Okay, so Cassidy gets a decaf,” Alex says, swiping around on their phone. “Everyone just getting their usuals? Same as the last fetch quest?” Grunts of agreement are their only answer—aside from Roman, who peers over Alex’s shoulder to design an obscenely personalized drink.
“Pitch in a five dollar tip for the barista,” Logan calls. “I’ll cover it.” Roman perks up at that as Alex taps the appropriate button on their phone. Before he can ask, Logan nods, saying, “I’ll spot you the six dollars.”
“It’s actually closer to seven,” Roman admits, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I got a dairy substitute, don’t sue me. I’m broke, anyway, so it wouldn’t help if you won the suit.”
“This is a paid internship,” Joy points out.
Roman looks aghast. “You guys are getting paid?” It’s unclear whether he’s kidding.
“Order placed and transaction pending,” Alex announces, “so start up the charitable donation pool to my wallet.” Roman initiates the process, pulling the beanie off his head and carrying it around the room for everyone to toss their bills in. He can only manage a weak smile when Logan tosses in double what he ought to.
“Wait, Logan,” Micah says, “you didn’t get anything last time.”
“Shoot, yeah, what can I get you? No one’s picked it up yet,” Alex says, pulling the wads of bills from Roman’s hat.
“Just do a fetch kid’s delight, I guess. Price limit five.” Roman darts across the room to grab the proffered bill from Logan, attempting (and spectacularly failing) to parkour over the chair on his way back. The rickety plastic flies out from underneath him and his chin smacks the carpet as he goes down. Before anyone thinks about moving to help, he jumps to his feet and dusts off his knees, pretending as if nothing happened.
“It’s been accepted,” Alex announces.
“Maybe the trick is to work out whether the rocket, being from the moon, is the first to land, or if it has to be a life form in order to count for reaching Neptune first,” Joy suggests. Cassidy lifts her head to respond, thinks better of it, and drops her face back onto the table.
“That’s only assuming you give the rocket living rights to plant the flag,” Micah says.
“Did you guys consider the ramifications of the nationalities of each parent?” Roman asks.
“Yes,” everyone else groans in unison. Even Logan says it, now thoroughly annoyed by how much inconvenience Roman was able to skip in favor of retrieving a little flashdrive.
“Do we need to take into account the heritage of the parents?” Cassidy tries.
“It wasn’t included in the information backing up the question, and we’re only supposed to get an answer based on what we concretely know already,” Alex replies.
“We don’t concretely know already which flag they plant,” Logan offers, “so maybe the answer is that we aren’t supposed to have one.”
“That’s exactly what someone who knows the answer would say,” Joy mutters. This manner of conversation continues for another fifteen minutes or so, until someone knocks on the door at the top of the stairs.
“Liquid inspiration!” Roman shouts, vaulting over the empty chairs on his sprint for the door. As he swings it open to reveal a very familiar silhouette, Alex clicks a few times on their phone, finalizing the transaction upon receival.
Apart from the grey and red plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, Cadmium looks like he walked straight out of one of his own tours, down to the maroon cardigan and black skinny jeans. “Fetch quest fulfillment for Ally-oopsy-olly—”
“Yep, yes, that’s me,” Alex interrupts quickly, not letting him finish saying the username. They take a couple of the cups from Cadmium, stepping aside to let Joy and Micah help with the rest. Cadmium makes eye contact with Logan for a split second, inclines his chin, and turns to leave. He pulls out his phone, the screen angled enough for Logan to see the fetch quest home screen loading in more requests.
“Wait, we didn’t tip you,” Logan calls, surging past the other interns to catch up.
“Yeah, we did,” Alex says, “I put in your five, and I have my account set for an auto-gratuity of twenty—”
“Shut up , Alex,” Logan hisses over his shoulder. He turns to Cadmium, who looks somewhere between amused and bewildered. If he landed on Neptune, which emotion would touch down first? “Here y’are. Thanks.” Logan allows the last word to linger in the air, implying an unvoiced request for a name as he passes Cadmium a ten.
Cadmium glances from his phone—now proudly displaying a cheerful reimbursement and tip breakdown message—to the bill and back to his phone. He nods slowly, taking the ten and heading down the stairs. Logan blinks, watching him go.
“Wow,” Roman says, coming closer to rest his elbow on Logan’s shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, my guy.”
“Oh, shove off.”
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The Hypothetical Lower Bounds of the Glass
Summary: Logan has multiple ways of working through frustrating emotions, on the rare occasion that they do arise. One such method is taking a long drive to an unplanned destination.
Words: 3946
Relationships: platonic (or at least vaguely civil) analogical
Warnings: food mention, let me know if you have any more
Check it out on ao3!
Logan has never understood it when he read stories that included people muffling their sobs. It never made sense to him. Who would make noise while crying? If anything, it’s just sitting silently as a couple drops of water roll down your cheeks. Certainly nothing to warrant drawing attention to himself. At the absolute most, he might take a few seconds longer to finish the minesweeper game on his phone, since the film of tears can make seeing the screen rather difficult.
With years of experience under his belt, Logan has found many ways to deal with unwanted emotions that don’t include crying it out or seeking comfort in the arms of another human. Too messy, too uncertain, too many possible missteps that he doesn’t care to deal with.
One such way is driving. Not driving fast, and not to any particular destination, but just driving. Fresh out of college and living within biking distance of his starter job, Logan’s car is almost invariably fueled up at any given moment. Like now, for example.
On first glance, you might mistake Logan for a bookish professor, or maybe a teacher’s assistant. Press him a little further, and you might get to hear the annoyed rumbles lulling behind his voice, talking a smooth rhythm straight into your chest as he parses out each of his words with the utmost attention, forcing the conversation to a close as soon as possible while allowing you to walk away with as much information as you desire. All of this would probably not culminate in you expecting him to be a cashier at a department store. Such is the life of someone drowning in student loans.
Logan removes his glasses as he hits the punch clock, slipping them into his shirt pocket and savoring the blinding blur of his not-quite-perfect vision. To his locker and grabbing his coat, stashing his nametag and tossing the rest of his register’s trash, Logan does his damnedest to compartmentalize his frustrations of the day. A handful of paper in the recycling bin is the soccer mom who couldn’t be bothered to move her own bags the ten inches from the counter to her cart. His keys into his pocket are the pack of angry toddlers whose parents pretended not to notice when they started smacking his leg. The patter of his feet on linoleum switching to smacks against concrete is his shift overlapper showing up thirty minutes late with a cold cup of coffee as an apology. The car door slamming behind him is the snapping shield that seals him off from the rest of the world, customer service and rational decisions be damned.
The rumble of the engine starting is nothing short of pure, unfettered relief.
As for the tears slowly making their way toward the corners of his lips, well, we're just going to exercise some basic human decency and pretend we don't see them. Lord knows that's what Logan’s doing.
Pulling onto the main road, Logan lets the back of his head thump against the soft cushion behind him, wishing it were possible to drive with his eyes closed. Honestly, he never used to have such an issue with these emotional outbursts when he was younger. If anyone told preteen Logan that he’d be fighting back tears for absolutely no reason—well, actually, nothing would come of it. His head would be too deep in a book to notice. Regardless, if the words managed to beat through his thick skull, he’d probably ignore them. Just like he’s ignoring the thoughts pacing through his head now.
Logan allows the emptiness of the night around him to fill the silence behind his eyes, hardly noticing when the garish street lights switch to scattered lamp posts with barely a flicker to show their life. Past the last traffic stop that he recognizes, Logan drives on. Concrete gives way to dirt and mud, and still he drives, more focused on the smog-drowned stars overhead than any actual destination along the road. Beyond the furthest reaches of even the most stubborn lamps, in those subtle stretches of darkness where not even the bravest of lightning bugs dare linger, that is where Logan finds his solace.
He pulls off to the side of the road, cutting the engine and exhaling softly. The moon shining proudly overhead illuminates the fog of Logan’s breath, but he can’t find it in himself to care about how cold it’s gotten. Anyway, if he doesn’t open the door, he’ll probably be fine.
He opens the door.
The night wind hits him like a smack to the face, only slightly lessened by the pitiful shield provided by his car. Propping his shoulder against the cool metal, Logan pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, poking and prodding as he absorbs the absolute nothingness around him. Empty sky, empty stars, empty road, empty car. He briefly considers the fruitlessness of it all, but pushes the thought to the side when he sees a pair of headlights in the distance.
The speed with which they’re approaching is none too reassuring.
Logan swivels around to flatten himself against the trunk, watching the silver box rip through the air faster than he can blink, faster than he can feel the tears drying on his face. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the wheels weren’t even touching the road. Maybe they’re not.
As the soft yellow tail lights fade into the horizon of the universe, it crosses Logan’s mind that he hasn’t any other plans tonight. He slips back into the car and claps his hands twice, forcing warmth back into his palms. And he drives.
A cloud of dust kicks up in his rearview mirror, his car little more than a silhouette against a world of stars. The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly as he pushes the gas pedal harder, harder, a feeble whisper against a night of silent emptiness. Still faster he goes, leaving a streak of pale red in his wake, chasing down the vague memory of the silver car that couldn’t manage to spare him a second glance.
Glancing at his silent radio, Logan toys with the thought of filling up the space, top forties or obscure alternative rock or something, but he can’t seem to peel his fingers from the steering wheel. Maybe rolling down the windows—yes, rolling, his car really is that old—but no, his hands won’t cooperate for that, either. So on he drives. The complete lack of sound buffering the roar of his engine beats blunt nails into his skin.
Once the faint glow of that racing car appears on the crest of the horizon, he eases his foot up, exhaling in time with the shrinking cloud of smoke. The lights ahead flash once, twice, and go out.
“Where are you going?” Logan murmurs, pressing his foot against the brakes. Maybe he’ll regret it later, but he flicks off his headlights, blinking tightly as his eyes adjust to the moon’s cold glow. Mercifully, a faint silhouette of the car stands out between the distant stars, curving off the side of the road.
Logan swings to the right when he reaches the same spot, finding a dirt path that he very well would’ve missed if not for his unwitting guide. Lined with just as many bramble bushes and dust clouds as the rest of the road, the street—a generous name, to be certain—blends right in with the rest of the empty stretch of road Logan finds himself wandering every so often. The stars overhead blink down at him. Logan blinks back.
Count for count, beat for beat, Logan eases off the gas in time with the car ahead, both silent against the night sky. One car careful, one car lost. Logan isn’t quite certain which is which.
When the low hum of electricity replaces the dull hammer of his heartbeat in his ears, Logan allows himself to wonder where, exactly, this person is unintentionally leading him. Maybe it’s not a person at all, but a robotic car set on figuring out why Logan would bother with such frivolities as reading or taking ambling trips.
Logan’s latest read was Bradbury’s The Pedestrian, if you couldn’t tell.
He flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror, double checking that there’s no cars barreling for his tail lights before he cuts the engine. All clear. Up and down his scale of doubles he counts, waiting out the seconds until he feels confident enough that the driver ahead of him has reached their destination. One, two, four, eight, up and up to thirty-two and seven sixty-eight, then back down to sixteen and three eighty-four, eighty-one ninety-two, down and down to four, two, one, one half, one quarter, one eighth, up and down and up and down his scale of numbers until even the distant electricity has sunk to a hollow presence in his chest.
One eighth, one quarter, one half, one.
He guns the engine.
It doesn’t take long to see the silver car again, now looking strange in its stillness. Parked across three lines in front of a squat little building, it wouldn’t be hard to convince Logan that it was abandoned there years ago. He backs neatly into a space tucked against an alcove in the walls and counts his doubles one more time before exhaling, parking the car, and pulling on the door handle.
He revels in the feel of loose dirt underfoot, so much more textured than plain concrete under a car tire. Even if the roads have the courtesy to spice it up with potholes, Logan has always found a certain fascination with the naturalness of untouched ground. Well, untouched until now. Perhaps not the most interesting of observations, but it keeps him happy. Mostly.
The chime of the bell over the door is something completely alien to Logan, not quite bright, not quite loud, not quite real. Just like the insignia engraved into the fogged window in the vague shape of an eye. Logan traces his gaze along the groove as he glances back at the night beyond, watching the stars disappear in the reflection of his face. He almost misses it completely when the door closes, trading the pale moon for a dull lamp hanging behind him.
“Have a seat anywhere?” Logan murmurs to himself, reading the chalkboard standee covered in scrawling greens and pinks. Almost like chicken scratch, if chicken scratch were any more illegible. “Wow, sure hope I can find an open spot.”
Shocking though it may be, the diner is empty. This must be an astounding turn of events for you, given that you just personally saw Logan follow someone else all the way here, an undoubtedly dull journey culminating in an empty car outside an eye-guarded building.
Okay, so maybe not completely empty. Logan sniffs once out of habit, pressing the bridge of his glasses up with a knuckle and surveying the options. A bar of cracked granite surrounded by barstools with worn maroon leather. Swinging double doors with that same eye insignia under a bright green ‘enter’ sign. Where the entrance leads, Logan doesn’t really care to find out.
Matching maroon booths with similarly ruined surfaces ring the walls, pressed up snugly to the fogged windows. Floating sporadically in the space between are tables for two, tables for for, and oddly enough, a table for thirteen, all with intricately backed seats. Not a single spot in the entire room is without a cracked piece of leather.
Logan’s eyes catch on a glass of what looks to be water resting near the edge of one of the booths, filled to the brim with ice cubes and a straw. He sniffs and adjusts his glasses again, heading for one of two-chaired tables in the center. Far enough past the water that its owner will have to notice him walking by, but close enough that his glasses don’t have enough time to slide all the way down once he reaches the seat.
Hooking his feet around the front two legs, Logan props his cheek on one fist, blinking down at the table. Covered in ads for pet services and home improvement numbers and all other manner of local hirings, he’s not entirely certain any of the requests are within driving distance of this place. There’s a rattling sound to his right, but when he turns to look, only an empty booth greets him. When he turns back, there’s a glass of water resting at his left elbow. The straw inside is a bendy one, but the shorter side is scraping against the bottom of the cup. Logan turns to catch whoever delivered it, but the swinging double doors don’t even shudder.
Facing back to his table, a menu has appeared.
He adjusts his glasses slower this time.
“If you try to catch them in the act, you’ll only ever catch your death,” a gravelly voice says. Actually, pretending like a voice said that is a bit generous. Logan isn’t convinced it was anything more than a particularly loud thought in his hollow head.
He glances to the right, but the person at the booth is motionless, their head bent toward the table and their bangs obscuring their face. Based on the way the tips of their hair have the faintest blue glow, they’re probably looking at their phone in their lap, but Logan wouldn’t bet even a dollar on that. He turns back to his water.
Tracing his eyes down the menu, Logan considers the eclectic list of options. Five star seafood listed alongside plain pancakes, both underscored by a picture of what might be raw steak. Maybe a really ugly tomato. The grilled cheese is probably the safest bet. Safe being a relative term, but still.
“If you get the grilled cheese, don’t eat the triangle.”
A quick look at the person behind him reveals nothing, and certainly no hint that they’d said anything, but Logan is pretty sure their bangs were parted to the right before, not the left. A sniff. A glasses adjustment.
He faces forward again, prepared to resign himself to an odd night of no waiter with an inexplicable bill for water he didn’t request, but even that seems to be out of the question. Where his menu had sat mere moments before, there’s now a plate with an obscenely burnt grilled cheese. Nothing out of the ordinary, all things considered. Well, the short end of his straw is now bone dry and sticking out over the top of the glass, but besides that.
Logan peels up the top slice of bread, squinting at the cheese suspiciously. Right there, smack in the middle of a pile of yellow—completely melted, mind you, but somehow cold to the touch—is a single dorito. Technically a triangle. He peels it off and sets it to the side of the plate, replacing the bread slice. In the space where the dorito was is the faint outline of an eye. A quarter of his water is gone.
“Put the triangle under the plate.”
He turns to see the person in the booth, but there’s no one there. Even the water is gone, not a single ring stain left to prove they were ever there in the first place. It crosses Logan’s mind that there’s nothing stopping him from getting up and leaving. He stays seated.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Logan turns back for what’ll hopefully be the last time, somehow not surprised to see the person sitting across from him now. Their arm stretches forward to pry the plate off the table, using their other hand to slip the dorito underneath. The porcelain doesn’t so much as clink when they set it back down.
“What color is my car?” they ask. For once, Logan finally manages to see their mouth move in time with the words. Even so, their voice still sounds like a faint whisper in his head.
“Silver,” Logan’s mouth supplies. He isn’t quite sure he believes himself, but if his mouth said it, it must be partially true. The rims are probably silver, at least.
They study him for a moment too long, and Logan is pretty sure he isn’t imagining it when dark circles appear under their eyes. Those definitely weren’t there before. Probably. Maybe.
They nod slowly, taking a careful inhale through the nose and cocking their head to the side. “You’re Logan.” It’s not a question.
“I’m here for a reason.” It is a question, but he doesn’t phrase it as one.
“Not necessarily.” They snake an arm out for Logan’s glass of water, not bothering to ask permission before taking a long sip from the straw. As they drink, the cup refills itself. “Name’s Virgil.” Logan inclines his chin, as if this is a perfectly acceptable answer to his non-question. “Probably a guy.”
“Probably.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why?”
“Why aren’t I here?”
Logan opens his mouth, closes it, and blinks. A bite vanishes from the sandwich. “I don’t know.”
Virgil sighs, puffing his cheeks out to blow into the straw. With every bubble that bursts in the glass, the meniscus lowers. “No one ever does.”
“Is anyone supposed to?”
“You don’t.”
“Neither do you.” While he’d like to say this conversation is going nowhere, Logan isn’t even sure that much is true. At least it would have a destination if it were going nowhere. He adjusts his glasses.
Logan blinks, and the glasses are on Virgil’s face. Virgil adjusts them with his knuckle, gnawing at the corner of his lip. “Why did you follow me here?”
Finally, a question Logan knows the answer to. “I was bored, and you looked like you knew where you were going. Well, your car did.”
“My silver car, you mean?”
“Is there a different one?”
“Is there?”
Logan’s glasses reappear on the table in front of him. He doesn’t put them on.
“I come here every thirteenth day, and no one ever follows me. What makes you so special?”
“Nothing, I guess. I was just bored.”
“You were just bored. So you followed a speeding stranger down an abandoned dirt road, going so far as to turn off your headlights to make sure I actually led you to my destination.”
“Pretty much.” Logan laughs uncomfortably, hoping to shrug it off as another bite of his sandwich vanishes. The first missing piece reappears. Virgil’s expression remains completely neutral. “So, uh, what brings you out here?”
“Obligation.”
“To what?”
“Moral imperative.”
Logan is finding it increasingly difficult not to be annoyed by this Virgil person.
“Okay, well I came out here because I was having a bad day at work, and I needed to blow off steam. Tearing down an empty road seemed like a nice shortcut. What’s your excuse?”
“Commitment.”
Logan steeples his fingers together under his chin, inhaling deeply and praying that his twitching eye isn’t terribly obvious. “Why isn’t anyone else here?”
“Where?”
“The diner. That we’re in. Right now.”
“What diner? This is a karaoke bar.”
Logan would honestly not be surprised in the slightest if a single blink transformed the entire diner into a karaoke bar, but no, the only thing that changes is Virgil’s expression. He offers a half smile. “Just kidding. Messing with you. I like to come here to think, since no one else really frequents this place. Stays pretty empty most of the time, and the owner is some old recluse with enough money stocked that they don’t need constant patronage. The thirteenth day thing is true, though. Don’t ask about day twelve.”
“Why don’t—”
“Don’t. Ask. About. Day twelve. Just don’t do it.”
“Don’t do it, won’t do it. Got it. Any other fascinating pieces of advice to offer?”
Virgil takes a long pull from the glass, watching the water spill over the sides. “Yeah. Don’t drink the water.” The grilled cheese is gone. “Oh, hey, check this out.” Logan looks on as Virgil lifts the place, crushing the dorito with his fist.
“What was the point of that?”
“Boredom, duh. My only motivation.”
“I thought your motivation was obligation.”
“An obligation to keep vaguely interested in my responsibilities.”
“I might punch you right now.”
“Hit with a wouldn’t guy glasses you, though.”
“What.”
“Those.” Virgil points to Logan’s eyes, in front of which are his glasses that he definitely never put on himself. “You wouldn’t hit someone wearing them.”
“You aren’t wearing them.”
“I never said I was wearing them. I said you, wearing them, would not hit someone.”
“You are quite possibly the most insufferable companion I have ever had the displeasure of talking to.”
“Thank you.” Virgil folds his hands together on the table, grabbing the cup of water and flipping it upside down on the table. “I’ll foot your tab. It’s not a cheap thing to keep refilling these cups, you know.” Sticking his tongue out, Virgil reveals an ice cube resting just between his teeth. He bites down and shatters it, sending frozen shards flying through the air.
“What was your obligation, though?”
“I already told you that. Moral imperative. Try to keep up.”
Before Logan can question it, or even demand an explanation for one of the countless nonsenses he’d had to endure so far, Virgil is scraping his chair back and heading for the bar. The stranger tosses a fistful of something along the countertop and glides out the door, the chime of the bell silent in his wake. Logan doesn’t even have to look to know the silver car is gone, quiet as the night and just as dark.
He drags his feet over to the bar, knocking a fist against the side of his skull and trying to rattle out some semblance of reason. An impossible feat, to be sure. Glancing at the counter, he wonders whether he’d be a fool to assume Virgil left actual coins and bills for his uneaten sandwich.
A fool, indeed. All that decorates the countertop is the crumbs of the demolished dorito.
Logan strides out to his car, not pretending to be surprised at the absence of Virgil’s vehicle. His head hurts.
As he turns the key and shifts into drive, Logan gets it into his head that the diner behind him is imaginary. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel, one foot firmly holding down the brake pedal as he counts his doubles scale, up and down, down and up, up and up and down. Logan holds his breath, straightening up to slump against the seat and thud his head into the backing. He carefully avoids glancing in the rearview mirror.
Pulling out of the parking lot, Logan does everything in his power not to look back, focusing only on where he’s going and hoping to whatever holds sway over his fate that he’ll find his way back home. One thing’s for sure—there’ll be no swift silver car to guide him this time.
By the time he’s far enough for the diner to be crawling toward the horizon behind him, Logan is more than content with his ability not to look back. Of course, this pride is his own damnation.
His eyes drift to the rearview mirror.
No diner.
Did he expect any different?
Well, no, but he is driving pretty fast. Maybe it’s already far enough to be out of sight. At least, that’s the explanation Logan contents himself with.
Just between you and me, though? Let’s not mention to Logan that his speedometer hasn’t passed twenty miles an hour since he left the parking lot. We'll wait and see if he works it out on his own.
#sanders sides#logan sanders#virgil sanders#platonic analogical#the hypothetical lower bounds of the glass#labhwrites#mine#ill reblog tomorrow at a Better Time (TM) with the taglist but w/e#also available on ao3#ill link to that in the taglist reblog too#i dont know what happened between logan getting back in his car and the rest of it but honestly im ok with that#this entire fic was a fever dream tbh#this was originally supposed to be virgils pov#but logan just. refused to not be the steering ship#he demanded a lead role here and i dont know why#see i have exactly zero control over these characters#this fic alone is proof#tbh so are all of my other fics soooo idk
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Ibytm - T minus 40 seconds
Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3
Words: 2,470
As the weak light of the early morning filters through uncaring blinds to rest on peaceful eyes and worriless blankets, coating the world in a sheet of simplicity that could one day be, Logan scowls at his phone. Though he should be getting ready for the day, pulling on his work attire and preparing a mediocre breakfast for himself, a few sets of pixels on his screen say otherwise. Sebastian NASA office branch closed for the day, the email reads, due to conflicts regarding Roseland fumigation company. Katie-Lee Johnston. Logan suffocates the light of the screen in the mattress.
Beside him, Virgil rolls over and tosses a heavy arm around Logan’s waist, dragging him closer and burying his cold nose in Logan’s neck. There’s a brief pause where Logan allows himself to simply exist in the silence, before Virgil opens his mouth and talks into Logan’s skin. “Isn’t this supposed to be the part where you bug me to let go so you can run off to work?”
Logan feels the words more than he hears them, but he sort of forgets about them entirely when his eyes flick down to the ring around the finger holding his abdomen. It’s not until that finger starts drumming a rhythm on his ribcage that he remembers he’s supposed to say something now. “They closed the office for fumigation today. Micah probably forgot a tuna sandwich that started its own ecosystem in the fridge or something.”
“That’s awesome. Free day.” Logan curls into Virgil’s chest as he says this, admiring how the low rumble of his barely-awake voice vibrates through his body before he flips around to face him—ignoring Virgil’s protests. Virgil hugs him closer, tucking Logan’s head under his chin and buffeting some of his hair back with a contented sigh. Logan closes his eyes.
“So what do you want to do with your magical day off?”
Logan considers bringing up the idea of job hunting for a steadier career than art tours for Virgil, but decides he’d rather not stir that particular pot. Not today, anyway. “Wait for the world to stop turning?”
“That might take a little longer than a day. Maybe we would update your wardrobe.”
“What’s wrong with my wardrobe?”
“It is woefully lacking in non-work clothes—street clothes, whatever you want to call them—and I cannot be engaged to a man that does not respect himself enough to have a cardigan of his own. I mean, it really is time you stopped stealing mine.”
Logan pouts stubbornly, ignoring the feeling of the cardigan he stole from Virgil burning a hole in the back of his head. “Okay, so wardrobe update day, but why would you propose to me if you already knew I didn’t have any cardigans?”
“You really thought I didn’t notice the box you’ve been carrying around, or how nervous you’ve been since you got it? I couldn’t just let you beat me to the punch like that.” Logan sticks his tongue out and curls up tighter against Virgil, who readjusts his arms to hold him closer. Beneath a mess of blankets and sunlight, they fall back asleep in each other’s embrace.
A few hours later, they wake up in the same position. Logan grumbles softly, more than a little disoriented from the extra sleep. He squints against the light, releasing something between a groan and a whine as he tries to ignore the giant ball of fire maintaining the capacity for life on the planet.
Once his eyes finally adjust, he looks up to see Virgil propped atop the pillow with an elbow supporting his weight. Virgil smiles down at him.
“What’s that face for?”
“What face?”
“That one, the one you’re smiling at me with. Why are you smiling like that?”
“I never get to beat you to being awake. It’s nice to see you all peaceful and asleep like that.”
Logan’s face is on fire. “Shut up.”
Virgil laughs, and it sends shivers down Logan’s spine. “And why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m not going cardigan shopping with you today.”
“Well hey hey hey, let’s not get too hasty here.” Virgil shoves up from the mattress and scrambles off the bed, jumping around the room to pull up his skinny jeans at the same time as he tugs a shirt over his head. Logan does not particularly care for how cold he suddenly feels without Virgil’s arms, but he begrudgingly rises as well. He grumbles the whole way through getting dressed and dragging his butt into the kitchen, where Virgil is already whispering forceful encouragement to the sputtering keurig.
Virgil turns as the keurig quiets down, handing Logan the mug with a Calvin and Hobbes strip along its face. “I think our best bet is probably just to hit up the place where I got my first few.”
“I’m really only along for the ride, but I support you.”
“Cool, because they’ve got this great selection there, and it’s a small enough store that no one else has really flooded it yet, and they’ve even got a few sections of vintage shirts and records and junk. Just hipster enough to be cool but not so hipster that it’s uncool.”
This stunning (and confusing) review is how Logan finds himself in a tiny little shop tucked away in the elbow corner of an ill-frequented strip mall. He stands uncomfortably off to the side, watching Virgil dig through racks of cardigans and hoodies and jackets and shirts and pretty much any other form of clothing that could go on a vaguely humanoid torso. The organization of this place leaves absolutely everything to be desired.
It crosses Logan’s mind that he might’ve lost Virgil for good when his boyfriend—no, fiance, he thinks with delight—disappears into the fabrics completely, and the only sign that he hasn’t literally been eaten by the clothing is the sides of his ratty sneakers peeking out from under the hems of the shorter tops.
Finally, Virgil emerges holding far more clothes than he should reasonably be able to carry, all of which add up to stack higher than his head. No, seriously, Logan is genuinely worried they might knock out a ceiling light or something. Virgil jerks his head for Logan to follow him to the far wall, which is completely covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors and peppered with the odd bench or stool. Joining him beside one of the larger benches, Logan looks on as Virgil dumps everything in a disaster pile and digs through it for one particular piece. Several garments fall to the floor.
“Okay, try this one on first,” Virgil says, pressing a mustard yellow ball of fabric into Logan’s arms. He does.
“This looks horrible. It looks horrible, doesn’t it?”
“Haha, yeah.”
“Well, what the—why would you make me try it on, then?”
“I wanted to weed out the worst ones first, and I’d rather try them out and have them fail than never try them and find out later they would’ve been perfect, y’know?”
“Kind of a messy logic line, but I’ll take it,” Logan says, preparing himself for the onslaught of a fashion show montage of trying on one cardigan after another, complete with Virgil pitching in objectively more accurate opinions. He tosses out points regarding the hang, the hem, the colors, none of which Logan can even begin to follow. He simply allows himself to be shoved into each garment, watching the ‘definite no’ pile shrink to Virgil’s right as the ‘hard maybe’ pile grows very, very slowly.
Eventually, Logan’s discomfort reaches a breaking point, and he starts strutting around as if he’s on a catwalk with the ones he likes best. He even pretends to be a very inaccurate parody of a motorcycle gang winner (whatever that is) when he dons a fake leather jacket, to which Virgil buries his face in his hands like a scorned mentor in the training montage of a Disney Channel straight-to-tv movie. It all dissolves into giggles and guffaws when Logan pulls on a zip-up Hawaiian flower print hoodie.
“Wait, stop, don’t take that one off yet.” Logan freezes, glancing at himself in the mirror again. He wears a midnight blue cardigan that falls somewhere around his knees, and the rib stitching that crawls halfway up his forearms is inlaid with tiny white sparkles that almost make it look like the cloudless night sky. “Okay, hold still.” Virgil flits around Logan like a hummingbird, checking the drape of the fabric, the pull of the seams, and adjusts it all to his unknowable standards. Finally, he stops and stares, facing Logan and just holding his hands loosely between them.
Logan hesitates. “What?”
“I just—this is real.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Us. We’re real. This, you, me, all of it is real.” Virgil lifts their joined hands, looking at the gleaming bands around their fingers. “It’s really real.”
“It really is.”
Virgil shakes his head and snaps back into the moment, clearly trying to laugh off the awkward silence that managed to fall on the store. Logan busies himself pretending he doesn’t notice the cashier staring at them, instead twisting the ring up and down his knuckles and admiring how the engraving rubs against his skin. It’ll cost you the stars.
Ironic, perhaps, that the ring Logan had carried around promised Virgil the moon. Better, even, that Virgil opted to keep it. A matched set of harmonious rings that no one else could have quite the thrill of understanding that they would.
Or Logan is reading too deep into jewelry again.
Probably that second one.
“Right,” Virgil says suddenly, looking up from his own ring. His eyes look a tad bit more watery than usual. “Yes. Okay, right, let’s go buy that one, then. Good starter cardigan. Good star-digan.” Logan follows Virgil to the checkout counter, where a changing of the guard is apparently in progress. The cashier that definitely wasn’t staring at them pulls out their till and vanishes into a back room as the new person slots in their own. Logan freezes.
“Micah?”
“Hey, Logan! What’s pop rockin’?” Micah glances between Logan and Virgil, then down at the jeweled hand pulling out a credit card. “Is this that guy you would never shut up about? Viagra something or other?”
“Virgil Sandovall,” Virgil corrects with a light laugh. “And who might you be?”
“Just the guy that had to endure Logan droning on for years and years about how amazing and cute his Cadmium boyfriend is, no one important.” Micah messes with something on the register, and the price drops a few bucks. “Also the guy giving you a free employee discount, just ’cause I’m so nice, so there’s also that. Primarily, though, the intern subjected to Logan’s incessant gushing. That’s me.”
“I, uh, I don’t know that I was all that bad about it,” Logan lies. “And, hey, they’re fumigating the office today for some bugs or something. Did you forget your sprouting tuna sandwich in the fridge again?”
“Yeah, yeah, tall skinny guy,” Micah continues, completely ignoring Logan’s feeble attempt at changing the subject. “You were always talking about what your plans over the next weekend were gonna be, how exciting it would be to go on whatever odd adventure he had planned.” Micah nods at Virgil, who’s barely holding back his own laughter. “Y’know, he hardly ever said a word before meeting you. Then, bam, he comes in one day, ranting about this tour guide from some museum a couple blocks away. I’m pretty sure he almost, like, combusted on the spot when you showed up with coffee for our floor.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Virgil says with what Logan would call an objectively evil grin. “I have never once seen him not raving about space or riddles or whatever quantum something or other, but I am pretty amazing, so what else would he talk about with people who already know everything about space and stuff?”
“Yes, great, can we maybe be going now?” Logan asks. More like pleads.
Micah steamrolls right over him. “I wouldn’t say we know everything about space. To be honest, he never missed a chance to talk our ears off about the latest project he had. You showing up was the conversation change that absolutely everyone on our floor was dying for. Ooh, good couplet, let me write that down—I’m a bludgeoning poet, you know.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is burgeoning, and no, you’re not,” Logan mutters.
Micah ignores him, instead handing over a bag with the cardigan and receipt as he nods at Virgil. “Not to be a weird cashier barging in on the lives of a couple random customers, but I really do think you’re just about the best thing that could’ve happened to him.”
“Besides his promotion, you mean.”
“What! Logan, you got the job? Dude, that’s awesome!” Micah punches the air a few times as Logan debates the merits of literally being launched into space and landing at terminal velocity on Neptune right this very second. “Hey, Virgil, do you do anything besides fetch quests and museum—”
“We’re engaged,” Logan says loudly. Micah blinks at him as Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Engaged. Me and him. Him and I. He and I. He and me. Are engaged. To be married, I mean. To each other.”
“Right, so I think that’s our cue to head on out,” Virgil says, rocking on his toes. “It was great to meet you. Micah, was it?”
“Yeah, um, yes. Great meeting you, too. Besides when we met on your fetch quest, but—y’know what, never mind.” Micah waves them toward the door, nodding at Logan. “Congratulations, by the way. On the engagement, I mean. And the promotion. On everything, I guess. Oh, on the cardigan purchase, too. Thanks for shopping with us, and all that fun stuff.”
Logan cannot get out the door fast enough.
“That was exciting,” Virgil says brightly. He waves to Micah as the door clicks shut behind them. “He the one that left?”
“Yeah, yes, he just didn’t see any upward movement for himself, and he had an interview set up for this place, anyway. Really good benefits, I think he mentioned. Decent hours.” Logan hefts the shopping bag in his hand, half tempted to do a little spin step right there on the concrete. Engaged. It still doesn’t feel real. He wonders if it ever will.
“Here, give me that,” Virgil says, taking the bag and pulling out the cardigan. He settles it over Logan’s shoulders and takes a step back, poking his tongue out as Logan fulfills his spin step temptation.
“Is it good?”
“Yeah,” Virgil murmurs, his eyes catching on the peculiar glint of the sparkling stars. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s really, really good.”
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Ibytm - T minus 45 seconds
Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3
Words: 3,576
On a normal day, Logan will rise long before the sun, smiling at the sound of his pinging alarm clock and taking a luxurious moment to stretch his rested limbs before greeting the world with open arms.
Today is not a normal day.
His eyes stay stubbornly shut as his tingling hand fumbles around in the mess of blankets for his blaring phone. Virgil grunts softly from somewhere under the mound, and in the weak pre-dawn light, Logan can only just make out the ball curled up under the sheets.
When his fingers finally brush over his phone, sending shivers down his spine with the vibrations, he does his best impression of scrambling to turn it off. His sleep-addled body translates this command as wobbly sliding around for the snooze button, stubbornly ignoring the requirement to finish a set of math problems before the noise will stop.
“Should’ve never installed that fancy alarmy app,” Virgil grumbles as the ball shrinks in on itself. Logan squints at the full-brightness screen and scowls, mumbling the two digit multiplication problems to himself. Finally he succeeds, dropping the bedroom back into silence. An arm snakes out from the blankets and pats along Logan’s leg. “Good job, so smart. Go crush that meeting.”
Logan lifts Virgil’s jand and presses a kiss to his fingers, lingering in the moment for just a few more seconds. His own hand feels impossibly cold and empty as he changes and strides out of the room.
The kitchen—more of a kitchenette, really, but who’s keeping track?—is surprisingly high quality, given the deal Virgil managed to land on this place. Granted, it’s all a little cramped and bland, but Logan likes to think of it as ‘begging for an impromptu remodel.’ Which he manages to pull off, all in one go, as the broken keurig sputters to life, shooting wads of coffee grounds along the underside of the microwave.
Logan does not have the energy for it this morning.
He sets on a pot of real coffee to brew in time for Virgil to wake up and transfers the keurig disaster to his own travel mug, slipping in more sugar than it probably needs. He’s in for a long day.
Even the neighborhood is pretty nice, which was Virgil’s main concern when they were scoping out options. Compared to the people on those over-the-top reality shows, Logan thinks their requests were pretty darn reasonable. Close enough to the office to walk, in a nice part of town, and close enough to uber to the museum without completely punching a hole through their wallets. One downside to being so near to the office, though, is that Logan can never be that far from work. Not that this is a bad thing, per se—it’s just that, on the two days a year where he actually wants a break, he has to try that much harder to actually achieve it.
There are worse problems in the world to have, he supposes.
His work building looms tall and grey against the cold morning skyline, and the mere sight of it is enough to make him draw his shoulders to his ears. While he’s dressed nice enough for the meeting that could make or break his future, Virgil convinced him to wear the leather jacket over it.
“It’ll make you feel tough,” Virgil insisted, shoving the bundle of well-worn material into Logan’s arms the previous night. “Just enough of a confidence boost for you to nail the crap out of that meeting.”
Virgil wasn’t wrong, of course. Logan finds a certain bounce in his step as he bursts into the stale air conditioning and starts up the stairs. More of a placebo effect than anything else, but he’ll take what he can get. Especially today.
“Hey, Lo!” Micah exclaims, stumbling over his own feet as he bounds down the stairs.
“Gan. Logan,” Logan supplies, reaching out a hand to steady the overstuffed cardboard box in Micah’s arms. “Last trip?”
“Yeah, Alex is gonna bring home stuff I forgot as they find it. Half their desk is mine, basically.” Micah shoulders the drawstring bag around his back to the side, squeezing past Logan to get to the first floor landing. “It’s been a pretty solid run, though. Almost four years? That’s a good record for our floor managing to not kill each other.”
“That it is,” Logan agrees, almost to the next landing by now. It's a shame to see a good guy like Micah go, but internships aren’t permanent, and promotions aren’t guaranteed.
“Hey, wait!” Micah calls. Logan peeks over the spiral railing, now well on his way to the third floor. “Isn’t your big hunga chunga interview today?”
“Yeah, it is, actually. I don’t know when, though.”
“Well, whatever time they come for ya, best of luck. You deserve it.” Micah grins at Logan before scooting out of the stairwell, staggering under his box. Logan smiles to himself, forgetting to remove the expression before he exits onto the fifth floor. The first step in what could very well be a long line of mistakes.
“What’re you so happy about, specs?” Roman asks, appearing at Logan’s side and following him to his desk. “The only times I’ve seen you smile are when you’re with that museum guy.”
Logan takes a moment to breathe, reminding himself that it’s typically frowned upon to sock your coworkers in the jaw. “As I’ve told you several times now, his name is Virgil, and he’s not just some guy, he’s my boyfriend. There years not long enough for you to process that?”
“In my defense, we don’t hang out enough to be familiar.”
“We had lunch with you and Patton last week!”
“Yeah, yeah, bad short term memory.”
“Long term memory.” Logan slides open the third drawer on the right of his desk and pulls out a thick binder, filled to the brim and then some with papers and folders and cascading tab dividers. “Do you want to go to your own desk now?”
“Not really.” Regardless, Roman swings around to the desk that used to be Micah’s—with the intern moving on after more than four years of work, his prime spot desk was highly coveted real estate. The only reason Logan didn’t get it—by seniority, he had first dibs—was because he was used to his current desk. Not to mention the meeting coming up, of course. Ideally, he won’t even need his current desk after today.
Roman pops his head over the partition between Micah’s old desk and Logan’s, undoubtedly standing on the swivel chair for a better vantage point. “So, whatcha doin’?”
“Get off that chair before you hurt yourself. I’m going over major old assignments.” Logan regrets being honest the moment he says it. Now it’s a near guarantee that Roman will try to distract him. He was undoubtedly going to already, but still.
“Oh, right, you’ve got that huge meeting today! I completely forgot.” Roman folds his arms up over his chin, staying shockingly quiet as Logan riffles through the binder. “Hey, wait, that’s that dumb Neptune Theseus riddle!”
“Never did figure that one out,” Logan agrees absently. His eyes linger on the answer circled at the bottom, but he still isn’t convinced he had it right. He pulls the paper out farther.
“We’re seriously gonna get stuck on the Neptune thing again? Are we really digging up that horse to beat it some more? Hasn’t it suffered enough?” Alex groans, rolling over on their squeaky desk chair. While the office sprang for new furniture last year, they didn’t spring very far, since ‘gently used furniture from someone else is still new to you.’ This was met with no small amount of grumbles and dissent, all of which fell on deaf ears.
“No rehashing old riddles!” Cassidy chimes in. As her desk is now right beside Logan’s—replacing Joy’s old spot—she doesn’t have to move far to notice his overfilled binder. “Last minute studying?”
“Lil’ Lolo has his big ol’ test today,” Alex singsongs. “Watch him get higher than Mx. Oatmeal.”
“As if,” Logan scoffs, flipping to a different assignment. Calculating the landing point of a rocket being pulled down from orbit at a given time, assuming this malfunction and that overcorrection. He still isn’t completely convinced they didn’t just rip the problem wholesale from Hidden Figures. “And it’s not a test, it’s just a meeting to discuss my upward prospects. Don’t oversell it.”
“I promise nothing of the sort,” Cassidy says. “How much you wanna bet the promotion hinges on that Neptune riddle?”
“Gambling, I like it.” Roman reaches down the partition to snatch up the binder, ignoring Logan’s protests. “Woah, you’ve got things in here from your first week? You know that was all busy work, right? To scare off newbies who wouldn’t put in the work when it counted?”
“Give that back,” Logan demands, reaching toward Roman’s face. He easily holds the binder out of reach, still snooping through its contents.
“Wow, your handwriting really sucks, you know that?”
“Shut up, my mind moves too fast to bother with legibility.” It’s all Logan can do not to stand on his chair and grab back the binder. He’s smart, of course—there’s nothing incriminating on those pages—but he still doesn’t appreciate Roman invading his space like this.
“Illegible handwriting?” Alex repeats. “Sounds like you’re already one of them. Bet you’ll even surpass Joy.” The mention of her name draws the attention of some of the newer interns, whose names Logan hasn’t yet managed (or bothered) to learn. It wasn’t too long ago that Joy got promoted—in the last few months, actually—but she was still on the floor long enough to gain a reputation among the newbies. Her sudden promotion, completely unprompted, elevated her to a godlike status in the eyes of the new kids, all fresh to the inner workings of the program. At least, that’s why Logan assumes they looked up at her name.
He isn’t sure whether he’d love it or hate it if all these little interns would worship him like that.
Before Roman can pitch in his own two cents about the first inexplicable promotion situation, the elevator doors ping open, revealing Joy leaning against the mirrored wall. Cassidy leaps to her feet and sprints across the floor, wrapping her friend in a tight hug.
“You need to come visit us more,” Cassidy says sternly, pushing Joy back by the shoulders to fix her with a pinched stare.
“Acknowledged,” Joy says, barely lifting her chin. The cold silence lasts only a few moments before her facade cracks, revealing a bright smile as she squeezes Cassidy in a close embrace. “Butterfingers around here?”
Logan scrambles to yank his binder back from Roman and hide it in its usual drawer before answering, “I’m over here.”
Joy nods brightly as Cassidy carefully extricates herself from the boa constrictor hug. “Well, better get going, if you’re ready. They bumped the meeting from seventh to ninth, by the way.” She waits patiently for Logan to join her in the elevator, seeming to not notice the awed stares from the newbies. Logan isn’t particularly fond of the sustained silences from his more seasoned coworkers, either.
“Actually, I’d rather take the stairs, if it’s all the same to you.” Though Logan has historically taken the stairs for the exercise, he has a running promise with Virgil to avoid the elevator whenever possible. Virgil refused to specify why, but even if he’d never find out, Logan has no intention to go breaking promises when people aren’t looking. “I’ll just meet you up there?”
Joy hesitates, and Logan wonders whether he just completely screwed himself over, but her expression finally dissolves back into a grin. “Works for me.”
Logan takes the stairs two at a time, chased by the encouragement of his floormates. With every step, he jumps from one irrational worry to another. What if Joy thinks he thinks she stinks? What if she thinks he’s being uncooperative? What if she thinks he’s claustrophobic, and won’t be able to handle something so confined as a rocket? What if this is all a test, and he already failed?
He almost misses the ninth landing as his thoughts swarm. All that piloting time, straight down the drain.
The door can’t open fast enough.
Logan has just barely managed to force his breathing down to a normal level when the elevator door slides open, revealing Joy and—oh, great.
“She said I should come along!” Roman exclaims, bursting out of the elevator and jumping to Logan’s side. “That they might like a second opinion during your meeting.”
“Oh, great.”
“Yes, well, best be going,” Joy says, leading the boys down the hall to a set of floor to ceiling glass windows. Just beyond the frames is a long oak desk, ringed with cushy black office chairs. Logan wonders how many years it'll be until those become hand-me-downs for the fifth floor.
“I’m so excited,” Roman whisper-shouts. “I’ve never been up here before, besides for coffee runs.”
“This is where I leave you,” Joy says. She holds open the door and waves the boys in, patting Logan on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck. You’re gonna crush it.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“Butterfingers?”
“Almond Joy.” A small smile spreads across Logan’s face as the door softly clicks shut behind them. Across the room is Mx. Oatmeal’s boss’s boss’s boss, Miss Katie-Lee, who literally and figuratively holds Logan’s future in her hands.
That is to say, she’s holding a model rocketship.
“Logan, please, have a seat.” She gestures to one of the several chairs, inclining her head slightly as Logan shakes her hand before sitting. “Oh, good, Roman, are you the second opinion I asked Joy to bring?”
“I am indeed,” Roman confirms, shaking her hand as well before sitting on Logan’s right. “Happy to be here, happy to help.”
“Happy to hear it,” Miss Katie-Lee says, taking her own seat opposite the boys. She pulls a stack of papers and folders from a nearby stool and spreads them out over the table. “Well, well, well, Logan, you sure have been busy these last few years, haven’t you? And I see here you have a change of mailing address, as well as the supplementary switch forms, very good, that’s what we like to see.” Miss Katie-Lee traces her finger down a bulleted list, mumbling to herself as she does. “Tuh tuh tuh, already a good amount of calculations under your belt, mostly correct, that’s always nice. Well on your way to completing the piloting hours, good to know you’re keeping that up. Recent physical on file, yes, sure deal, that makes this several worlds easier.”
She continues talking to herself, flipping between pages and glancing at Logan every so often for a nod of confirmation. “And Roman, you’ve worked closely with Logan, yes? Do you have any pertinent information to share regarding his performance?” She taps a little plastic cube set to the side meaningfully. “This is all being recorded, by the way. My apologies for not saying so sooner.”
Roman sits up straighter in his chair, and Logan immediately wishes he were a popsicle under the California sun. Oh, to be a puddle on the floor, free of the trials and tribulations involved in adult life.
“All on the record?”
“All on the record.”
Roman gives Logan a long look before opening his mouth again. Puddles would be a blessing at this point, Logan thinks. Logan would be wrong. “Logan is the single best intern I have ever seen working on the fifth floor. He easily works twice as hard as anyone on a higher floor—no offense—and I never see him without ink staining his fingers. He’s organized down to having a color coding system with his pens based on the difficulty and priority of his work. He’s the first one into the office and the last one out, and all the time in between is time he spends doing the best he possibly can.”
Roman laughs a little, and Logan finally feels his muscles relax, just the slightest bit. “I literally had to personally convince everyone to show up half an hour early today so we could beat him to being early. Basically, Logan is just a guy who really, really cares about what he does. There’s no one else I’d rather see at the top of this field.” Roman hesitates, glancing at Miss Katie-Lee. “Oh, um, not that you aren’t already doing a great—”
Miss Katie-Lee waves it off with a smile. “Thank you, Roman, that was more than sufficient. You can head back down to the fifth floor now.” Logan is still somewhere between numb and frozen as he watches Roman excuse himself, still processing the parade of compliments. He’d always assumed Roman merely tolerated his presence, since it would make being floormates easier than if they hated each other. Huh.
Shuffling the papers back into a neat pile, Miss Katie-Lee switches her gaze from the closing door to Logan. “Can I tell you a secret?” Logan nods, dumbfounded. “I already knew all that.” Logan blinks. “I’ve heard your praises sung by everyone in this building, from Mx. Oatmeal to Joy, to Micah at his resignation, all the way to the janitorial staff. They go out of their way to compliment how much easier you make their jobs, sticking around late to clean up after your floormates. To tell the truth, we’ve wanted to get you up here for a long while, but we just haven’t had an opening. A few transfers, a few drops, and now we find ourselves here.” Miss Katie-Lee folds her hands on the table, leaning in closer. “We want to start training you on level with Mr. Jolenta’s work.” Mr. Jolenta. Mx. Oatmeal’s boss. Logan feels more than a little light headed. “You would see an increase in pay, to be determined at a later date, as well as an increase in workload and hours. On the right path and at the right pace, I think we can get you where you want to go.” Logan nods dumbly, not completely processing her words. “So, what do you say?”
A million things race through Logan’s mind, each slipping out of his hands like an ice cube into boiling water when he tries to grab it. More pay. More hours. Less time with Virgil. A chance at the stars. A chance to move up. Time away from Virgil. Time away from home. Time, time, time. Never enough to give, never enough to take.
“I’d be happy to give you some time to consider—”
“I’m in,” Logan interrupts. His mouth didn’t even wait for his mind to decide, much less his heart. He’ll have to learn to get that under control.
“Well, we’re happy to have you on board,” Miss Katie-Lee says, standing and brushing off the front of her shirt. Logan shakes her hand firmly, thanking her for the opportunity and accepting a spotless new folder from her. He pulls the door shut as he leaves, determined to wait until he reaches his desk before looking at the papers.
The determination does not last longer than two minutes.
New benefits, new hours, new responsibilities, new calculation basics, new new new. The words and numbers and symbols flit around Logan’s mind, a deafening roar that blocks out the curiosity of his fellow fifth floor interns.
Can he call them his fellow interns anymore? He’ll have to ask Roman about that.
“So how’d it go?” Cassidy demands, slamming her hands on his desk and getting uncomfortably close to his face. Logan glances at Roman, whose face flushes pink when they make eye contact. He drops behind the partition.
“Spill it,” Alex adds, leaning on Logan’s chair. “It’s not like we didn’t notice that fancy new folder, or that almost smile on your face.”
Cassidy somehow manages to get even closer, and it’s a wonder Logan doesn’t flinch. “Stop the presses, Alex, I think that might be a genuine smile there.”
“Great Scott, she’s right! It’s a real smile! This is one for the papers, folks!”
Logan rolls his eyes and shakes his head good-naturedly, careful to keep the folder pinched shut. “Miss Katie-Lee just offered me a promotion, and Roman helped back up my credibility a little bit. It’s nothing major, really.”
“How high’s the promotion?” Roman’s voice asks. He’s still hiding behind the partition.
Logan glances around, well aware of the newer interns listening closely while doing a terrible job of pretending not to. “It, um, it’s on par with Mr. Jolenta?” It’s not a question, but he manages to make it one, anyway.
The floor is silent for a moment, two, as his words sink in. Alex breaks the silence first.
“Dude, nice!” This call is echoed across the floor, several voices tripping over each other to congratulate Logan. He nods, wearing a small smile and picturing how Virgil’s face will look when he shares the news. Or, wait, no, he’s supposed to be teaching Virgil how to make fettuccine alfredo tonight. That should obviously take precedence.
Then again, a promotion is pretty big. So is getting to cook with his boyfriend. Maybe he’ll tell him over dinner. Just imagining the look on Virgil’s face when he tells him is more than enough to double the size of Logan’s smile.
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Ibytm - T minus 48 seconds
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Words: 2,053
Logan hisses gently as he pulls the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, setting it on the counter as fast as he can manage to shake the burning feeling from his fingers. “Popcorn’s done!”
“Great, now come pick a stupid show already, so I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my Friday,” Virgil calls back. Remembering to check his pride this time, Logan scoops up the bowl with two objectively safer napkins and peers around the corner of the kitchen wall.
Virgil’s head just barely peeks over the top of the couch, a tuft of pale purple hair sticking out opposite the rest. Beyond him is a daunting list of movies and shows scrolling beneath the Netflix logo. A fifteen second trailer loops for the movie Wreck-It Ralph, but Virgil stubbornly refuses to press play. The tuft of hair vanishes as Virgil leans forward and clears off a space on the table for the popcorn bowl.
“Careful, ’s hot,” Logan warns, dropping the bowl on the open spot.
“Noted.” Virgil, after acknowledging Logan’s words (which really ought to be heeded), proceeds to completely ignore them in favor of grabbing more than a fair fistful and popping the whole mess in his mouth. “Ha her he hah king?”
“You want to run that by me one more time?”
Virgil swallows around the lump of butter and grain with a grimace. “What’re we watching?”
“Great question. No more scary movies, you’re cut off from those, but that’s about our only parameter.”
“Puh- leez, it’s not my fault you couldn’t get to sleep last week. You’re the one that kept me up with nervous texts, ’member? I would’ve expected you to be grown up enough to survive watching Nightmare on Elm Street . Guess I was wrong, if laser tag was anything to go off of.”
“Laser tag was barely two months ago, and already you’re having delusions about my lacking bravery?”
“Hey, hey, you’re the astronaut in training here. I’m not the one with explicit and express intent to fly a hundred hours of pilot-in-command aircrafts before I turn twenty-seven.”
“A thousand hours, or three years of related professional experience. And if I want to break any records, it has to be before I’m twenty-six. Try to pay more attention when I lecture you about my internship next time.”
“I have to endure a next time?”
Logan shoots Virgil a pointed look, the effect of which is lost to the popcorn kernel lodged between his right molars. He prods at it with his tongue.
“In my defense,” Virgil continues, “this is pretty much the longest a relationship of mine has ever lasted.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Logan isn’t quite sure where all this bravado came from, but it’s doing wonders for keeping his voice even, so he won’t jinx it by digging deeper right now.
“It’s faster to say ‘relationship’ than ‘that dorky guy who hangs out at my apartment every Friday night to make fun of movies because we have nothing better to do as self-respecting adults,’ but I’ll gladly switch to that absurd and overly expository title if you prefer.”
A pout tries to crawl onto Logan’s face, which he promptly ignores. “Point taken. Did you pick a movie yet, or are you just that obsessed with watching a pixelated handyman smile on your television screen?”
“Neither. There’s no good bad movies left on here, so at this point, we’re better off watching something one of us has already seen—”
“Out of the question.”
“—watching nothing—”
“No thank you.”
“—or binging a series show.”
This gives Logan a moment’s pause. “That could work.”
“Right, because watching half an hour of an unending show every week without fail is how I want to spend my next three years’ worth of Fridays.”
“Well, why not?”
“What would we even watch? There’s, like, no serializations that normal people haven’t seen. Everybody’s watched The Office —”
“I haven’t.”
“— Brooklyn 99 —”
“I haven’t.”
“—and Parks and Rec .”
“I haven’t.”
Virgil slams the remote gown on the couch and gapes at Logan. “You haven’t seen Parks and Rec? ”
“Have you even been listening to a single word out of my mouth?”
“You are an absolute monster. You disgust me. We’re through, no more movie nights. I can’t hang out with someone whose true colors are so monochromatic.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is kidding at this point. “I’m kidding.” Logan is not entirely certain whether Virgil is about to add the caveat ‘mostly’ to that statement.
After an uncomfortably long silence wherein Logan looks absolutely anywhere that isn’t Virgil, the speakers proudly announce the sound of Leslie Knope introducing herself to a small child playing in a sandbox. “This isn’t very funny,” Logan murmurs. “I mean, what child would say they were having a moderate amount of fun and somewhat enjoying themselves to a stranger? I suppose I might if prompted, but still.”
“Shut up ,” Virgil hisses, “this part is hilarious, stop talking. ”
“Ha ha,” Logan says dryly. “I love watching drunks hide in swirly slides. Ha.”
“Shut up. ” This command is accompanied by Virgil swatting at Logan’s shoulder.”
“Well, hey, can’t we skip the theme song?” Logan is almost hoping he’ll say no, just so these movie nights can be that much longer. Series show nights, now.
“Nope, out of the question. Skipping the intro is cheating and an act of cowardice to the nth degree. Be quiet and enjoy the upbeat music.”
A few weeks later, Logan finds himself enjoying watching the theme song. Maybe it has something to do with how they’re sharing one bowl of popcorn, their fingers brushing against each other every so often, rather than Virgil hogging the whole thing for himself. Maybe it’s how their knuckles linger when they reach in at the same time, neither pulling away instantly, but neither vocalizing what’s happening. Maybe it’s how, when Virgil is distracted by people assuming Leslie is dating Ann, he absently lets their fingers link together loosely, too intentional to be a thoughtless mistake. When the scene shifts to some guy named Anthony waving, they both yank their hands away from each other. Logan swears he can feel his nerve endings burning.
Upon the premiere of season two, the distance between them has closed ever so slightly. Rather than being at opposite ends of a three cushion couch, Virgil leans on one armrest and Logan arranges himself on the next cushion over. And if Logan’s fingers wander over to Virgil’s when Leslie marries the two gay penguins (despite the popcorn being well out of reach on the table), and if they hold on long after the credits for the episode have passed, well, that’s nobody’s business but their own, isn’t it?
When the Galentine’s day episode rolls around, Logan has abandoned all pretenses of slowly inching closer, instead taking Virgil’s hand as soon as they’re both seated with their respective mugs. Both cheap water steepings from a broken keurig, of course, but at least they’re enjoying them together. Well, enduring, enjoying, same difference.
“Hey, that’s what you said the first time we went to the museum together!” Logan exclaims, watching the sweater swap moment between April and Andy. Okay, so he doesn’t really exclaim it, per se, so much as say it suddenly and without warning—it’d be rather difficult to literally exclaim it, what with his head resting heavy on Virgil’s shoulder and all.
“Oh, right, on our first date, you mean?”
“Our first what?”
For those of you keeping track at home, yes, Logan has managed to go about six months without realizing that their first date was, in fact, a date.
By the time Chris asks Tom and Jerry to come up with a new logo for the department, Logan is literally sitting in Virgil’s lap with an arm slung around his shoulders. You might liken the position to that of a koala, but then again, Logan didn’t ask you. Full disclosure, they started watching more than one episode a week somewhere along the line, but this was spurred in some part by the need for background noise while they packed everything Virgil owned into a small mountain of cardboard boxes.
“Something to celebrate the occasion?” Logan asks tentatively, holding up a bottle of champagne. This kitchen certainly looks much nicer than the last one, but the leniency of adding paint to these walls was a buffer Logan had sorely missed at Virgil’s old place.
“If you want,” Virgil replies, craning his head over the back of the couch. “But you’re paying damages if you spill it all over my clean floors.”
“Well, duh, I’m paying half the rent, of course I’d fund repairs.” Logan holds back what more he wants to mention, still wary of the sore spot surrounding Virgil’s careers.
“In that case, plop your butt down on the couch we need to replace—speaking of which, we need to figure out a day to descend on IKEA for some upgrades.” Virgil pats his lap and gestures toward the screen—longer and thinner, purchased with some of the funds they’d pooled from their respective savings when picking a place together. “Now, c’mon, we’re about to see the squad go to London. I know you’re all about the architecture over there, aren’t you?”
“As if you even need to ask.” Logan grins, plopping himself down on top of Virgil and whistling along with the theme song.
Living together, unsurprisingly, does wonders for powering through the last couple seasons at a much more efficient pace. In what seems like the blink of an eye, Logan is watching the futures of the main squad playing out as they do one last project, and it’s not a stretch to say he’s holding back tears. As the credits fade to black and The Office pops up as a recommendation to watch next, Logan lifts a hand to his cheek and is baffled to find it come away wet.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Virgil murmurs, slipping an arm around Logan’s back and rubbing circles on his arm. “This is the worst part, I know. You’ve never been this attached to fictional characters before, huh?” Logan hiccoughs. “Yeah, I got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
Between shuddering breaths that aren’t quite laughs, Logan manages to get out, “It’s like the end of an era. I don’t know, I mean, it’s really over.”
“Oh, I know, sweetie,” Virgil mumbles, pressing his lips against Logan’s hair. “It just means moving on, and I’ll be here for you through it all.” Slowly but surely, Logan’s hiccoughs turn into giggles as the ridiculousness of the situation dawns on him. Why should he be getting so emotional over the end of some tv show? He literally went into this knowing the series would have a finale. He says as much to Virgil.
“True, but we sank a couple years into this tradition. You’re allowed to mourn a tradition, even if you think it’s silly. There’s no rules for what you can or can’t grieve, and even if you lie to yourself enough to believe there are, I’ll be here to help you through it.”
“First off, you can’t spell believe without ‘lie,’ and second, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, hon. What would you get out of dealing with nonsense emotions?”
“Besides knowing I get to wake up every morning to see your face?” Virgil pretends to ponder this for a moment, only breaking into a grin when Logan elbows him in the side—not intentionally, mind you. It’s more of an effort to bury his nose in Virgil’s neck, but unfortunately for Logan, Virgil is ticklish right around there. He laughs loudly and announces, “I want the moon.”
“The moon?”
“The moon, spaceman.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll bring you the moon. Is that all?”
“One more thing.”
“One more thing besides the moon, you mean?”
“Well, yeah, you have to know how much the moon costs.”
“How much does the moon cost?”
“The stars.”
“The stars?”
“It’ll cost you the stars.”
Logan shakes his head and smiles, wrapping Virgil in a tight hug and drying his eyes against his boyfriend’s sleeve. His words are no doubt muffled, near unintelligible, but he’s sure Virgil can make it out well enough. “Okay, love. I’ll bring you the moon.”
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Ibytm - T minus 2 seconds
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Logan is careful to leave an extra large tip for the barista this time (we’re talking plural twenties) as he takes his cup with a nod and smile. Gods above knows they’ve more than earned it by now, having seen more than their fair share of spats between Virgil and himself. Technically any number of spats higher than zero is more than their fair share, but still. He feels bad. So he tips extra.
There’s also the small matter of what, exactly, he plans to discuss today. No amount of tips in the world could prepare them (or Logan, frankly) for what kind of retaliation Virgil might unwittingly have in store. Well, a solid hundred might be a good start, but still. Logan is nervous.
“I can’t believe you still haven’t told him,” Roman hisses, watching Logan sink into his usual seat by the window. “It’s been ages, Lo. You see your literal husband every single day. How could it have just not come up?”
“It just didn’t, okay?” Logan stares into his ceramic mug, his reflection murky and distorted by the ripples in the inky blackness. “Why do you think I asked you to come?”
“To act as a buffer and a witness for when Virgil literally tries to murder you?”
“Ha.” It’s the driest laugh Logan can manage as he takes a sip of his coffee, the bitterness drenching his tongue in a scalding liquid flame.
“Really though, I can’t believe you’ve waited this long. How has Virgil not, like, noticed you being at work for way more hours? The training hasn’t exactly been light—I mean, I can’t think of a single day I’ve seen you not be the last one out of the office. Training facility days and literal scuba diving prep excluded, obviously, but still. Wouldn’t that sort of thing come up eventually, be a point of contention, not seeing each other?”
“Maybe, if Virgil would bother to notice my being gone.” Logan scowls out the window, hoping to look cool and broody despite it being a vain and obvious attempt to ignore Roman glaring at him. “What? It’s not like it would’ve ever come up naturally! ‘Hey, Virgil, love of my life, light of my soul, I’m leaving you behind on this spinning hunk of rock to go study the secrets of the universe because one planet is too small for me? Don’t worry, though, I’m just going through a wormhole that’s literally only been theoretical outside of my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss’s office up until recently, and it’s only been tested in extremely controlled settings that don’t involve squishy organic matter?’ Yeah, that’d go over real well. Thanks for the tip, Roman, I’ll be sure to take it into consideration moving forward.”
“That’s not how I meant it and you know it.”
“Do I?” Logan reaches for the miniature lazy susan of coffee fixins and rips open a few sugar packets, pouring them into his cup and slugging it back before they have a chance to dissolve. “Then tell me, dearest, darlingest colleague and friend of mine. How would I go about sharing that news with my husband? I am open to suggestions.”
Roman pulls the lazy susan closer and snatches some of the creamers, starting up a shaky little tower. “Well, for one, you should’ve been smart like me and told him the day you found out it was even a possibility.”
“It wasn’t set in stone then.”
“And now, nearly a year later, it’s still not set in stone, and you still haven’t said anything. You’re still waiting for the go-ahead on the last round of necessary clearances, not to mention that the literal entire rest of the world still thinks you’re going to the moon.”
“And that’s their fault for assuming we’d needlessly fly more spaceships to the moon. Humanity’s already conquered that point of view, yeah? Not to mention that in doing so, we’ve proved exactly how inconsequential we as a species are in the grand scheme of things, and people assuming we don’t want to expand our reach only have themselves to blame when we exceed their wildest expectations.”
“You can wax poetic all you want about how little it all matters and how much we’ve yet to grow, but I sincerely doubt Virgil is going to care about all that when you tell him where you’ll be once this final request goes through.”
“Oh, like Virgil would’ve had any say in this to begin with. He’d tell me to stay home and stay safe and not expand humanity’s knowledge by any stretch of the imagination, because the least dangerous path in seeking meaning in life is to accept that there is none.”
Roman’s tower, now about seven creamers tall, comes rattling down to the table in an avalanche of white plastic. Logan scoots his cup out of the way in time to avoid it catching any projectiles.
“You want to run that last part by me one more time?” Roman finally asks, gathering the creamers back into a neat little pile. He doesn’t look at Logan as he poses the question.
“What, the meaninglessness of it all?”
“Or lack thereof, mister ‘I’m too wrapped up in my own pity party for my stagnating relationship to bother caring about the other person involved in the damn thing.’ I bet you’ve exchanged more words with me here and now than you have in the past year with Virgil.”
“Even if that were true, it’d be because I’ve been training for a mission, which you might understand if you’d accepted your spot on the crew.”
“What, and leave Patton? And Morgan and Ariel? And Virgil? With you gone, I’d hardly expect them to muddle through on their own. Shockingly enough, I have people who need me down here, and so do you. Not that you thought about that, of course, when you decided pretty much immediately after being asked that you wanted to go on a space death mission, even when I told you you should think on it.”
“We’ve been over this, okay? It’s not a death mission, and it’s nothing short of derivative for you to keep calling it that.”
“And what should I call it instead? A rocket careening through a tiny impossibility in the hopes of not dying on the other side of the solar system? Hell, the other side of the galaxy, for all we know. We’ve never seen anything organic go through a wormhole. We’ve hardly even seen inorganic matter pass through one!”
“Because we haven’t tried. Maybe just call it something like a space life mission if you want to be that dense, I don’t know. The whole point is that we’re advancing the limits of what we know, and pushing our preconceived ideas of our own limits to get there. This is what we need to know if we want to improve.”
“Right, right, because you’re absolutely one to talk about how meaningful life is, when you’re throwing yours away for the possibility of some cool space rocks.”
“That is not fair.”
“Then tell me what you think, yeah? What’s the value of life to a man who wants to risk it all for a maybe?”
“Meaningless, okay? It’s all meaningless, is that what you wanted to hear? Life is inherently meaningless, and it’s nothing more than a flaw of the human psyche for people to fool themselves into thinking otherwise.”
A silence falls, not only over the table but over the whole cafe, and Logan is suddenly very relieved that he remembered to leave a hefty tip. When Roman opens his mouth, Logan physically flinches away from his words.
“Life may be inherently meaningless, sure, but it’s a damned triumph of the human spirit to dare to think otherwise, so you can fuck right off with your little defeatist mentality, because I don’t want to hear it.”
With that, Roman shoves his chair back from the table and storms out of the cafe, leaving Logan alone at a table for four. He sinks lower in his seat, almost sitting on his back as he cranes his neck toward the ceiling, the chair backing digging into his spine. The consistent pattern of square tiles over his head would almost be reassuring, were it not for the discordant cracks and stains interrupting the flow. He closes his eyes in response to a light pounding that surfaces near his temples.
“Wow, weird day all around, huh?” Logan jerks up at the sound of Patton’s voice, accompanied by Virgil’s familiar footfalls. “Logan’s sleeping in the cafe, Roman’s pacing around outside, and Ariel’s professor moves up her exam? Maybe it’s a full moon.”
“It���s not a full moon,” Logan mumbles, straightening out his spine. He forces a smile onto his face as he sees Morgan peek out from behind Patton’s legs. “Hey, Morgs. How’s, um—” He hesitates, looking to Patton, who holds up three fingers. “How’s third grade treating you?”
Her face splits into a smile and she scrambles onto Roman’s vacated seat, sitting up on her knees and planting her hands on Logan’s shoulder for balance. “We just started learning division fact families with the triangle flashcards and the difference between a thundredth and a housandth—”
“Hundredth and thousandth,” Patton corrects gently.
Morgan nods, her pigtails whapping at her ears. “And the difference between a hundredth and a thousandth—one decimal place! Betcha didn’t know that, didja?”
“I had no idea,” Logan says solemnly. Morgan sticks her tongue out at him before getting distracted by Roman’s abandoned creamers, which she begins stacking.
“So, um, what’s Roman’s deal?” Virgil finally asks. “Looked pretty pissed outside. What, did you break the surprise news to him before us? Not go over too hot?”
“Oh, so Logan’s the one with the surprise news.” Patton flashes a bright grin, completely out of sync with his conspiratorial tone.
“As if I could come up with a surprise,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes and pushing Patton up against the window. “Patton, we’re two cis gay men. We can’t exactly surprise you with news of a pregnancy.”
“There’s always adoption,” Patton replies. He watches Morgan’s tower fall, the child not hesitating for a moment to start again. His face drips fondness and love, and Logan wonders whether he’s unknowingly worn that same expression himself. “Okay, so the news, then. Out with it.”
“Wait, hold up,” Virgil says. He patters his hands on the table like a drum roll, nudging Patton for him to join. Morgan only pouts for a moment at her crumbling towers before she adds her own rhythmless pounding. Once he’s seemingly satisfied with the build up, Virgil nods at Logan. “Okay, go ahead.”
It’s weird, to tell the truth. In the movies and the tv shows and the books and the stories and, well, in everything , the person sharing a secret always seems to struggle with it. They fumble their words, they say things out of order, they run it all together until it’s an unintelligible mess, they do everything in their power to keep a secret a secret. Logan almost wishes that were the case for him, rather than what actually happens.
“I’ve been accepted for a mission to Neptune that, on the surface, will present as a mission to the moon. Through the use of a wormhole, the logistics of which we’re still working out, a multi-decade journey could happen in a matter of months. That’s the news.”
A weird quiet falls, and there’s that word again, weird. It’s all weird, a weird mess of weirdness that Logan can’t really explain, because (again, weirdly ), this whole meetup feels like just another day in a coffeeshop with casual discussions about usual happenings. Everything is perfectly and profoundly ordinary, and it’s weird, and Logan doesn’t like it.
Also weird is Morgan, who’s still gleefully drumming away at the table. Patton gives her a look and she stops, smiling sheepishly.
“Oh,” Virgil finally says. Oh. That’s it. Just ‘oh.’ Oh. Not ‘wow,’ not ‘why didn’t you tell me sooner,’ not ‘what the hell is wrong with you, you flaming pile of absolute human garbage?’ Just oh.
Oh.
“Sorry,” Logan whispers, feeling something weird needling at the back of his eyes. He furrows his brow and shakes his head, trying to get rid of the sensation. It works, sort of. A few tears leak out, splattering against the table, but at least the needling stops.
Oh.
“Morgan,” Patton says carefully—too careful, too gentle, too quiet, too weird. “Why don’t you go hang out with Uncle Roman? I bet he’d love to hear about decimals. Bet he doesn’t know about the thousandth place.” Morgan, clearly unaware of the veil of weird that’s descended, sweeps an arm over her tower and books it for the door. The bell is still ringing as the creamers hit the floor, a few popping open and dripping puddles across the linoleum.
Oh.
“Oh.”
“I, um—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” It’s all Logan can do at this point to apologize, all he knows how to do. ‘Harder to ask permission than beg forgiveness,’ isn’t that the saying? Whoever came up with that apparently never took into account how damn hard the begging part would be. “Sorry.”
“Oh.”
Patton looks at Virgil for a long moment, affording him the chance to say something, anything more to his husband that kept something so big from him for so long, but Virgil says nothing. Just ‘oh.’
Oh.
“Logan,” Patton exhales, more of a sigh than an actual word, an actual name of an actual person in this actual conversation. “How long have you known about this?”
Now it’s Logan’s turn to exhale, the truth coming out in a forced whoosh, choking him from the inside out. “Almost a year.”
Virgil slams his elbows down on the table and buries his head in his hands, laughing quietly. “A year. A fucking year. That’s rich. That’s great. That’s really, really great.” He keeps laughing, a hollow nothing, as if it’s the only thing that can possibly keep him breathing anymore. “A year .”
“Logan, you mean to tell me—” Patton cuts himself off, his jaw working furiously as an odd emotion seeps into his voice, the likes of which Logan never would’ve thought him capable before. Patton allows himself a few heavy breaths, louder than the faint music playing from the speakers along the ceiling, and lands his eyes somewhere around Logan’s chin. It somehow feels worse than if he would just make direct eye contact. “You’ve been keeping this from Virgil for over a year?”
“Almost a year,” Logan corrects meekly, feeling about as pathetic as a roach squashed under a brick. He wonders whether his heart shrinks to the same size.
“Now is hardly an appropriate time for your particulars.” Patton clenches his hands into fists on the table, and Logan briefly entertains the image of them flying full force into his face with all of the rage Virgil is undoubtedly holding beneath his simmering silence. “Is this—is that why Roman was so mad? Did he not know, either?”
“He, um, he’s known. The whole time, I mean. He kept it quiet for me. He was actually offered an original spot on the crew, too, back when it first—”
“Shut your damn mouth.” Patton takes another long breath, but this one doesn’t seem to steady him as much. “That’s what he was talking about? When he asked me if I would be comfortable with him launching off the planet for a breakout work mission? He knew back then and asked me about it and everything, and you didn’t think it was even worth mentioning to Virgil?”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You think it matters two ticks whether you meant to? If you pull out of a gas station and slam into someone switching over from the far lane, sure you didn’t mean to, but you still did it. I just— mmnh.” Patton makes a low, miserable noise at the back of his throat and shakes his head, his fists clenching and unclenching. The perks of being a trained museum security guard—Logan is downright terrified of what those fists might do.
“Why didn’t you talk to me about it?” Virgil whispers. It’s the quietest sound Logan’s ever heard, softer than footsteps on loose sand in the shallows of a barren lake, but it echoes as loud as a bag of potato chips at three in the morning in a sleeping house. It shatters Logan to his very core, split into more pieces than the crumbs at the bottom of that same chip bag.
Logan likes to ignore reality through the escapism of his thoughts.
“Over a year ago, when your director first had that meeting, you swore to me that you’d never make that kind of decision without talking to me first, not ever. You didn’t even entertain the chance that you might go, and you—you just—” Virgil shakes his head again, shoving his fingers past his face and burying them in the roots of his hair, now a light brown surfacing beneath the ever-fading purples. “When do you leave?”
“I don’t know yet, we haven’t gotten the—”
“Bullshit. When do you jump off the planet to certain death and leave me behind without a second thought because it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life is to leave?”
“Hey, it’s been decades since the last fatality related to a failed launch, so calling it certain death seems a little—”
“I don’t care how it seems, Logan! I care about how it is, and how it is is that you’ve kept this huge thing from me and Patton for a year now, and you think it’s the kind of information you can casually drop over a cup of coffee.”
“I—I don’t know what you want me to say, Virgil. I feel really bad about this, I do, but I—”
“And you damn well should feel bad!” Patton cuts in. “You should feel very bad about this! That’s exactly correct!”
Virgil ghosts a hand over Patton’s arm, stopping him from getting into a full-on shouting match with a shell-shocked Logan. “I don’t know what I want you to say, either.” Virgil drops his hand to the table with a thud, staring at his palms. Definitely not acknowledging Logan’s presence. “It’s great news, really, it is, but it sucks that you didn’t tell me sooner, and I really don’t think there’s anything you can say to me past that. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just talk your way out of. The time for talking was a year ago, and you missed your chance.”
Logan bites his lip and looks down at his mug, at his distorted reflection within. Patton slams a fist down on the table, destroying the facade of Logan’s face. “I’m gonna go talk to Roman. Maybe he’ll have something helpful to say about why he thought we didn’t deserve to hear about this sooner.”
And now it’s Logan alone with Virgil in an achingly quiet cafe, cheery pop songs pouring from the speakers. “I’m sorry,” Logan whispers. Well, tries to whisper. Nothing comes out, save for a broken squeak. He tries again, but the only sound he can manage is a defeated ‘oh.’
Oh.
Something shifts in Logan’s peripherals. He glances up to see Virgil’s hand resting on the table, palm up, midway across the table. Meeting Logan halfway. Logan stretches his own arm out, placing his fingers hesitantly around Virgil’s, feeling the cold metal of Virgil’s wedding band pressing into his palm. Hot tears bead up at the corners of Logan’s eyes again as he lifts them slowly, slowly, slowly to see Virgil staring blankly back. It’s an aching emptiness, all the absence of matter in the galaxies expanding out around them, two people as two planets orbiting around each other amidst a sky of fizzling stars and dwindling moons.
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Ibytm - T minus 3 seconds
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Logan startles out of his reverie, quickly minimizing the (decidedly-not-work related) tabs on his computer screen as he turns to face whoever just poked him.
Roman.
Oh, joy. This should be fun.
“Whatcha doin’ there, mate?” Roman asks, draping himself over Logan’s shoulder.
“I’m not your mate, pal,” Logan replies. He opens his tabs back up, now secure in knowing it’s not Joy or Katie-Lee snooping on him— Miss Katie-Lee, he corrects himself.
“I’m not your pal, mate.” Roman grins and points at one of the tabs, tracing his finger along the headline. “Best local community colleges? What, a master’s isn’t good enough for you? Polly wanna get a doctorate, Polly wannna outshine all his free-yahnds?”
“I will pay you literal money to never do that accent again.” Logan clicks away to a less conspicuous screen as an intern skulks by, presumably on their way back from a delivery to Mx. Oatmeal. It’s painfully rare that Logan gets to see anyone new without going out of his way to hunt them down, but that rarity doesn’t mean he isn’t wary of the grapevine running through the honorary fifth floor. “I tried to get Virgil to look into local colleges, see if any interest him at all—for a number of reasons, none of which he was keen to hear, mind you. Anyway, that was a couple weeks ago now, and he hasn’t mentioned it since. I’ve been looking into it on his behalf, and I think he could do pretty well going for an art history degree, since he already likes working those tours at the museum, and—”
“And you’ve just decided all this for him?”
“Well, no, but I know what his interests are, and—”
“And you don’t want to afford him the chance to broaden his horizons?”
And there we go with the horizons again. Will anyone ever let Logan talk for more than five seconds without an interruption? Logan balls his hands into fists under his desk, digging his nails into his palms. He bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to grit out a response without literally snarling.
“Shockingly enough, broadening your horizons isn’t the only motivation for people to have a purpose.” He closes all the tabs and puts his screen to sleep, scowling. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Virgil’s made it pretty damn clear that he’s not interested. I’m just pulling my own leg at this point.”
Roman says nothing, still sprawled across Logan’s shoulders. The silence weighs heavy in the air for a moment, two, before Logan shoves back his chair and cracks his neck, knocking skulls with Roman. “I’m going on my fifteen,” Logan says sharply.
He shoulder-checks Roman as he stands, knocking him back a few feet on his way to the break room. You know, the one cramped with the likes of Miss Katie-Lee and Mr. Jolenta and everyone else who holds sway over whether Logan gets paid enough to keep himself alive. He fights down a growl and slinks toward the back of the room, where only a broken coffeepot dares make a home.
“Hey, Sanders, taking an early break for once? Or a break at all, really.” The owner of the new voice deposits herself at the seat across from Logan, who moves aside the dish of candies to hide his hand playing with his phone under the table. Reaching for a candy, Cassidy grins brightly. “So! How about my promotion, huh? Can’t believe me interpreting Joy’s chicken scratch is what got me noticed.” Logan nods with a faint smile. “What, too important to make conversation? Come on, stop thinking about work, yeah? Breaks are supposed to be fun times!”
“Work is fun.” It’s Logan’s instinctual response—always has been, probably always will be—but the certainty isn’t really there anymore.
“So’s wearing socks that are so small they slip off your heel when you’re running through a rainstorm.” Cassidy cocks her head to the side and smiles wider. “Oh, sorry, thought we were telling lies no one believes.”
“Work is fun.” Logan’s voice sounds even less confident now than it did before, which he hopes Cassidy doesn’t notice with the distraction of Roman taking a seat at his side. Logan is about five seconds away from socking Roman in the arm for intruding on a conversation that wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place, but Roman’s bicep is saved by Miss Katie-Lee striding purposefully across the room. She exchanges some furtive whispers with Roman, too quiet for Logan to hear, as Cassidy picks back up on the conversation that, again, was never supposed to exist to begin with.
“Hey, y’member that moon meeting Gazebo was on about?” she asks, her voice low and conspiratorial. “I heard he was actually planning—”
“Cassidy!” Miss Katie-Lee hisses, drawing a sharp line across her throat. “Tsst! Don’t!”
Cassidy blinks and shakes her head, as artless as if she were wiping an etch-a-sketch. “Right. So! How about that coffeepot, right? I mean, it’s been broken for, like, ages, wouldn’t a top tech-having organization be able to fix that, or at least replace it or something?”
Logan elects to ignore the suspicious conversation turn and how Cassidy just referred to NASA as a ‘top tech-having organization.’ He writes it off in his head as being a weird social nuance he’s not keyed into, and makes a mental note to ask Virgil about it later. Certainly an easier conversation to have than one about colleges. As if Virgil would ever let him entertain that kind of discussion again.
He furrows his brow at what looks like a fist hovering in front of his face, but it’s just Cassidy snapping her fingers. “Hey, Lo, puh tuh tut? Y’in there? Anything of consequence to contribute to the conversation?”
“I would hardly call it a conversation,” Logan mumbles into the fingers propping up his chin. He stretches behind himself for the countertop and grabs the broken coffeepot, eager to keep busy doing literally anything that will distract him from this inane polite chitchat. The whole point of going on his break was to get away from Roman, and now he’s stuck sitting by two new people as well as Roman. He starts unscrewing the main panel on the machine’s upper facade.
“Alright, fair play, fair play. Conversations do normally involve more than one person talking.”
“Thanks for the dictionary update. I’ll call Merriam, you find Webster.”
Cassidy may or may not attempt a response, but Logan neither notices nor cares, too focused on the coffeepot. The only thing to finally draw his attention away from the sputtering machine that definitely didn’t just scald his entire left hand is a rapid and insistent smattering on his arm. He glances over to see Roman slapping him gently, his eyes desperate.
“We need to talk,” he grits out, angling his head toward the door. Miss Katie-Lee takes a sudden and hurried leave, acting for all the world as if she hadn’t just been chittering with Roman. “Not in here. But, like, now.”
“I’m good,” Logan replies at full volume. Cassidy gives him a weird look, which he readily ignores.
“Logan.”
“Is good in here, thank you very much.”
“Logan will get his rear in gear right this second, or Roman will cause him serious bodily harm.”
“Logan is good in here.”
Roman sighs loudly, clearly trying to get the point across that I tried to warn you with only a series of nonverbal huffs. Following that, he smacks Logan across the face. Like, hard.
“What in the f—!”
“Now.”
Logan screws his face up tight and clenches his hands like claws to his skull before shoving his chair back, startling Cassidy. He plasters a manic smile on his face, more baring his teeth than anything else. “Fine. Fine? Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s go talk, jackweed. Fine. Whatever. Fine.”
“I had to get your attention somehow,” Roman pleads, tripping over his feet to keep up as Logan all but storms out of the room.
“And clearly you’ve gotten it, so what the hell do you want to do with it?” Logan steps into the stairwell and barely waits for Roman to clear the doorframe before he slams it shut. “If it’s that important, you can sum it up in fifteen seconds, because that’s how long you have before I go downstairs and report you to HR.”
“What’s with the sudden attitude, sassafras?”
“Feigning memory loss at your physical assault on me? An unorthodox way to spend your first two seconds, I’ll admit. Thirteen left, and do try not to waste them.”
“If you would just get over—”
“That’s two more on the clock. Running it down to the wire, huh? That your strategy? Draw me in with the intrigue? Seven seconds. Make it quick.”
Roman swallows a huge breath (for which he definitely doesn’t have the time) and groans. “Gazebo’s request went through.”
“I don’t—what?” The fifteen seconds are certainly up by now, but Logan doesn’t make a move for the door. Neither does Roman.
“For the wormhole to Neptune. Well, the moon coverup for it, anyway. He got the grant, he got the funding, Katie-Lee just told me about it. It’s gone through, go no-go set out, mission initiated, however you want to phrase it, it’s happening. He’s starting up the mission. Like, starting it up soon.”
“Yeah? Good for him. Should be exciting.” Logan folds his arms, and whether that’s to keep from screaming or to keep from throwing the door open and running away from the conversation and from reality, well, he isn’t entirely sure. Maybe a bit of both.
“Logan, surely you realize what this means?”
“Probably not, if how squeaky your voice sounds is any indication. It’s just a grant. Nothing’s going to be officially in progress this early, so what’s your deal?”
Roman groans again, doing an impressive mimicry of Logan clawing at his own face. He slaps his hands down to his thighs and grips the fabric in clenched fists, kneading the material like an agitated cat. “It means it’s gone through. It means Gazebo is going to launch a crew off the planet in a literal fiery explosion. Logan, it means that you could be going into space.”
Logan blinks. “I fail to understand how this could be a bad thing. Not to mention, I mean, it’s not like he’s even asked me yet.”
“That’s what Katie-Lee was talking about,” Roman groans, exasperated. “She wanted me to give you a chance to talk to Virgil, to tell you that you don’t have to—”
“Hey, fell’s,” a new (and not entirely welcome) voice says as the door cracks open. Logan’s eyes dart to the entrance, where Mr. Jolenta peeks his head into the stairwell. Truly a rare sight to see—Mr. Jolenta is infamous for making himself scarce to the public eye. More of a figurehead as being Mx. Oatmeal’s boss than an actual name found in casual conversations. “Y’got a min’te?”
That’s the other thing, by the way. Mr. Jolenta is far more interested in saving time with removing syllables than expediting the process by speaking with full words. Probably saw a particular episode of The Office too many times.
“Absolutely, we’ve got sev’ral min’tes!” Roman exclaims, far more panicky-excited than he ought to be. “Right, Logan? We’ve got, like, so many minutes. Pretty much every minute, in fact, I mean, we actually—”
“Lead the way,” Logan interrupts, stepping toward the door. Roman bites his lips and nods, following him out of the stairwell. All the way up to Director Gazebo’s office, they walk in silent step like militia on a suicide mission. Mr. Jolenta flashes a wide smile and makes himself scarce once more as the director beckons them in.
“Space, Logan,” Roman murmurs, reaching for the door handle. “Logan, space. Space, Logan. Logan, space.”
“I believe all present company has seen Parks and Rec, but thank you for the refresher course.” Logan places his hand over Roman’s, feeling the warmth against his palm as he pushes it down on the handle. “I still don’t get why you were so frazzled about this.”
“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” Roman winces as the door hinges squeal in protest, apparently unused to being closed for so long. Open door policy and what have you. “Going off on me out of nowhere every time I mention broadening your—”
Roman cuts himself off as they step into the office, staring in shock at what awaits. Something straight out of a detective movie. A detective mystery movie. An overzealous detective mystery movie. An overzealous detective mystery movie about a franchise that went under fifty seconds after its inception. Something like that. “Horizons,” Roman finally breaths as Logan’s eyes catch on the director, who kneels in the middle of a mess of papers and binders and files and sticky notes, all connected with tape and string and— is that one of those sticky hand toys?
“Ah, good, good, you’re here!” The director staggers to his feet, pushing stray hairs back from his face and pulling taut the skin on his forehead. “I trust you’re both doing well? Families good? Good. Great, even! So I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, although I suspect the state of affairs may clue you in somewhat. Uh, I, erm, I actually meant to get it in some semblance of working order and presentability before you arrived, but that Jolenta is certainly adamant about punctuality—or pre-punctuality, as the case may be. To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, to be late is to be excused, isn’t that always the way?” The director claps sharply twice in front of his face, as if snapping himself out of his own head. “I have some thrilling news.
“I think I’ve found just the ticket for creating and stabilizing a wormhole of a decent enough size and make to support exotic matter like, well, like a rocket. And humans. Live ones, at that! I haven’t passed as much along yet, but I did get the go-ahead for the exterior premise of a trip to the moon, as well as clearance for a max four person crew. We’ve got the extra cargo space in that fifth seat, anyway, and we’re gonna need it for an extended trip to Neptune.” The director is now grinning like a little kid at his birthday party that just smashed a piñata to smithereens. “So! You two in?”
“I don’t—in on what?” Logan doesn’t trust himself to give a concrete answer, uncertain whether he’s totally on par with what the director is asking. Uncertain whether he’s totally on par with what his own instinctive answer would be. He can feel Roman staring daggers at him, definitely not answering the question, but Logan doesn’t dare turn his head.
“The trip to Neptune! Well, to the moon, on paper, but ideally Neptune. Mission Neptune! The Neptune Shebang!”
“I didn’t give him that nickname,” Roman whispers. Logan doesn’t move.
“So? Are you in or are you in?”
“I don’t know that that’s the kind of question I can give an up-and-down answer to out of nowhere,” Roman says. Logan remains silent. “I mean, I told you as much already, right? I’d need to talk about it with my family first, my friends, you know? There’s no way I can make a knee-jerk decision like this.” Logan says nothing.
“I mean, I can give you the night to decide, think it over, but I’d really rather get started sooner than later, and if you don’t agree, we can always go with a three man crew, use the extra space for more cargo storage. There’ll be paths around your not coming along, but—”
“Wait, you don’t have any other potential candidates on deck?” Roman shakes his head in disbelief, his question saving Logan from having to give his own answer just yet. “You have a maximum of four people you want on board, and if anyone ducks out, you cull the size of the crew? Isn’t there, like, a due process you’re supposed to follow? You can’t just assume the exact crew you went in with is the one that’ll go on the mission.”
The director glances to the side, mumbling, “I can if that’s the crew that convinced HQ to give me the grant.” Refocusing his gaze on Logan, he speaks louder. “Logan, what do you think?”
“Nope, hang on, back it up.” Roman does a quick round of jazz hands, still shaking his head. “You signed us up for this death trip—and told other people about it, to boot—and you didn’t even ask us if we’d be on board.”
“I would hardly call it a death trip, and you already said you were interested back at that initial meeting, so it’s not like it’s completely out of the blue for me to—”
“How soon do you need an answer?” Logan cuts in. The question, much more concrete than a general disbelief about possible dangers to which he did not consent, seems to slice through the tension well enough. At the very least, it breaks Roman’s increasingly furious staring competition with the director.
“Well, ah, now, ideally, would be a great time for you to go ahead and give me that answer, actually.” The director glances around his feet and laughs lightly. “I mean, I guess my current situation might not plant a whole lot of faith in your mind, but you said it yourself, remember? How you’ve always wanted to go into space? This is your big chance, Logan! There might not be another, and all that work you’ve done will have been for nothing.”
“That’s all well and good, but I don’t—” Logan hesitates, cocking his head to the side. “Wait, what do you mean for nothing, that there might not be another? It’s not as if you’ll only plan one mission in my lifetime. There’s even rumors of another moon mission—a legitimate one, by the sound of it—just a couple years out, anyway.”
“Well, yes, but I slotted you in myself for this one. I can’t promise I’ll be so generous in my selection with the next.”
“But that’s not fair.” The words leak from Logan’s lips of their own accord, and he wonders whether Virgil feels this childish when he says them. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Roman shifting his weight.
“You can’t just give him one day to decide something so important, regardless of how he’s felt and answered in the past.” Logan chooses to ignore how Roman says nothing of his own decision and history.
“See, that’s just the thing,” the director replies coolly. “I can and I did. I’m not saying you have to answer right this second, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt your chances.”
“Chances?” Roman sputters. “What do you mean, chances? You basically already admitted that we’re the only ones you want for this mission. Chances of knocking the crew down a size, maybe.”
“Shall I take that as a yes or no from you, then?”
Logan whips his head around to Roman, feeling his own jaw straining to drop. This is the whole point of working here, of rising through the ranks, is this one chance for Roman to get into space, to do all the things to which Logan has always aspired, to broaden his horizons like he always has, so long as he just says—
“No.”
Okay, now Logan’s jaw actually does drop. He snaps it shut before anyone can notice.
“Duly noted. Sad to hear it, but I won’t force you.” The director nods and looks to Logan, who’s stunned into silence. “Logan? How about yourself?”
“I, um—”
“You don’t have to answer anything right this second,” Roman says. “You’re allowed to talk it over with Virgil, and with your dads, and with everyone else who you think deserves to weigh in on it. You don’t have to lay your whole life on the line right now.”
“I wouldn’t call it laying your life on the line,” the director says sharply. “Simple question, yes or no. You can always change your mind later, but if you choose not to accept my offer and later have second thoughts, I cannot promise the mission—or a later vacancy—will be waiting for you.”
Logan wonders whether it’s possible to literally drown in his own fear. It certainly feels like it. Someone should do a study on that, see if it’s a feasible way to go out.
“Logan Sanders. Mission to Neptune. Yes or no?”
Logan swallows his terror and calls up Virgil’s face in his mind, picturing it in front of a television screen, picturing it watch him launch into space, picturing it in a fitful sleep, waiting for Logan to make it safely home, safely into his arms. Then he pictures it smiling, pictures it touring colleges as Logan tours the universe, pictures it beaming with pride as Logan collapses into a reassuring hug, back from the farthest reaches of the solar system, dozens of worlds crumbling in the wake of their embrace as the moon shines bright overhead, just a little less vibrant than it used to be. He holds that image close, wrapping it like a shield around his heart, and refocuses on the feeling of Roman’s hand on his shoulder, refocuses on the director staring at him, that same question hanging heavy in the air between them.
Logan Sanders, yes or no? Mission to Neptune, yes or no? Live your lifelong dream, yes or no? Leave behind everything you’ve ever known, yes or no? Achieve the only thing you’ve ever been truly certain of wanting, valued above all else for as long as you can remember, yes or no?
“Yes.”
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Ibytm - T minus 7 seconds
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Logan cracks his knuckles, his elbows propped on the arms of a chair near the middle of the presentation room. Across the table from him, Joy doodles absently in the margins of her notebook. Logan is pretty sure that if Cassidy weren’t there to subtly turn the page for her, the flowers and floating eyes would crawl off the pages and etch themselves into the surface of the table. Director Gazebo paces at the head of the room, smacking a remote against his palm and muttering under his breath. It’s been something like five minutes since he last successfully switched slides, and all delusions of focus and interest have completely melted away. Even Miss Katie-Lee, who was helping hand out papers and fill in pieces of information for the director, is playing something on her phone with vague disinterest. Logan wonders whether she might just fall asleep right where she stands.
Logan, on the other hand, absolutely cannot force himself to look disinterested in anything the director does, ever. Not with that meeting from a couple weeks ago still weighing on his mind. Instead, he does his best to look like he’s taking detailed notes in his pocket notebook, glancing around the room as if deep in thought. He takes careful stock every few seconds of the impossibly high number of important people in here. The absolutely quintessential ‘who’s who’ of this branch—Joy and Miss Katie-Lee, of course, but also Mx. Oatmeal, Cassidy and her independent focus advisor, the directors of the individual satellite branches floating nearby, those inexplicable people in nice suits that follow Director Gazebo everywhere, even the notoriously good-looking folks that are always sweeping in and out of Miss Katie-Lee’s office. Oh, and who could forget Roman?
Logan could.
Logan would love to do that, in fact.
He’s taken multiple steps to prove to the director just how much he wants this, despite how wrong it feels to be slacking off to improve—talking about non-work things with Cassidy and Alex, getting to know the fifth floor interns (even though they aren’t technically on the fifth floor anymore), helping those same interns with their work and genuinely enjoying it rather than it being revision out of obligation, even trying to be more open with Virgil about what’s going on inside his head. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of that last one yet, but it’s not like the director ever sees him do it—or not do it, as the case usually tends to be. He tries, though. They both do.
The biggest risk—talking to Roman—is one he really isn’t looking forward to. He hasn’t even tried yet, actually. Probably explains why Roman is in the far back corner of the room, whispering with Alex.
Logan isn’t doing very well at pretending to be taking notes, in case that wasn’t obvious.
Finally, the remote in the director’s hand buzzes to life, shuffling the presentation to the last slide. Miss Katie-Lee moves next to him and peers over his shoulder, pointing at one of the buttons and nodding. A sigh of relief (or maybe it’s annoyance—Logan isn’t great at gauging that sort of thing) ripples through the room when the slideshow cycles back to the top, displaying a picture of a rocket preparing to launch.
The director gives Miss Katie-Lee a smile and nod before turning to address the room. “What craft was this?”
Logan doesn’t bother raising his hand, merely calling out the name in unison with the rest of the room. “Vanguard TV3.”
“And on what historic date did this craft fail two seconds after launch?”
“December sixth, nineteen fifty-seven.” It’s more of an automatic response on Logan’s part than a concentrated effort to access the trivia from its overflowing file tucked away in a secure corner of his mind. The director nods his approval and moves on to the next slide, and Logan is pretty sure the better part of his room-sweeping gaze centers on him. He sits up straighter.
“Good start, folks. Now, back to basics—roughly how long would it take for a spacecraft to reach the moon?” Wow, really back to basics. He wasn’t kidding.
“Three days.” Even Logan has to admit, it does sound just the slightest bit creepy, everyone answering in monotonous unison like this.
The director clicks over to the next slide, which proudly declares the words ‘speed round’ in times new roman. The font yanks Logan’s thoughts toward Roman without his consent, and he again thinks about how unjustly cold he’s been to the guy lately. Hardly a word between them, aside from the usual obligatory greetings. Maybe that ought to be his next risk, resolving that whole situation. Certainly one of the more unnerving ideas he’s entertained.
“Alright, everyone, speed round time. How many miles to the moon?”
“240,000.”
“In kilometers?”
The briefest of pauses. “386,400.”
“Largest crew aboard a spacecraft to date?”
“Eight.”
“Why do we want to minimize travel time for human astronauts?”
“Space has harmful radiation.” Okay, so that one wasn’t quite so perfectly in unison, and various other answers tried to break through, but the general idea does manage to echo around the room.
“Of the nearly two hundred planet-orbiting moons in our solar system, in which place is our moon with regards to size?”
“Fifth largest.”
“Latin word for its highlands?”
“Maria.”
“Meaning?”
“Seas.”
“How many nations have landed on the moon?”
“Three.” The word five also bounces around, but Logan is in the former party.
“Okay, who did it first?”
“The United States.” This, too, has a second answer making a valiant effort—Neil Armstrong, obviously. Again, Logan is in the former group.
“When?”
This one, interestingly enough, prompts two very distinct answers. One sizeable group, to which Logan is party, gives the predictable answer of July twentieth, nineteen sixty-nine, but one (much smaller) group says something incredibly different.
“Wow, I didn’t realize this very important meeting was just gonna be a history lesson.”
Not a valid nor correct answer, in case that wasn’t clear.
Logan, along with pretty much every other superior in the room, swivels in his seat to stare at Roman, who still leans against the wall at the far back of the room. Beside him, Alex looks like they’re doing everything they can to feign not having heard him.
Roman shrugs and raises his eyebrows, tilting his head toward the director. “It’s a valid question. Nobody in this room’s an idiot, we all passed our college courses, gen eds and otherwise, we all took the entrance exams, we’ve all done the work to get here. Not to step out of line or anything, but this is all grade school stuff. Seems kinda dumb to be quizzing us on stuff anyone with a working internet connection could figure out.”
Logan debates whether this would be a good time to work on one of those risks he’s been dealing with by striding to the back of the room and smacking Roman across the face. The director stiffens, but Logan can’t tell whether it’s agitation or impressed satisfaction.
“Does anyone else agree with Roman’s perspective?”
There’s a few quiet mumbles and the odd cough or sniffle, but no one speaks up. Logan flinches when the director’s eyes land on him, but again, there’s something behind those eyes he can’t trace. When the director doesn’t look away, the idea of screaming crosses Logan’s mind. Risk. Risk. You are not special simply for doing your job. You need to go above and beyond if you want to achieve the dream you claim you have, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.
Logan clears his throat and raises his hand, and honest to god, the room falls silent. Even Joy’s scribbling pen halts. The director nods at him to speak, at the same moment that Logan finds his heart standing at the edge of a bottomless pit. It jumps over.
“He makes a good point.” The director lifts his chin, but says nothing. “We already know all of this information, given how easily we can answer it on a dime, and you’ve gathered up most of the higher profile people in this branch, not to mention the ones around it. It seems counterintuitive to waste their time with the basics when they could be working toward something more concrete, rather than an eighth grade science test review.” Logan literally bites his tongue when he closes his mouth, belatedly realizing he just told the literal head of his career that his meeting is a waste of Logan’s time. Too big of a risk, perhaps, but there’s certainly no taking it back now. He also belatedly realizes his arm is still in the air, so he yanks it down with his other hand.
There’s a beat of silence, where not even Joy dares look at Logan. Logan swallows and turns his eyes toward the ground, feeling Roman’s gaze burning daggers into his back. Does this count toward resolving the little spat he never bothered explaining to Roman? Hell, Roman might not even know Logan was mad—for all he’s been told, Logan just decided out of nowhere to start talking to the interns. Logan should’ve just kept with the mediocrity, should’ve stayed within arm’s reach of his safety net, should’ve learned to grit his teeth and bear it while Roman prattled on, completely oblivious to how much better he was than Logan.
“Roman and Logan,” the director finally says. “You two stay. Everyone else, you’re excused.”
The remaining people cannot possibly get out of the room fast enough. It’s concentrated chaos as they scramble to gather their respective belongings and rush the door, a bunch of space enthusiasts who would probably rather be on literal Neptune right now than in this room. Come to think of it, Neptune doesn’t sound too bad to Logan, either. He sinks back into his chair and wills himself to be smaller, wills Roman to ignore him and just stay—
Roman takes the seat directly beside Logan. “Thanks for the assist,” he says under his breath, elbowing Logan gently. Logan smiles weakly at his own fists, clenched tightly in his lap, and wonders if this is the last time these hands will be employed by NASA. Wondering if this is finally it, if the director has had enough of Logan’s pathetic attempts to take risks, has finally decided to do away with Logan entirely, to let him fade into obscurity as some guy who coded a coffee delivery app with a gimmicky name.
Director Gazebo stares long and hard at the both of them, and probably has been for a while now—not that Logan would know the difference, having only just looked up from his hands. There’s something behind the mask of calm in the director’s face, just like there always is, and just like always, it’s something Logan can’t quite comprehend, something he isn’t sure he wants to comprehend. When he opens his mouth, Logan’s heart finally finds itself at the bottom of that bottomless pit.
“Are either of you aware of how long it would take mankind to reach Neptune?”
An unexpected starting point, to be sure, but at least it’s something Logan is prepared for. “It took Voyager 2 about twelve years in the eighties.”
“Voyager 2 was unmanned,” Roman adds. “None of that extra weight for people or provisions, so that probably maybe definitely influenced that time.”
“Why?” Logan asks. It’s always been one of his favorite questions, to tell the truth. He wonders whether the director feels the same. Then he wonders whether the director realizes he means ‘why ask about Neptune,’ not ‘why would weight influence travel time.’ Then he wonders whether the director knows he wonders this.
“As only Voyager 2 has managed to make it that far—and beyond, in fact—there is still a good deal of things we’ve yet to learn from Neptune, like why it has such high winds, or why its magnetic field is offset, not to mention that there’s been another Great Dark Spot since the one in eighty-nine.” Okay, so at least it was clear what Logan was asking.
“I’m still not totally clear on why this matters,” Roman admits. Logan sighs quietly, relieved that someone in this room had the nerve to voice the general fears floating lazily through the air. “I mean, it’s got nothing to do with the moon, which is supposedly why you called the meeting, right?”
“It’s got everything to do with the moon,” the director corrects. He steps away from the projection screen and begins pacing the room, waving his hands about like frantic hummingbirds to emphasize his points—provided he actually makes any. “The moon is the closest celestial body to our planet, so everything with a greater distance than that can be expanded upon based on its relative distance and size compared to the moon. If we learned to walk with the moon, we can run with Mars, and we could fly with Neptune.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Logan says, feeling like it’s been a little too long since he’s spoken up. Regardless, his words seem to roll off the director’s hunched shoulders as he continues pacing, unperturbed.
“Twelve years is a long time, not to mention the additional weight for the food and crew, and the emotional and mental tolls on the passengers and their families, as it would be a minimum twenty-five year round trip—that’s a quarter of what a layman considers his life span. But if we could cut that down, shave off a few years from either end, move from here to there as if we were taking but a single step…” The director trails off with his hands frozen in front of his face, fingers not quite touching, so stiff they almost tremble. “Imagine how much we could gain from that. Just—just imagine it.”
“Do you mean in terms of Einstein’s and Rosen’s theory of general relativity?” Logan’s voice is laced with disbelief. Einstein-Rosen bridges, wormholes, whatever you want to call them, it’s all theoretical, and all just the slightest bit terrifying. Two mouths at either end of an imaginary throat, from point A to point B in moments, microscopic and unstable. Just imagine it? Sure, just imagine the likelihood of the wormhole destabilising under the effect of exotic matters and spitting out the passengers to who knows where.
Logan, if you couldn’t tell, is not particularly fond of the idea of wormholes, much less black holes. His concerns are usually (to his relief) unfounded, since whoever is crazy enough to look for wormholes hasn’t been successful in their endeavours. Not yet.
“But that’s only assuming you actually can fold the space,” Roman protests, yanking Logan out of his own mind. Apparently they didn’t care to wait for Logan to process the absurdity of it all before continuing the conversation.
“But who says we can’t? ” Director Gazebo shoots back.
“Who said anything about we?” Roman’s voice is incredulous and maybe, just maybe, a little bit excited. Good excited or bad excited, though, Logan has no idea.
“Well, me, just now, for one.” The director starts pacing again, ticking off numbers on his fingers as he goes. “Katie-Lee also vouched for the idea, as well as some of the directors at the floater branches—most of them report to Kennedy, anyway, so I’m sitting pretty high and dry here, and they all went for the idea. Logan, any valuable input here?”
Logan blinks, not prepared to be included. Not yet. “I, um, no?” Then he wonders whether the director heard ‘I, um, no,’ or ‘I, um, know.’
“Well, you can hardly fault me for asking. I mean, after that presentation you gave, not to mention the increasing quality of your work lately, I assumed you’d be desperate to make your case for this mission.”
“What mission?”
Roman shoots Logan a look, and Logan wonders just how long he was tuned out of the conversation. Too long, apparently.
“Why, Mission Neptune, of course.” At that, Logan is viscerally reminded of the conductor from that time Virgil forced him to watch The Polar Express. The director, at least, doesn’t seem put off in the slightest by Logan’s mental absence. He whips out a pen and scrawls something on his forearm, mumbling under his breath, “We really need to come up with a better name for that.”
“I—you’re planning a mission to Neptune?” It’s not even worth it for Logan to try to keep the shock out of his voice.
Roman, miracle of miracles, recovers much quicker than Logan. Probably because he’s been paying attention. “Okay, cool, but why did you still say we? Why did you only keep me and Logan behind?”
“Logan and me,” Logan murmurs. At least if his basic conversational skills continue to fail him, he’ll always have ironclad grammar to fall back on. On which to fall back, whatever.
“You want to go into space, do you not?”
“Absolutely.” In sharp contrast with Logan’s immediacy and certainty is Roman’s loud silence. Logan gives him a quizzical look.
“I’m not saying I don’t,” Roman finally huffs, “but I’m not saying I do, either. There’s way too many things that could go wrong for this to be a spur of the moment hell yes type response, y’know?”
Logan tries very hard (by which he means a normal amount) not to look smug as the director stares at Roman in shock. So much for a guy who’s great because he broadens his horizons. As soon as the prideful thought crosses Logan’s mind, he shakes his head to get rid of it—tearing down his friend won’t do anything for his own career, much less his own humanity. Another, much scarier thought crosses Logan’s mind next: He just internally referred to Roman as his friend.
Logan really ought to start paying better attention when conversations are happening around him between very smart people who don’t think to wait for him to catch up.
“Just keep an eye on your inboxes, alright?” The director stops pacing at the door and tugs it open, gesturing for the two to take their leave.
“Give us a minute,” Roman says, remaining firmly in his seat. The director purses his lips and wrinkles his nose, but he does go, leaving the room blissfully empty in the absence of his commanding presence.
Roman turns to Logan and cocks his head to the side. “Alright, my dude, I’ve known you for basically a lifetime now.”
“Five years, max.”
“Same difference. Anyway, I’ve known you a while, yeah? So I know what your face looks like when you’re zoning out, ’cause you’ve got way too much going on up in that head of yours. How much do I need to fill you in on, so you aren’t totally out of your depth when Gazebo brings it up again?”
“A basic rundown would be stellar. I heard that he’s aiming for Neptune, and he’s trying to employ some Wrinkle in Time mechanics to do it. We haven’t even spotted a wormhole yet, Roman. Those things are so small, too, what is he thinking?”
“Probably that he should’ve had Katie-Lee give that promotion to someone who knows how to listen.” Roman laughs as he ducks to avoid Logan swatting at his head. “Hey, hey, this is neutral territory! Anyway, he said he was stuck on the moon stuff with his presentation ’cause he doesn’t want to go talking to the whole building and company and all about it, but he thinks he found a way to straight up manufacture a wormhole, and he wants to test that with an outwardly routine trip to the moon. Manufacture his demon wormhole or whatever, and if it works, great, and if not, well, it’s just the moon, so we won’t be too far, anyway. Doesn’t really add up that he’d call it Mission Neptune if he’s trying to hide it, but whatever.”
“And he told us this why?”
“Because I’m such a motor mouth that most people have learned to just tune me out by now, or assume I’m spouting total nonsense. You, on the other hand, he knows you’ve got your whole deal with that lifelong dream of getting off the planet or whatever, so obviously you wouldn’t go spreading the details, not at the risk of someone else taking your spot on the ship.”
“He told you all that?”
“Context clues. I’m very smart.”
Logan blows a puff of air through his nose and stares at his hands again, picturing them at the helm of a literal console in a literal rocketship on its way to literal Neptune. “Be pretty hard to cover up supplies for a mission to Neptune when you want it to look like a routine trip to the moon.”
“Why else would he hint at sending follow-up emails? Not to mention, if the wormhole situation shortens the trip, we wouldn’t need much more than a normal moon mission, anyway.” Roman scoots his chair closer and pushes his face right up into Logan’s. “You’re really off your game today, y’know that? Is it ’cause you suddenly decided to start talking to me again?”
“Something like that.” Logan checks his watch, weighing the merits of continuing to talk here versus returning to their desks. If nothing else, the director hasn’t returned to yell at them yet, so that’s something. Logan inhales a couple seconds longer than he needs to, blows it all out in one big breath, and explains to Roman the situation regarding his new risk-taking self. He even adds how, all along, Roman has been the true superior, much as it shreds Logan’s heart to say it. At least now Roman has proof that he’s as good as he thinks he is. What use is pride if left uncorroborated, right?
“Okay, well that’s dumb, so we’re not gonna talk about that nonsense garbage ever again,” Roman says, shaking his head. “I mean, really? Me better than you? Obviously I’m just socializing, and that definitely shows in the few papers where I’ve actually tried. He probably just wanted to push you over the edge so you would be more involved and engaged, more likely to help with his whole Neptune shebang.”
“That’s a good mission name,” Logan mumbles. He expertly ignores everything else Roman said. “Neptune Shebang.”
“No, it really isn’t. Do you even want to do it?”
“I mean, obviously I do, it’s all I’ve ever wanted, ever , but there’s still…” Logan lets his voice trail off, picturing Virgil’s face. Picturing Virgil sat on the couch in front of the television, watching Logan blast off the planet in a storm of fire and gasoline, leaving Virgil over two billion miles behind him, in the plain old Earth dust. “I don’t know. I used to know, but I think what I knew changed somewhere along the way.”
“Makes sense.” Roman pushes his hands against his knees and bounces to his feet, then crooks his elbow to the side. Logan accepts the gesture, rising with Roman’s assistance and following him to the door. “I mean, it’s not like you have to know if you’re going right this second. You don’t even know if you’ll get chosen for it. Maybe they switch around the requirements or knock down the capacity or something, and they just bump you out of the running because you’re needed on Earth or they’re afraid you have the measles or something. Hell, they could deny the mission request altogether. Whatever happens, you definitely don’t have to make any major decisions about it just yet.”
Logan nods to himself as the door clicks shut behind them. Eventually, he very well have to make that choice. But not yet.
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Ibytm - T minus 18 seconds
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Logan knocks a rhythm into the legs of his chair with his heels, absently observing the cafe. Not terribly busy, given how close to society’s generally-agreed-upon dinnertime it is. Most people have the good sense to be out for a late meal, if not relaxing at home and sleeping off some comfort food. Logan is not included among those ‘most people,’ in case that wasn’t clear.
He glances out the finger-smudged window, watching a leaf skitter across the pavement. A couple of kids chase it along ahead of a slower kid, their backpacks abandoned at the base of a nearby oak tree. Probably a need for speed type deal. Something happens on the table in front of Logan, but he’s too intently focused on the kids outside to notice.
“Logan.”
He waves a vague hand in the direction of the voice, not really processing who it belongs to. At last, the lagging kid catches up and jumps forward, crushing the leaf under their dirt-streaked tennis shoe. The other kids clap them on the back in congratulations.
“Okay, what is it?” He glances across the table to Virgil, who’s sitting on the seat diagonal from him and sipping absently at a cup of coffee that’s probably in the process of melting a few oversized dollops of whipped cream. Virgil doesn’t seem to notice that Logan suddenly decided to start paying attention, which means the latter is free to ogle his husband to his heart’s content. How the faint purple of his fading hair dye hangs just so over his forehead, how that one stubborn spot of acne near his chin pushes his lips up into a half smile, how his eyes sparkle with the light of the early evening sun, how, just by looking at him, Logan can tell he’s savoring every ounce of this moment without even thinking about it.
“What are you doing?” Virgil finally asks, turning around and catching Logan mid-stare. If Logan knew anything about grade school crushes, he would know that this is the part where he’s supposed to quickly shift his gaze, embarrassed to high heck. But he didn’t, so he doesn’t.
“Admiring how good you look.”
“Ew, dork.”
“We’re married. I’m allowed to say things like that.” Logan holds up his ring finger and tilts his head toward it with a lopsided grin. “Sorry, pal, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Just be quiet and drink your drink,” Virgil mumbles into his cup, his face turning a lovely shade of pink. Logan smiles to himself and lifts his own cup to his lips, taking a long sip from the straw. “Where are they, anyway? Weren’t we supposed to meet here at, like, seven?”
“Please, you’ve met Roman. It’ll take him at least that long to get his hair done. Don’t pretend like you expected him to be punctual.”
“I guess it’s just a downright tragedy that we got here on time, then.”
“Indeed. Send in the clowns, as it were.”
“Don’t bother, they’re here.” Virgil jerks his chin toward the door, over which a bell proudly chimes to announce the arrival of Patton and Roman. True to form, Roman’s hair looks as painstakingly effortless as ever, and Logan can’t help but wonder just how early he has to get up to be at work on time (or five minutes late) while managing to look like that.
“Heya, lovebirds!” Patton calls, waving far more emphatically than necessary as he drags Roman into the queue. Roman barely remembers to toss them a passing glance, more focused on the exhaustively detailed menus.
“Remind me why we agreed to this?” Virgil mutters. He swirles the contents of his cup around, but there’s definitely a smile lurking under his feigned irritation.
“Because we’re nice people who talk to other nice people like the good little members of society we pretend to be.”
“Sounds overrated.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“Hey, what’re we talkin’ about?” Patton asks, plopping himself down beside Virgil. Logan nods his greeting as Virgil knocks elbows with Patton in a weird not-quite-but-still-kind-of handshake. An elbowshake, perhaps.
“Why society and its conventions are overrated.”
Logan cocks his head to the side, watching Patton’s brow wrinkle. “There’s a little more to it than that.”
“Not really.”
“And you say that on what grounds?”
“Well, for one, you started it, and for another—”
“I would hardly say I started it. You’re the one that brought up—”
“Only because you insisted we had to act per—”
“Patton!” Roman interrupts, sitting beside Logan and plunking his cup down on the table. “Tell them what Morgan did today!” Logan doesn’t have time to wonder why Roman got his drink before Patton, as the latter launches into an excited and (some would say excessively) detailed account of the make-believe game his daughter thought up in the backyard, right down to the surnames of her imaginary fallen teammates. Actually, Logan isn’t entirely convinced that Patton himself isn’t the one with the active imagination, even to the point of making up these stories about his daughter on the spot.
“Ariel still doing okay?” Virgil cuts in. Maybe trying to steer the conversation away from how many shades of grass Morgan decreed as being ‘queendom property,’ but who’s to say?
The question sets Patton off all over again, this time encouraging an enthusiastic catalogue of every last one of Morgan’s mother’s movements. How she brought over surprise balloons for Morgan and held her breath the whole time because of her latex allergy (which Patton isn’t entirely convinced she has) but she could be telling the truth since it could’ve been an allergy that developed after her childhood and it certainly wasn’t of top conversation priority on that one messy night nine months before Morgan was born but maybe they should’ve looked into it when she first tested positive on that little stick in case she passed it on to Morgan when they—
“Large coffee for Patton?” Patton jolts out of his seat and is at the pickup counter before Logan can blink. As Patton strikes up a cheerful conversation with the (mercifully unannoyed) barista, Roman twists to look at Logan.
“Ten bucks says he doesn’t need all the crap in that cup.”
Logan is almost afraid to ask, but curiosity begs satisfaction. “What’d he get?”
“Okay, so you know how a large is twenty ounces, yeah? And a single shot of espresso is one ounce?”
“Very much did not ask for the vocabulary lesson, but continue.”
“Right, yes, but it’s important to me that you know all that. Anyways, apply that knowledge when I tell you he got fifteen shots of espresso, one long shot, and two ristretto shots. Oh, and five packets of splenda.” More jarring to Logan than that disaster of a coffee order is the look on Virgil’s face—not surprised in the slightest, as if someone had told him Patton ordered a regular cup of black coffee or something.
“I’m sorry, but how did you figure out that you liked that combination abomination?” Logan asks as Patton returns with a smile over his shoulder to the barista.
“Oh, you know, little of this, little of that.” Patton grins at Logan, and something in his eyes makes Logan’s stomach turn. Logan watches in horror as he knocks back far more than what could be considered an advisable amount of coffee. In a voice like a demon banished from the depths of hell for bad behavior, Patton whispers, “Taste is meaningless. There is no flavor that could supplement the raw energy in this.” Logan isn’t entirely sure whether or not he’s making up this whole exchange to cope with Patton’s drink order, a fear which is not helped in the slightest by Virgil’s continued nonchalance.
“That’s actually one of his tamer drinks,” Virgil finally remarks, studying his nails.
Before the shock of this nonsense has even begun to wear off, Roman decides it’s been too long since he had a turn to speak. “So, mister promotion man, what do you think of the new location? You seen it yet? Been inside?”
“First off, stop calling me that. You got promoted, too. Second, no, I’ve avoided finding out any details aside from the address and how to get there from home.”
“Even finding that out took a solid two days of me pestering him to look it up,” Virgil chimes in, now messing around with his phone. “If it weren’t for me, he probably wouldn’t even know there was a relocation happening.”
“That’s entirely true, actually,” Logan admits. “We were talking wedding plans and he wanted to send me something, and I must’ve had my do not disturb mode on, because I completely missed the email about the move.”
“Not to mention all the texts and calls from me that you so callously ignored! You didn’t return a single one!” Roman sputters indignantly. “It’s like we aren’t even friends! I mean, how cruel can you be? Those texts could have been important!”
“Oh, are we friends? You should’ve told me sooner.” Logan swivels in his seat to face Roman, well aware that Patton and Virgil both have their full attention on the conversation’s direction change. “We see each other at work, and we’ve interned together since way back when, but that’s hardly solid grounds for declaring friendship.”
“We are literally on a double coffee date right now. Like, I am sitting in a coffee shop with you and your husband and everyone’s best friend Patton, and it has nothing to do with work.” Patton blinks at the mention of his name and smiles absently.
“Okay, but it’s not a date , because you aren’t dating Patton, not to mention that attending a coffee peddler at the same time doesn’t necessarily denote being anything more than work colleagues.”
Virgil covers his mouth as he leans over to whisper something to Patton, who giggles into his cup of caffeinated chaos incarnate.
“You tell them!” Patton whisper-shouts.
“I’m not saying it.” Virgil folds his arms and mimes zipping his lips, slouching back in his seat. Logan really ought to have a serious talk with him about proper ergonomic posture, but that’s a lecture for another day. He quirks an eyebrow at Patton’s muffled laughter, but Roman clearly isn’t about to let him dodge the conversation (which had no business existing in the first place) so easily.
“We are seriously hanging out right now. Like, casual hangout session in a coffee shop. You with your husband, your husband with his close work friend, that work friend with his best friend, and that best friend just so happens to be your work friend. This is a large and tangled web here, my good sir, and I will kindly ask that you respect it.”
“How am I supposed to respect such a convoluted string of coincidences, much less one that means so little with how it’s laid out?”
Patton bursts into a full-on belly laugh at whatever Virgil whispers this time. It genuinely looks like his face might straight-up explode from how red it turns, but he shakes his head profusely when Virgil juts his chin toward Logan. “I can’t say that!” Patton squeals. Virgil winks at an understandably bewildered Logan, who would very much like to move on to a new topic of discussion right about now. No such luck.
“So what are your requirements for friendship then, huh?” Roman gets up in Logan’s face,washing him in a wave of coffee breath. Logan grimaces. “Staring at some poor, unsuspecting tour guide in a museum until they take pity on you and accept your desperate pleas to go on a date with you?” Roman puts enough silliness into his tone that it’s clear he’s kidding, so Logan decides to play along. What’s the harm?
“Right, because I’m keeping Virgil in this relationship on my own terms. Virgil, blink twice if you proposing to me was an elaborate ruse for your own chance at single life again. Blink once if that’s not true.” Virgil blinks three times. “You are a monster.” Virgil bats his eyelashes. Logan might scream. Virgil winks.
“Friendship is a weird thing, anyway,” Patton pipes up, a hint of that laughter still tinting the edges of his voice. “I mean, I’m still super close friends with Ariel, and we had a stinkin’ kid together. Meanings can change, I think, since words are already so hard in the first place. Isn’t that a fair agreement?”
Logan and Roman grumble vague sounds of acknowledgement, though their matching unhappy tones make it clear—at least, they do to Logan—that neither of them actually wanted a real answer to their little debate. They were just arguing for the fun of it, kind of like—
“Hey, what about that Neptune expedition riddle from way back when?” Roman says suddenly. “Logan, y’member that? Never did manage to solve it, huh?”
“Oh, no, I definitely solved it. I simply refused to share with rhizocephalan barnacles such as yourself.” Roman—along with the rest of the table—blinks silently at Logan, who crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Just google it. I’m not a dictionary.”
“You’re my dictionary,” Virgil coos in a honey-sweet voice.
“Never say that again,” Logan mumbles halfheartedly. Let’s all agree to ignore the blood that rushes to color Logan’s cheeks as he considers the pros and cons of dreaming up something equally lovey-dovey. No, better not. Why ruin his stoic reputation with an attempt at romance that’s doomed to fail before it even launches? Might as well stay quiet, watching the topic jump again.
Well, more like Virgil shoves the current topic off a cliff, but you get the idea.
“How’s Ariel doing on that new degree?” he asks. This sets Patton off on yet another tangent about her career, her interests, her grades, her field studies, and who knows what else as Logan takes another sip of his drink and lets his eyes drift to the window. Some kids sprint across the sidewalk, arms spread like wings, chasing a leaf as it floats along with the gentle evening breeze.
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Ibytm - T minus 21 seconds
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Logan blinks back against the bright sun filtering through the blinds, the persistent yellow filling the room with a ballet of floating dust motes. His eyes squint shut of their own accord as his arm—the one not tingling with a lack of circulation under the weight of his body—fumbles around in the mess of blankets behind him. Where he would normally feel Virgil’s reassuring presence, he finds only more blankets, not even warm to the touch. He grumbles softly under his breath, still not really awake, and grabs at Virgil’s pillow, drawing it in close to his chest. His sleep-addled brain coaxes him back to sleep, barely cognitive enough to pull the covers over his head to block out the sun. The pillow grows warm against his chest.
When the sun beating against his blanket cave becomes too hot to ignore, he groans and begrudgingly gets out of bed, unaccustomed to sleeping in this late, much less being this tired. Out into the main area of the apartment where the living area and the kitchenette meet, he follows the worsening scent of something burning. Like, burning badly.
“What’re you doing?”
Virgil jumps at the sound of Logan’s voice—admittedly still pretty low and gravelly, given how late Logan slept in—and whirls around, throwing his arms to the side as if that would hide the smoke curling up from the stove. Logan also notes, with more than a little interest, that Virgil isn’t wearing a shirt—he’s literally just standing over a smoking stove in his boxers. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
Virgil sheepishly holds up what may or may not be the shirt he is no longer wearing, now a ball of cloth covered in stains and burn marks and—“Is that syrup?”
“It’s your last real day off before the new place, I dunno, I wanted to try to make you breakfast in bed. Didn’t work out exactly like I wanted, but it still seems edible. Objectively.”
“Oddly enough,” Logan says as he wanders over to Virgil, “I don’t believe you.” He wraps his arms around Virgil’s torso as the latter turns back to the stove, fanning away the wisps of smoke. Logan rests his chin on Virgil’s shoulder and watches him try to salvage the crispy pieces of what might be pancakes—or maybe just very, very badly burned scraps of literal wood.
“Look, I did my best, okay?” Virgil says defensively. “You haven’t taught me that many recipes yet.” Logan exhales softly through his nose, holding back from a full-on laugh as Virgil lets out a surprised yelp when some of the scorched food slides toward the edge of the pan.
“I believe you,” Logan mumbles, holding Virgil tighter. He can feel Virgil’s spine digging into his chest, only the soft fabric of Logan’s shirt keeping them apart. “Maybe next time, though, you try looking up a recipe yourself like a big kid?”
“That’s cheating.” Virgil switches off the stove and spears one of the, uh, dough shards on a fork, holding it up to his shoulder. Logan takes a hesitant bite and doesn’t bother trying to hide the look of pure, unbridled disgust on his face. Actually, he doesn’t know if it would be physically possible to hold back that expression. Virgil pouts, then inspects the shard for himself. “Come on, it’s not that—” He takes a bite. Silently, he sets down the fork and lets his mouth fall open, the shard clattering to the floor. No, really, it actually makes a clattering sound. “Okay, so it is that.”
“Toaster waffles?” Logan tries. There is absolutely no way he could survive even trying to eat another shard.
“Toaster waffles.” Virgil plugs in the toaster and shuffles over to the freezer, his movements considerably impaired by Logan’s refusal to let go.
So for their last full day together, at least before Logan’s career gets in the way again, they sit in a comfortable silence and enjoy a hearty breakfast of freezer burned waffles as the sun rises on a warm day brimming with possibilities. Logan can only hope it will last.
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