Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stepping back into the coffeeshop – the actual, proper coffeeshop without broken lights and signs on every item, person and surface in sight – feels... strange. The lights are too bright. There’s a vibration of discomfort echoing under Thomas’s skin. Everything seems normal. There’s Quil in the corner table, nodding along to whatever the Starbucks guy is saying, several people queued up at the counter, Roman setting up the stage area for another open mic afternoon. Virgil’s perched on the counter and he’s picking at his nails, and Logan is... nowhere to be seen, actually. Which suits Thomas fine even though he feels a bit guilty about it. Patton’s not – Dad’s not there. That makes sense. He’s stopping by tomorrow.

“Everything good there, Tommy-Get-Your-Gun?” Roman says. There’s something sharp and wary about his eyes that... Thomas feels a cold tightening in his chest. He pushes it away, because this is Roman.

“Yeah, it’s great,” he says. “Just... what’s up with that shop across the street?”

Roman lets out a laugh-scoff. “Oh, them? Those espresso-extinguishing embezzlers, they’re always trying to get us shut down for health code violations or whatever nonsense they have up their sleeves this week. Tricky bastards they are, make no mistake! But not to worry, Thomas, we’re on the side of right and might. And our humble coffeeshop will always prevail.”

“Oh,” says Thomas. Mulls this over for a moment. “But I thought we didn’t have any problems around here?”

“We don’t,” Roman says, blinking back at him. “Unless you count Virgil’s totally wrong, obviously incorrect Tom Nook conspiracy theories, which I have so many problems with that I’d need to borrow the fingers of every patron in this shop to count them all on –”

“Fuck all landlords,” Virgil yells from behind the counter.

“ – or our comedic yet deeply charming weekly attempts to stop your dad from finding out about our only-very-slightly-illegal pride flag smuggling operation, but those are just par for the course. We live interesting and exciting existences that somehow manage to be relatively mild and calm nonetheless. It’s a delicate balancing act. You know that.”

“Right, of course,” Thomas says. “We have perfect lives, only beset by very mild tragedies that all get resolved within a week or less and leave us none the worse for wear. I know that, obviously. But then where do...” He waves to the window. The sign for The Dark Side can be seen across the street, although it’s hazy through the rainbow decals and the slight misting of ash and dust on the window. “...you know, they, come in? Didn’t Virgil say there were death threats or something?”

“Did he?” Roman frowns. “Did you say something about death threats, Fright Yagami?”

“There will be death threats if you call me that again,” Virgil says. “What are we talking about?”

“From the – the other coffeeshop.” Thomas points across the road, again. “I could’ve sworn you mentioned weird death threats.”

Virgil blinks. “Uh, they’re mildly creepy and they’re trying to shut us down, but death threats would be completely out of tone for us. Them, I mean.”

“Hey, maybe we should try to hit them with a health code violation,” Roman says, snapping his fingers. “That much black paint slathered onto their windows and awnings can’t be healthy for anyone. I’d bet you anything there’s lead in it! Do you think we can take them to court, or is that too depressing? Lead is dangerous.”

“There’s lead in most paint, Roman,” Logan says and goddamn it why does he appear just like that. It’s like he’s rising up from the ground out of nowhere. “Thomas – ”

Thomas tries not-so-subtly to scramble away and hide behind the counter. He gets tangled in the broken wreck of the willow tree again and just about screams with frustration. “Ah, uh, Logan, I’m super sorry, I’m just so ridiculously swamped... with... work! Gosh, there’s just so much work to do; can’t talk right now, love you, sorry bye – ”

“I love you too,” Logan says, blinking, “obviously I do, but that does not negate the fact that we really need to talk – ”

Thomas escapes the willow tree and fumbles for the door handle behind the counter. One of them. There’s four to choose from, and he’s aiming for the basement, so he’s actually surprised when he gets the right one on the first try. He throws himself through, slams it shut behind him, and breathes in the dusty air of the basement.

Sweet silence. Just him and his thoughts. Well, and all the pointless rubbish that they’ve got lying around, but that’s kind of par for the course when you’re hanging out in the basement.

After a moment, he makes his way down the stairs, past the rows of broken, splintered seating and to the open floor space at the very bottom, where a single podium stands (miraculously untouched) in front of the judge’s chair, which has been split neatly in two with an axe that’s still buried in the wooden frame.

“Where did we even get all this stuff?” Thomas mutters, running a hand through his hair as he glances around.

“I think it was here when Pat bought the place,” says someone from behind him.

Thomas screams and flails and jumps backwards, but it’s just Virgil, whose mysterious abilities of sneaking up on him from seemingly nowhere have struck again. He’s standing in the doorway at the top of the basement step, illuminated from behind by the soft rosy glow of the coffeeshop. He looks slightly concerned. “Everything good? I think you kinda offended Logan back there.”

“Don’t do that,” wheezes Thomas. His nerves are still shot from... well, basically everything that’s happened today.

“Do what?” Virgil says with an innocently evil little grin, and then tilts his head back so his face is half in shadow. Hang on, there’s something about his face – “Oh, Thomas, did I scare you? Scare you with my pale face and creepy eyeshadow and sudden appearances out of nowhere?”

“You,” says Thomas, trying to work out what’s weird about this, because he knows there’s something, “are about as scary as a scolding from Patton about getting back to work, especially when he’s been goofing off just as much as the rest of us.” Did that happen? That probably happened, right? He swears he can remember remembering it happening.

“Oof, ouch, how will my fragile ego ever recover.” Virgil descends the stairs at an easy meander, joining him next to the podium. “You’re still calling your dad by his first name? Something happen there?”

“Wha – oh, yeah.” Thomas frowns, momentarily distracted from his current dilemma as he tries to recall something else. “Yeah, no, we’re – we... had an argument, I think?”

“You think you had an argument,” Virgil says.

“We definitely probably had an argument,” Thomas corrects quickly. “And now I’m almost certainly doing it to assert dominance, maybe.”

“That makes complete sense,” Virgil agrees, nodding. He glances around the basement, and his eyes fall on a set of seats to the far right of them. He frowns, and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I think this place is setting off my allergies. Are you done with hiding from Logan – can we leave here now?”

“You don’t have any allergies,” Thomas notes absently, and then, “and you don’t need to hang around if you don’t want. I just needed a few minutes to myself, before... you know.”

Virgil hums, but doesn’t leave. He reaches out behind him, finds the cracked and splintered wood of the defendant’s table, and slides backwards to sit down on its surface, cross-legged. “Saw you go across the street,” he says.

Thomas feels a jolt of pure, cold fear. Adrenaline all through his body. He doesn’t even know why. “Uh, you – no. You didn’t. Because that didn’t happen. Must’ve been someone else – ” His throat closes up. Yes, and. “I mean – yeah, I did. And?”

“And I’m not going to tell anyone, stop panicking.” Virgil rolls his eyes. “Where you go on your lunch break is your business. I just feel like I should warn you, those guys are super shady.”

“Heh.” Thomas cracks a weak smile. “Nice. Shady, because – Dark Side?” He sees Virgil giving him a strange look of incomprehension, and shakes his head. “Okay, never mind.”

“Yeah. Listen, look after yourself,” Virgil says. “I know you’ve been going to therapy lately, but that doesn’t mean you should start doing dumb stuff like talking to the creepy evil coffeeshop owner from across the street.”

Oh yes, that. Thomas tries to remember the date of his last therapy appointment. He can’t, but he must have had one. He must be going to therapy, because that’s why he feels so much better. He’s been so much happier lately. Seriously, all his emotional and psychological problems are pretty much gone at this point! Therapy is amazing, magical stuff. He’s got to thank Logan for recommending that he do that.

Everything’s great, there are no problems, but... there’s a few things still nagging at him. Like Janus’s number in his phone, weighing down his pocket like it’s made of lead. And something else. Hm. This is a pretty big something else, actually.

“Hey, Virge,” says Thomas slowly, trying to think of how best to phrase this.

“Yeah?” says Virgil, yawning.

“Has it ever occurred to you that it’s... really extremely weird that you, me, Roman, Logan, and, like, basically half of the people in the coffeeshop right now have exactly the same face?”

The expression on Virgil’s face goes straight from ‘in the midst of giving mildly helpful life advice’ to something closer to the sort look he’d acquire if Thomas suddenly announced his deep and genuine belief in a pancake-shaped Earth, chemicals in the water turning people gay, and a moon landing that was not only faked but a massive cover-up to hide the fact that the moon had been destroyed in a freak accident decades earlier, all at once.

“What?” he says, and then, “what? What the hell are you even talking about?”

Thomas gestures at himself, then back at Virgil, and then to the door behind him where Roman and Logan probably still are. “Same face. Same eyes, same hair, same height... we’re all basically clones.”

“We look nothing alike! Thomas! You have brown hair!”

Thomas gapes at him. “So do you!”

“That’s not the point!” Virgil practically screeches, and then, “Thomas, are you getting all conspiracy-theorist on me again? You know that’s not healthy.”

“What? When have I ever gotten all – ” Thomas flails, somewhat wildly, and does bunny-ears. “‘Conspiracy theorist’? Isn’t that meant to be your thing?”

“Yes, and,” Virgil snaps, looking frightened.

“I know I picked up the whole ‘conspiracy theorist’ thing from you and those Youtube videos you constantly send me, but just because it’s a conspiracy doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” Thomas says instantly, which clears up the look of mild horror on Virgil’s face somewhat. “I’m just saying... it’s a heck of a weird coincidence, yeah? All of us, sharing a face?”

Virgil shakes his head. “I think you need to check the statistics on that one, because as far as I can remember, brown hair and brown eyes were fairly common traits for, uh, a lot of people to have.”

Thomas wants to push it further, he really does, but it looks like Virgil’s past the point of having fun with this conversation, and is looking actually distressed at the idea of continuing it. So he lets it go, even though it makes his stomach squirm with discomfort and his fingers clench. “...I guess you’re right. Sorry, just... had a moment, there. Y’know how it is. Love you,” he adds, smiling. He mimics Virgil’s usual two-fingered salute as best as he can, and is pleased to see Virgil crack a rare genuine grin in response as he returns it.

“Love you too,” he says, and for once it doesn’t sound like it’s being dragged out of him kicking and screaming. “Look, let’s see if Roman’s okay with closing up early today. We can all head home, and you can get some sleep – ‘cause, honestly? It sounds like you need it.”

“Sounds good. Maybe I do,” Thomas says, and lets Virgil lead him up the stairs and back into the bright warmth of the coffeeshop.

*

Thomas doesn’t sleep at all that night, even though they do end up closing early. Too much to think about, too much that keeps flitting out of his grasp the moment he tries to focus on it.

That doesn’t matter, though. Being tired isn’t something he ever has to deal with.

And he can never remember his dreams, anyway.

*

This doesn’t feel right, thinks Thomas, as he watches Roman, hauling several large, dripping slabs of raw steak behind him as he heads over to the makeshift stage, like he’s a zookeeper heading off to feed legions of ravenous tigers. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he thinks that there might be something distinctly wrong with this.

It’s not just the whole face-thing. (And that probably has some sort of rational explanation, like convergent evolution or chaos theory or something. Logan could probably tell him what’s up with that, but he doesn’t want to ask; honestly just can’t be bothered to.) It’s a niggling little feeling of unease that doesn’t quite make his heart beat faster, but does make it feel like it doesn’t sit quite right in his chest. Like everything’s slightly sideways, even though nothing at all is wrong with the world.

He hits the espresso machine as it begins to emit acrid clouds of choking black smoke, and briefly considers opening it up to see if anything weird’s found its way inside again. But then he remembers Roman’s advice about ignoring it, and decides to follow that.

Ah, darn, he’s got himself caught in the willow tree again. They should really get rid of that at some point, it’s beginning to get seriously unwieldy. It’s almost like it’s growing.

Wake up. Get breakfast. Get into Virgil’s car, get to work. Perfect day. Go home. Dinner, bed. Rinse and repeat. It’s not tedious because nothing this good could get tedious. You can’t get bored of real life, can you?

What day is it, again?

Wake up. Get breakfast. Get into Virgil’s car, get to work.

Wake up.

Thomas goes into the office, after a brief struggle where he can’t remember which door is the right one. All the labels have been scratched out with a thick black marker.

He checks the schedule. All the shifts seem all right. Virgil, Roman, and him, marked in every day, for the rest of eternity. Which is just how it’s supposed to be. Dad’s stopping by tomorrow. Open mic night the day after. They’re going to prune back the willow tree the day after that. Everything’s perfectly in order, so why is he crying? Does it matter?

He smears the tears off his face with his apron, and adjusts his nametag, and gets on with things. Check the inventory. (Everything’s in order, of course.) Get food from the supply cupboard. Be careful not to look too closely at what surrounds him. Heat up the food. Fill up the display cabinet.

There’s something in his pocket.

“Virgil,” says Thomas, hand hovering over the side of his jeans. “I have the horrible suspicion that something has gone terribly wrong with reality and I’m the only one in this coffeeshop who’s actually able to perceive it.”

“I feel like that every day of my life,” Virgil says. “You’re not special. Hold that thought, we’ve got a customer.”

A man walks up to the counter. A sheet of paper with the words ‘ICE DISPENSER’ on it is taped neatly to his t-shirt.

“Good morning, welcome to the coffeeshop, what can I get you?” says Virgil blandly, grabbing for a pencil.

The man stares at Virgil blankly for a long few seconds, before his mouth cranks open slowly, like it’s on a rusty hinge. He proceeds to produce the most horrific, guttural rattling noise Thomas has ever heard in his life.

This continues for nearly two full minutes.

Virgil nods along, jotting down notes on the pad of paper by the cash register. “I see. And did you want sugar with that?”

Another rattling noise, this time even louder and more drawn-out. The customer sounds like he’s choking in the most painful, undignified manner possible, with the full knowledge that nobody will ever come to save or assist him.

Virgil sympathetically pushes a table number over the counter at him. “If you have a loyalty card, I can stamp that for you now,” he says solemnly.

The customer declines this offer with another resigned deathrattle. He pays for his order with cash, tips extravagantly, and nods at Thomas before taking table marker number seventy-six, and trudging sadly away.

“Huh,” says Thomas.

Virgil sets about making the coffee. “Yeah, he’s probably our best tipper. But what were you talking about? Something being, uh, ‘horribly wrong with reality’?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was saying,” says Thomas. “Forget about it.”

He feels in his pocket, and realizes that the penny from yesterday is still there. He touches it and it’s cold and he draws it out and it’s heads-side-up.

He drops it back in.

Thomas kind of stumbles his way through the day, after that. It’s a lovely day, of course, but he only witnesses the loveliness in blurry flashes of color and smiles and sudden moments of clarity as he serves yet another familiar customer with their complicated, hard-to-remember orders. He gets all of the orders right first-go. He doesn’t even need to think about it, half the time. He never has.

“Thomas –” says someone.

“Not now, Logan,” he says.  “I don’t need you for this.”

There are so many doors behind the counter. Why are there so many doors? No, the amount of doors there is the right amount, all coffeshops are supposed to have four... six... however-many-there-are doors behind the counter.

Something in his pocket. A phone, a coin. Coins. What’s so special about coins, what is it, what is it.

Virgil’s not behind the counter anymore. He looks up and Logan’s not there either, and Roman must be taking a break, so – just him. Thomas, alone. Funny how that makes his heart clench unpleasantly.

Thomas takes a coin from the tip jar, a dime. Nothing special. He holds it up, turns it end over end. The burnished silver; the disembodied head of Roosevelt on one side, the torch-and-branches on the other. Bumpy ridged edges, faintly metallic when he brings it up to his nose to sniff. A normal coin. Right.

He tosses it up in the air; watches it fall end-over-end through the air. Catches it in his palm. Looks down. Heads.

Tosses it again. Heads.

Throws it up, lets it fall with a clatter to the counter. Waits until it’s finished rattling around before he looks at it properly. Heads. He swipes it off the table, kneels down to see where it’s hit the floor. Heads again.

Thomas’s heart is suddenly racing unreasonably fast. He picks up the tip jar, half-full-up with money of all denominations, and scoops up a handful from it. He throws them to the counter haphazardly. Some of them scatter to the floor, but he doesn’t care. He’s looking at the coins on the countertop and seeing that they’ve all come up heads, and he has a horrible feeling that the ones on the floor are all lying heads-side-up too.

The tip jar is still in his hand. He looks at it; looks around at the shop. Bright lights and rainbows everywhere, plastered on walls and tables and any surface that can hold them. People chatting pleasantly at the tables, enjoying their drinks, enjoying each other’s company, enjoying the day. It’s so nice. It’s so nice. It’s the most perfect coffeeshop he’s ever been in. Why does he feel like screaming?

Thomas isn’t sure how conscious the decision to let go of the tip jar is. He sees it fall almost in slow motion – the glass slipping from his hand, falling through the air, shattering into glittering splintering fractals. The coins spilling everywhere. Bouncing, skittering, falling across the floorboards. Every one of them coming to rest on the same result – heads, heads, heads.

Nobody seems to notice as he sinks to the ground, surrounded by hundreds upon thousands of glaring accusing coins with all exactly the same side facing up. They just keep talking, grinning, laughing, enjoying their coffee. It’s perfect. Every bit of it is so sickeningly, hollowly perfect. The colors are bright and the sunlight filters through the windows in picture-perfect patterns laid out on the tables and walls. The faces of everyone around him are either his face, reflected back to him in perfect grinning detail, or they’re just plain wrong, and it’s like literally nobody else can see how wrong it all is.

“Thomas,” says a familiar voice, and he looks up to see Roman leaning over him, face tight with worry. “Thomas, dear Zeus, what happened – did you cut yourself? Here, I’ll help you, let me find a broom – ”

“Roman,” says Thomas, reaching up to grab onto his wrists with something like desperation, “Roman, listen, I think something’s really wrong. Really wrong. I don’t know if it’s just me or if the entire world’s gone crazy all of a sudden, but – ”

He stops.

Stops dead in his tracks and looks at Roman, really looks at him, because the concern in his eyes is fading and being replaced with... exasperation. Annoyance. Frustration, even, although he’s very clearly trying to press back all of those things behind a mask of moderate indifference. It’s not working very well.

“I... really thought you were enjoying this,” he says. He doesn’t pull back from Thomas, not physically, but he seems to visibly wilt a bit. “Everyone looked like they were having fun. Did I get something wrong? Was it the shop layout, or... or, Patton? Did you want him here – maybe I should just... tweak things around a bit...”

What, thinks Thomas.

“What,” he says out loud. “Roman, I... don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that this isn’t right and... and, to be honest, you’re terrifying me. A lot. What’s going on?”

“Okay, all right, okay – this isn’t working?” Roman rips off his apron in one quick, frantic movement. “That’s fine! I have a hundred, no, a thousand, no – millions of other ideas we can try! Is it the people? Let’s get rid of Logan! We can do this without him! Or, or, let’s mix things up! Maybe take Virgil out too, maybe we can just have me and you, and we don’t even need to run the coffeeshop at all, do we? Yes, yeah, let’s – we can redo eighth grade, Thomas, that’s it, that’s what we need to do!”

“Eighth grade?” Thomas asks, feeling horror bubble up inside of him. Horror mixed with a faint sense of... delight?

“It sucked, Thomas, eighth grade objectively sucked and you know it, but don’t worry – we can fix it, retroactively!” Roman’s grin is maniac, lighting his face up with unholy glee. He’s radiant and beautiful as he gesticulates and gestures wildly. “You’re so much better now, imagine what redoing fifth grade with all this future knowledge would be like! You’ll be so cool and calm and suave and you won’t have to sit back and just take what your bastard of an English teacher dishes out to you – imagine all the stories you could plagiarize without anyone ever realizing! Let’s do it, Thomas, just you and me! Turning back the hands of time is an absolute breeze in the confines of your own head!”

“Roman – ” Thomas struggles to his feet. “Roman, you’re... you’re scaring me. What is this? What’s going on?”

Roman barely seems to hear him. “The only real question is, do we start from the beginning of the year? Or should be just jump to the juicy parts? The bits where it’ll be fun to change everything up a bit? You know what? We should skip. It’s not like anyone’s ever going to know, and if we don’t get it right, we can always just go back and do it again and again and again and again and again and – ”

“I don’t want to redo eighth grade!” Thomas yells.

“Don’t you?” Roman says, meeting his eyes at last. There’s a horrible charged moment that feels like it’s packed with nuclear chaos, bulging with furious potential, but then Roman just shrugs and it’s defused in less than an instant. “Too close to reality? Okay, let’s go to space! Millions of worlds out there to explore, and none of it has to make any sense! We can go to Mars and catch sunlight in a box, or go running over the rooftops at midnight in a glowing city made up entirely of smoke, or – or – ”

“Roman!” Thomas says, and grabs Roman’s shoulders. “Roman, I don’t want to go to space or go to sea or go to Hogwarts or anything. I don’t want a fantasy world, because I can’t live in one of those, no matter how pretty or amazing it is. Roman, please, I just want to live in the real world!”

Silence.

“You talked to Deceit, didn’t you,” Roman says. He doesn’t sound cold or angry, exactly, just sort of... numbly betrayed.

“I...” Thomas struggles to remember something. Something important. “I don’t know. Did I?”

“You must have,” says Roman, every word suddenly underlined with sour, tangible bitterness, “because Thomas, that is the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”

The coffeeshop explodes. Or maybe Thomas does, or maybe it’s just the inside of Thomas’s head, or maybe it’s all of the above. For a long long moment all he can see is lights and flashing colors and then he’s falling through an endless cascade of his worst nightmares and darkest thoughts, all funnelled around him in a kaleidoscope of regret.

And when he hits the ground, the impact is tremendous. His bones break and his organs burst and his skull fractures inwards, shattering backwards and piercing right through his brain. He’s paralysed with the pain, so much so that he can’t even scream.

“Eight-point-five out of ten!” exclaims someone a short distance away. “Form was perfect, could’ve stuck the landing just a bit better. The brain damage was a lovely touch, massive kudos. Was that my idea? I can’t remember.”

“I think it might have been,” says Thomas. “I can’t think of anyone else who’s put this much thought into what it feels like to drown in my own cerebrospinal fluid.”

“Oh, neat, I’ve been hoping you’d get some mileage out of that one.” A pause. “You done bleeding to death down there?”

Thomas considers this for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so.” He sits up and shakes it off, and when he looks up, Remus is crouching in front of him. The expression on his face isn’t gleeful or malicious or anything, it’s just plain old curious. “Remus,” he says, unsurprised. “Did... are you... what is this place meant to be?”

“Oh, probably hell,” Remus says with a shrug. “You know how it is.” He makes a little gesture towards Thomas, but doesn’t motion to help him up. “I’d offer you a hand, but I used my last one for the tip jar.”

Thomas gets up slowly. Remus continues crouching there, considering him. “Uh, thanks. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Do you really?”

“No.”

“Figures,” says Remus with a light little sigh. “Nobody appreciates the effort I go into making hands, honestly. Like, sure, I could just go and whip them up out of nowhere, but what’s the point of that? Where’s the artistry? The finesse?”

Thomas doesn’t particularly care about Remus’s gruesome segues at the moment. “Listen, I just – you know this place better than I do, right? How do I get out of here?

“You could try suicide,” Remus says after a moment of what appears to be genuine, thoughtful consideration.

“But I don’t have a rope,” replies Thomas. He thinks that it should maybe be more distressing to him that he can’t think of any other reasons to object to Remus’s suggestion. But there’s a lot going on right now, so.

“Use my sash,” Remus offers, tugging it off with a flourish.

“Too short,” Thomas says. “I don’t think I could tie a noose in it if I tried.”

“Sounds to me like you’re making excuses,” Remus says with narrowed eyes and a tilt of the head. “Are my ideas just not good enough for you? Is that it?”

“No, I...” Thomas struggles for a moment. Why can’t he use the sash? He could rip it in half, tie the pieces together, do it again if that’s not long enough. “Well, there’s nowhere to hang it from.”

“Try the tree,” Remus says helpfully.

“What tree?” Thomas says, and then, “oh.”

The willow tree is still so very dead, horrible and twisted and rotting, but even despite that, it’s somehow managed to grow. Tangling prickly branches snaking outwards, a blight against the nothingness. Thomas looks at it, long and hard and careful, and feels revulsion welling up in him like a plague. He hates it. He wants to destroy it, rip it apart with his bare hands and damn all the splinters he’ll inevitably get in the process.

“I’m not getting anywhere near that thing,” he tells Remus.

“But you worked so hard on it,” Remus replies. “You might as well put it to use, right?”

Thomas just shakes his head. He hates it, he hates what it represents, he hates... who does he hate? “I... no. I can’t. I just want to get out of here.”

“Shame,” says Remus. “Can’t help you there. Good luck finding someone who can, though!”

And he throws himself backwards into nothingness. The moment he does, everything goes up in a massive spurt of blood. It lacerates reality with its intensity, far too thick and stinking of iron and rot, and Thomas is swept away in it, drowning and sobbing in the everything of it all. He reaches for his phone and fumbles blindly at the screen, knowing that he doesn’t even have the faintest hope of calling who he wants to call. He opens his mouth and yells out a name that is so very unintelligible through all the blood that even he can barely make it out. And for a moment, he thinks he’s lost.

Then something hooks around his arm, just under his elbow. Thomas gasps in relief. Instant mistake. The blood soaks into his lungs and even as he’s tugged out of it, all he can taste is red red red.

Hands, firm and unyielding, grasp him by the shoulders and brush sticky-stained hair from his eyes. Thomas tries to speak – to thank his rescuer? To ask for help? – but all that emerges is a pained gargle and a trickle of red from the corner of his mouth. Thomas reaches out to grasp at him, misses, and gags painfully, convulsing.

“Yep,” sighs Janus, and heaves Thomas pragmatically onto his side as he wheezes and chokes and claws pointlessly at his chest. “This might as well happen, with the state you’re in.” He pounds him on the back several times, and holds Thomas as he starts coughing up a seemingly endless stream of oozing liquid that’s somehow become more bile than blood at this point. “Shh – here, here.” He fumbles at one hand, tugging and teasing the yellow glove from it, and offers it to Thomas, who latches onto it like a lifeline. He squeezes it as he retches unhappily, and feels Janus squeezing back. “It’s all right, it’s all going to be fine – this is imaginary, it’ll wash out like it was never there. I’m here. Come on, get it all out. I’m not going to let anything else happen to you, Thomas, you’ll be fine.”

“Liar,” Thomas manages to rasp from tortured lungs, and he doesn’t even know why he’s saying it. He chokes up some more of the horrible mess. He’s not even sure it’s blood anymore, even though every inch of his skin and clothes is stained with the stuff.

“When necessary,” says Janus, apparently unbothered by the angry accusation. He tears off the sign pinned to his back with his free hand, and then does the same to the one on his arm, and then leans forward, bunching up a corner of his cape to wipe fastidiously at the side of Thomas’s ooze-stained mouth. “But then again, aren’t we all?”

Thomas coughs up what he hopes is the last of the blood, spitting it onto the ground and crawling away from it to half-collapse, some distance away. The inside of his mouth tastes like death. The inside of his brain also feels quite a bit like death as well. On the whole, he’s not doing so great.

Janus comes and sits next to him, and extends an arm out. “Here. You’re all right, Thomas; you’re going to be all right.”

Thomas curls up on himself, leans into Janus’s embrace and the warm darkness of his button-up suit shirt and closes his eyes and tries to believe him. He feels a hand in his hair and fingers skritching gently at his scalp, and he sighs, melting into it.

And for a good long while he just stays there. Wet and sticky and miserable, huddled in the safety of Janus’s lap. Because he just wants to be looked after, even if it’s only for a minute or two. And Janus seems perfectly willing to oblige.

“Okay,” he mutters eventually. He cracks open his eyes; stares up at Janus. “I don’t... I don’t understand any of this. What’s going on?”

“You know, I should be asking you the very same question,” Janus replies. He’s not looking at Thomas. He’s staring into the far distance. Because apparently now there’s a far distance to stare into. Before it had just been blood and darkness and willow tree, but now it’s curiously flat and blank. There’s even a nondescript dull blue sky stretching out above them.

“Can you please not be evasive and cryptic for once?” Thomas begs.

“‘For once’,” says Janus. Blinks, long and slow. Snakelike. Still doesn’t look down at Thomas. “So you remember me being evasive and cryptic in the past? You’re not still trying to ignore everything that distresses you?”

“Yes,” says Thomas. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Reluctantly, he uncoils from Janus’s lap, and sits across from him. Not too far. He doesn’t want to get too far from Janus at all right now.

His clothes are a mess of quickly-congealing blood that’s becoming stiff and scratchy against his skin. He must look absolutely dreadful, he thinks. He’s almost glad it’s only Janus here, because he doesn’t think that Janus is going to judge him for feeling like an absolute train wreck of a human being.

“Remus did the whole... blood-spurt thing,” he says, and watches for a reaction.

Janus only nods. “I did wonder. It seemed like his modus operandi, but with the way things are going today...” He trails off. It’s almost meaningful. And then he shakes his head, and actually looks at Thomas. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m the unwilling subject of an edgy second-year university avant-garde art project,” Thomas says. “Where are we?”

“Honest answer time?” Janus asks.

“Please.”

“Well, in a metaphysical sense, most likely some sort of self-imposed hell.”

“Oh,” says Thomas. “Oh, good.” He digests this. “And in a less metaphysical sense?”

“Now that I couldn’t tell you. Knowing you, it’s most likely a tossup between the living room, in the approximate vicinity of the couch, or your bedroom. If you have any suspicion that you happen to be doing this somewhere else, I’d advise you to hurry up and get it all over with so we don’t receive any more of those angry letters from the neighbours and/or local police.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed.”

Thomas tucks up his knees to his chest and hunches over onto them, burying his face in his arms. All he can smell is blood and vomit and he hates it but there’s nothing he can do. After a second, he says, “I’m so tired, Janus.”

“I know,” says Janus softly.

“Sometimes I think,” he says, and then stops. There is a curling sensation of horrified guilt welling up in his chest preventing him from getting the rest of the words out. “I think I should just – ” He doesn’t want to say it. Not even to... whatever Janus is to him. Maybe if he just ignores it, it’ll go away. “I...”

“I know, Thomas.” He sounds so very exhausted. Helpless. He reaches out his one gloveless hand, again, but this time Thomas ignores it and just hugs himself tighter. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Thomas swallows that sick feeling of shame, which tastes a lot like copper and bile. “I’m... I’m not going to do... anything. I just need someone to know.”

“I do. I already did.” He lays his bare hand on Thomas’s lower back, light as anything. The gentleness of it makes Thomas’s flesh crawl with an emotion he can’t describe. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve it. “I’m about to tell you something, and it’s going to sound an awful lot like a lie.”

“Okay,” says Thomas, and turns his head sideways so he doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“It’s not a lie,” Janus clarifies, somewhat anxiously.

“Okay,” Thomas says again.

“Okay,” agrees Janus, and pauses. “I love you.”

Thomas thinks about this for a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re right. That sounds a lot like a lie.” He looks up. “I want to get out of here. What do I have to do? Do I need to go somewhere, do something, or can I just... wake up...?”

“That really depends,” says Janus, an unreadable expression falling away from his face, and he nods in the direction he’d been staring off into, earlier. “Look.”

Thomas looks. He sees, amidst all the blankness and indistinctness, a street and a curb and a coffeeshop sitting incongruously right in the middle. The sign at the top has been torn down violently, but the impression of a round, friendly font with hints of rainbow can still be seen above it. The front windows are smashed. The lights are off.

“Oh,” he says. Blinks. Considers. “Patton’s going to be upset about that.”

“Well, I think we both know that’s a lie,” Janus says, and slips his glove back on. “Really, I doubt your dear old sense of morality had any idea it existed in the first place.”

“Tomorrow never comes,” Thomas murmurs. “Then... where – where is-?”

“Patton? God knows. Probably taking a well-deserved nap somewhere in your brain where it isn’t broken chaos, if that even exists. Or he’s dead,” Janus adds thoughtfully. “Always a possibility.”

Thomas’s fingers clench. “That’s a badly-timed joke that’s in very poor taste,” he says tonelessly, not phrasing it as a question because he doesn’t want it to be something that has a multiple-choice sort of answer.

“Ah. Yes.” Janus looks a bit remorseful, which... yeah. Good. “If Patton were dead... well. Trust me, you’d know about it. I’m sure that would be an entirely different can of frogs to deal with. As it is...” A little puff of a sigh. “I don’t claim to be an expert on your creativity’s inner workings, but I suspect that he’s not very happy with Patton at the moment. I can easily imagine him being, ah, sidelined from the narrative, so to speak.”

“Because of... the whole you thing.” Thomas shuts his eyes for a second; has to shut them because of the sudden stab of overwhelming guilt and loathing that threatens to make his entire body fold in on itself. It’s not even his guilt. Or is it? It’s hard to tell. “Oh no.”

“All coming back now, is it?” Janus’s voice has a hint of bitterness to it.

“Yeah.” He considers opening his eyes again, but can’t quite work up the willpower. “Roman made the place. Logan was... he was there, but I think he was trying to let me know what was going on. Something about theatre? But I kept ignoring him.”

“Logic doesn’t have much of a place in idle fantasies, no.”

“What about Virgil?” Thomas opens his eyes, looks over at Janus. “He – he was just, going along with it. Wait, was that Virgil? Or just some, some – I don’t know, some sort of construct?”

Janus frowns, looks away. “Knowing Virgil...”

“You know Virgil?”

“Obviously, but that’s a story for another time. Knowing Virgil, I’d say yes, that most likely was him.”

“So why did he act like nothing was wrong?” Thomas says. “He’s anxiety. Shouldn’t he have been right up there with you and Remus, trying to shatter the coffeeshop windows or whatever?”

“Sometimes,” says Janus, “well, sometimes it’s easier to sink into a comfortable cushion of lies and brightly-colored fantasies, rather then become more and more distressed at the reality of a situation. I know that, and I’m sure you do too. And with the state of things as they are... is it really any wonder that Virgil would prefer to live in a world where his family are happy and getting along, and where you don’t hate him in the least?”

”I don’t hate Virgil,” Thomas says blankly.

“I see. And have you bothered to tell him that recently?”

Thomas breathes in, and breathes out, and says, “Oh, cool.. I fucked up so bad that my anxiety decided to go and hide out on the island of the lotus eaters rather than bother me about his feelings. That’s fun!”

Janus examines his fingernails. Wait, he’s wearing gloves. He examines where his fingernails would be if he wasn’t wearing gloves. Thomas has no idea why he’s doing that. “Well, to be fair, you also decided that a metaphorical Lotus-Eater Island would be a pleasant vacation destination, so maybe you shouldn’t be throwing paint in a greenhouse you don’t want to spend hours cleaning up.”

“We’re doing a metaphor now? Okay,” Thomas says. “Maybe Roman shouldn’t have booked us all a first-class ticket to metaphorical lotus-land without asking me!”

Janus looks slowly up from his nonexistent fingernail-checking. His gaze is sad but knowing. “Are you sure about that?”

Thomas is about to ask Janus what he means by that, but then the door to the coffeeshop opens, swinging strangely on one broken hinge. A figure steps out, laptop tucked under one arm, neatly and precisely closes the door behind him, and begins to walk with purpose towards Thomas and Janus.

“Logan,” says Thomas with a choked little exhale of relief, and reaches out. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

Logan takes his hand with the faintest of squeezes and joins them on the ground, situating his laptop neatly in his lap. Straight-backed and cross-legged, that’s how Logan sits, and he makes it seem like the very peak of professionality, too.

“I would not advise going in there,” he says, glancing over at Janus. He doesn’t let go of Thomas’s hand. “He is... not happy with you, to say the least.”

“Oh, please, continue to tell me things I don’t know already,” Janus says.

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas repeats, unable to stop apologizing. “I just kept ignoring you, and brushing you off, and – ”

“I’m used to it,” says Logan shortly.

Thomas flinches, because... well, the truth hurts. They do ignore Logan. A lot. Entirely too much. He’s kind of falling to pieces, isn’t he? It’s probably no wonder he keeps thinking about – nope. Not now. “I’m sorry,” he repeats again.

Logan’s face softens, just a bit. “I know,” he says. “Don’t worry about it for the moment.”

“Agreed,” says Janus. “We have more important things to worry about. Such as Roman’s charming flair for the dramatic, and how to end all of this.”

“Yeah,” says Thomas. “Yeah, that would be nice. And I’d also like to be not completely covered in blood soon, if at all possible.”

Logan looks gently puzzled. “Then don’t be. It’s not as if you’re actually covered in blood right now, is it?”

“Of course I – ” Thomas stops to think about the situation as it stands for a moment. Really think about it. “Oh. Huh. I guess I’m not.” He looks down, and the blood is gone. Normal clothes, once again. His skin still feels sticky and prickly and awful, but it’s not because of anything physical. “Why did I ignore you, again? That was... a very stupid thing to do. Feel free to throw your laptop at me if I do it again.”

“Oh, I plan to,” says Logan. “Now, if you’re prepared to actually listen...?”

Thomas nods. “What were you trying to tell me, back in the coffeeshop? Was it just all ‘the matrix has you’ sort of stuff, or...?”

“The-?” Logan blinks. “I... no. I had hoped that your background in theatre would be enough to help you interpret the context clues I was handing out to you, left right and centre. But apparently not. And when I attempted to make it more obvious...”

“I started running away from you.” Thomas resists the urge to bury his head in his hands. “Right. Of course I did. Theatre of Cruelty, right?”

Logan nods. “Immersive performance art, with the audience at the centre of the piece and immersed in the action. Designed to force them into feeling by overwhelming them. Typically more Remus’s area, generally speaking, but – ”

“But I’m fucking losing my mind,” Thomas says dully, brief moment of good humor draining quickly away as quickly as it had come. “So everything’s blurring together. And Roman decided to Theatre-of-Cruelty me because he wanted everything to be... be better.”

“You’re not losing your mind,” Logan says, gaze snapping up to Thomas with unexpected sharpness. “Thomas – please, look at me. You are not losing your mind; I think I would be the first to know. And you are misinterpreting what I’m telling you. Deliberately, I suspect.”

“If I’m not losing my mind,” Thomas says, “please feel free to explain why I’m currently sitting in a shifting, writhing hellscape of my own creation, outside a broken coffeeshop that houses the last of my hopes and dreams, while the embodiment of my logic fails to convince me that I don’t deserve this. And also throw in an explanation as to why I’m feeling more and more suicidal with every passing day – thanks! I’d really appreciate that!”

Logan looks at Thomas. Really looks at him, long and hard and sad, and then he swivels out from sitting cross-legged and shuffles forwards. He reaches out, then carefully and precisely folds Thomas into a hug. For a second Thomas doesn’t know what to think.

“Huh,” he says. “Interesting.”

And then he starts crying.

It’s the sort of crying that’s disgustingly messy and ugly; big fat tears running down his cheeks as he just about chokes on them. And Logan doesn’t shush him or try to tell him it’s going to be all right; he just holds Thomas tight and breathes, slow and steady. And honestly that’s better than anything else that he could conceivably be doing.

A hug from Logan is solid and has a reassuring weight unmatched by nearly anything in existence. Logan-hugs happen for a reason, and they’re solemn and thoughtful and achingly kind. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to be this kind to himself. He cries and cries and Logan just squeezes him tighter and cradles Thomas’s head to his shoulder and hums, monotonal, the vibrations echoing through both of their bodies.

Thomas wants to stay like this forever, but has a feeling that might be just as bad as staying in the coffeeshop. Eventually, reluctantly – and it could be after hours of this or it could be just a minute or two; he doesn’t know and either way it still doesn’t feel like nearly enough – he draws away from the hug.

“How do we fix this?” he mutters, scrubbing at his eyes. He’s no longer drenched in blood, but he feels just about as gross as if he were. And he’s pretty much all cried-out by this point.

“Well, technically we don’t,” Janus says. “What you need to do is talk to Roman.”

“Talk to Roman and get him to stop this,” Thomas says. “He’s probably in the coffeeshop still, huh?”

Janus and Logan just nod. After a second, so does Thomas.

He takes a moment to try to find the resolve; the motivation to do this. It’s a very long moment because he’s not entirely sure if it’s there. He just wants to badly to rest. To fall back into the bright colors and soft lighting of a world where reality is softer, and there’s no rush to do anything at all. Just soft, absurd, unrealistic happiness.

But, no.

He finds something that could maybe be called ‘determination’ if he squints just a bit, and decides that, while it’s shaky and crumbling at the edges, it’s going to have to do for now. “I can do that. I can talk to him. Okay.” He stands up, and notices that neither Logan nor Janus stand with him. They just stay there on the ground, regarding the remains of the coffeeshop with guarded trepidation.

“Aren’t you two coming?” he asks, already sort of knowing what the answer is.

“We will if you ask us to,” Logan tells him, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “But as I said – Roman is not happy with Janus at the moment, and I am not so sure my presence is required in this situation or, indeed, desired.”

“Wha – Logan?” says Thomas, thrown. “Why wouldn’t I need you? You’re my logic, and I’m pretty sure a voice of reason is exactly what Roman needs right now. Of course I want you to help.”

Logan’s glasses glint as he tilts his head back to the empty sky. “All previous interactions with him today point to one very well-supported conclusion: he does not want to listen to a single word that I have to say. I fail to see how your presence would change that.”

Janus lets out a very soft hmm that sounds quite pointed.

“I can’t make you come with me – I don’t want to make you come,” Thomas corrects, “if it makes you uncomfortable. But I’d really appreciate it if you did.” He then eyes Janus. “If... Roman really doesn’t want you there...”

“I understand,” says Janus, waving a hand in gentle dismissal. “Don’t work yourself up about it; I’ll stay out of this.”

Thomas smiles hesitantly at him, and then before he can really process why, it becomes real. “Okay.” He offers a hand to Logan, who accepts it and lets Thomas pull him up so they’re standing side-by-side. “See you later, I guess.”

“Break a leg,” Janus says, folding his arms and pulling his knees up to his chest.

“No leg breakage will occur,” says Logan, mouth set in a grim line.

Janus looks like he wants to laugh, but doesn’t. Instead, he says, “With the mood Roman’s in right now, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

*

The coffeshop is dark. The posters on the walls have been messily ripped down, the plates are smashed, the paint on the windows smeared and scratched. Distantly, Thomas can recall Roman and Virgil and him putting it up. It had been saccharine-sweet levels of perfect, but... nice. They’d had fun doing it, even if it was just a pointless daydream of a day.

Roman is nowhere to be seen.

Thomas reaches for Logan’s hand. Logan looks up at him, evidently surprised, and then curls his fingers clumsily around Thomas’s, as if entirely unsure of how to do it. It’s awkward, but comforting nonetheless.

“Roman?” Thomas says, and then says it louder: “Roman?”

Logan frowns, and glances around. “I doubt he would have left. It’s not as if there are many other places to go. Perhaps he’s hiding-?”

But he doesn’t get any further than that, because it’s at that point that one of the infinite number of doors stretching out into eternity behind the front counter opens with a faint creak, and Roman enters, stage left.

He... well, to put it simply, he doesn’t look great. He’s had better days. He’s a tiny bit under the weather.

Oh, who is Thomas kidding, he looks terrible. His eyes are rimmed-red, like he’s been crying just as much as Thomas had been only a few minutes ago. His hair is a dishevelled rat’s nest. He’s not wearing the coffeeshop uniform; it’s been discarded in favor of his usual princely attire, but even that is crumpled and torn – sleeves rolled up to his arms, sash hanging off an arm and torn in two.

He walks through the remains of the coffeeshop, barefoot, seemingly careless of the glass and ceramic shards littering the floor, and comes to an unsteady halt in front of Thomas and Logan.

“Hi,” he greets.

“Roman. Are you ready to listen to reason?” Logan says testily.

Thomas squeezes his hand in gentle warning, but Roman just shrugs listlessly. “Fair warning,” he says, voice dull. “I’m kind of... extremely angry at you right now, Thomas. I’d say ‘nothing personal’ but...”

“But it’s very personal,” Thomas finishes. There’s a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry. I really am. But we can’t do this anymore.”

This is all it takes, apparently. For a second Roman’s expression flickers between betrayal, anger, dull acceptance, and just plain old grief, but then he seems to settle solidly on ‘anger’ as the emotion of choice. He lets out a furious growl, and snatches the guitar from where it’s still propped up next to the stage area. He swings it wildly, slamming it down dangerously close to the two of them. Logan lets go of Thomas’s hand as he pinwheels backwards wildly, yelling out in alarm. Roman swings again, something wild and animalistic in his eyes, and Logan slips and trips to the ground.

“Janus?” Thomas yells out, reaching his other hand out, backwards.

“Oh, so now you’re calling on him for backup. Against me!” Roman lets out a shrill, bitter laugh.

“Yes,” says Thomas. “I’m scared! You’re scaring me! You just tried to murder me with an acoustic guitar!”

Roman goes as pale as... as pale as someone who’s just realized that what they’ve just done was very, very stupid. He drops the guitar. It smashes to the ground, a pile of splinters and bent strings and warped wood panels. “Thomas – ”

“I know it’s not actually going to kill us but, jeez!” Thomas’s heart is beating faster, faster. “I know you’re angry, but do you really want me to die?” More panicked: “Janus? Janus?”

“Here,” says a voice that’s a bit more urgent than usual. And although he doesn’t take Thomas’s hand, Janus is standing there in the doorway when he glances back, one hand on the doorframe. “I see things have escalated somewhat.”

“Understatement,” Logan mutters, struggling back up to his feet.

“I gave you everything you wanted! You got the callback, you made it to the wedding, you didn’t have anything to worry about!” Roman says, eyes still fixed directly on Thomas. They’re watering faintly, tears glimmering in the dim, flashing light. “You even got a therapist, Logan said that’s who you need to go to see to fix any mind-related problems, and the coffeeshop is functionally perfect, so why weren’t you still happy about it?”

“It’s because you can’t just fix everything with a happy, cheerful story,” Janus says. He doesn’t sound angry. He actually sounds pretty sad.

“Did I ask, Lie-mony Snake-it?”

“You did,” says Logan, “as a matter of fact.”

“Shut up, Logan!” Roman howls. “Shut up, shut up, shut up – Thomas, I’m giving you everything you want and more than that, I’m giving you everything I have! What do I need to do to be good enough for you? What do I need to make? What do I need to change about myself? I can be anyone you want me to be, you just need to ask, but it’s like you don’t even know what you want anymore!”

“I – you – we – ” Thomas says. “ – you’re putting me on the spot here. I...” His vision is blurry and unfocused, and when he blinks to clear it, a few stray tears slip down his cheeks. “Look, maybe I don’t know what I want!”

“True enough,” Janus says softly from behind him. “But I think I might.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that!” Roman screams, reaching unprecedented levels of angry hysteria. “What do you know – ”

“He wants what quite a lot of people want,” Janus says, cutting him neatly off. “What most people, through history, have searched endlessly for. A cornerstone of basic human existence.” A single gloved hand, extended upwards to the sky. “Eudaimonia.”

“I’m going to fucking obliterate you,” Roman growls. “I didn’t come here to get soapboxed at about words I don’t know or understand. Just speak clearly for once, or – ”

“Happiness!” Janus exclaims, eyes flashing dangerously. “He wants to be happy, deep down! Is that clear enough for you?”

“Technically speaking, translating the ancient Greek term ‘eudaimonia’ as just ‘happiness’ is incorrect,” Logan says, very very quickly, almost like he’s all-too-aware of the fact that he’s going to get cut off in a moment. “It, like a lot of Greek words, loses a lot of meaning if you are to merely condense it down to a single English word. In actuality, it would be more accurate to interpret it as ‘human flourishing’ or perhaps ‘wellbeing’ – ”

“Stop telling me what I want!” Thomas yells, slamming his hand against the nearest wall. Everybody stops talking, and turns to stare at him. “Just, stop it! First Roman, and now you, and – and – shut up! Just... shut up!” He grinds his fists into his eyes, digs his fingers into his palm; tries to find even the slightest bit of grounding. “You all just never stop talking and I’m so sick of all of this. Why can’t you be quiet for, like, five seconds? Let me make my own decisions for once!”

“Stop,” Logan says sharply. So sharply that Thomas is momentarily too stunned to be angry anymore. “Janus is a part of you. Roman is, too. We all are.”

“I – I know that,” Thomas says, blinking – yeah, he knows that, why is that relevant, why – “Of course I know that. Why-?”

“Because you are acting as if we are separate entities to you entirely, when that is quite emphatically not the case.” Logan gestures to Roman with one sharp flourish. “Roman is the embodiment of your hopes and dreams, as the both of you are so fond of pointing out. Thomas, he only created this entire absurd scenario for you because you both wanted it.”

Thomas feels like he’s just been punched in the stomach, but also like he’s been watching the punch approach with agonizing slowness for the last few days, knowing that it’s coming and that there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

He turns away from Logan’s serious, intense stare, looking wildly to Roman’s look of reluctant agreement, and then back to the doorway, where Janus is standing. He’s pulled out that crooked cane of his from somewhere or other, and is leaning on it. Probably for dramatic effect, because Janus is all about the drama, but also he looks pretty exhausted, so maybe there’s some practicality to it too.

“You knew that already,” Janus says. “In fact – no metaphors or metaphysics about it – you straight-up-and-down agreed that you wanted to fantasize about this. That you wanted to forget about all of your problems for a while and commit to the deception. Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right. And I think I’d know, considering, uh, you know.”

Thomas grits his teeth, curls up his hands into fists. “Okay. So maybe I did. So maybe I wanted to have a happy daydream about things that don’t matter, where nothing ever goes wrong for me, where I can just exist and be happy! You know what, I think I agree with Roman – forget me, what’s wrong with you? Why can’t you let me be happy?”

“Exactly!” Roman says. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!”

“Anything wrong with us is also wrong with you by definition – ” Logan blurts, sounding frustrated.

“Which is totally what needs to be said right now, thank you, Logan,” Janus yells, cutting over him, and then, at a slightly more reasonable volume: “And of course I want you to be happy, Thomas, of course – we all want you to be happy, that was never in question, but you must see that this isn’t the way to do it. This is the sixth time in two days that you and Roman have dreamed up an overtly immersive, self-indulgent daydream that you’ve chosen to wallow in instead of paying attention to real life. And I am usually all about the self-indulgence, but this is... this is excessive, and unhealthy, and I’m worried and quite frankly afraid for you!” He stops abruptly, looking faintly shocked at himself, and glares at Thomas fiercely for several long seconds, before snapping, “Now look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve forced me to be honest with my emotions.”

“Fuck,” says Thomas, staring.

“Pretty much,” Janus agrees.

“Fuck, I – six times? I could’ve sworn it wasn’t... I mean... I was just daydreaming.” Thomas squeezes his fists tight again. His fingernails dig into his skin, sharp and biting. Sharp enough to cut right through it. If he slashed them along the underside of his arms, followed the veins... “I’ve been paying attention, to everything else, I have. It’s just – ”

“You have been exceedingly distracted, as of late,” Logan says. “Your mind has been elsewhere, figuratively speaking.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Thomas whispers. “Any of it. I know we’re done with the whole wedding-callback thing, and I know the plane’s crashing and I need to put on my damn oxygen mask already, but I almost don’t want to. It’s like... I’ve ruined everything already, so would putting it on make any difference? Maybe it’s better if I just...” He trails off.

“Suffocate so everyone doesn’t have to deal with you,” Roman says, and then looks completely horrified at himself.

Thomas just nods, and buries his face in his hands for a long, long moment. And then he straightens up, and takes in a deep breath. “But I guess trying to distract myself like this isn’t working. If I want to...” He hesitates. Now that he’s not angry or panicked anymore, he can’t even manage to say it out loud. Not even to himself. He’s a wreck. He’s a pathetic mess of a human being. “...that. If I want to do that, there’s better ways of dealing with it. There’s got to be. Right?”

“Right,” says Janus reassuringly.

“Of course there are,” Logan says firmly. “There’s always a way to deal with it. A healthy way. And there’s always an opportunity for things to get better.”

“Oh,” says Roman. “So that’s it? All I’ve done is make things worse, and make us even more miserable than we already were; fantastic. Everything I’ve done so far is pointless!”

“Not pointless,” says Janus. “Never pointless. What you’ve done, my dear Roman, is neatly illustrate for us just how far things have gotten out of hand – and that’s far more valuable than you realize.”

“Are we done here?” Logan asks. “Because you can’t stick around in your own head all day, Thomas. I’m sorry, I really am – but you need to get on with your life.”

Roman still doesn’t look happy at all. He looks angry and miserable, pale and drawn, and Thomas has no idea how to go about fixing it. No idea if he should try to fix it at all. Roman always bounces back eventually, right? Why should this be any different? Maybe he can just ignore it and the problem will just –

“Yes,” Roman says. “Yes, I think we are done here.” He hunches his shoulders and begins to sink out.

“I love you, Roman,” says Thomas desperately, grabbing for his hand. He misses, and tries again, and misses, and on the third time he catches hold of it and doesn’t let go, and Roman’s stopped sinking out so that’s something, isn’t it? It’s got to be. “Roman, I love you. You – we – I made a mistake, and so you made a mistake by extension, and yeah it wasn’t great but it’s, there... there wasn’t any harm done. Not really. Not to anyone apart from us. Roman? I don’t hate you. The others don’t, either. Why won’t you look at me? Roman, I love you, please.”

“Do you think if we keep telling each other that, we’re going to actually start believing it eventually?” Roman says dully, finally meeting his gaze.

Thomas jerks back like he’s been shot, dropping Roman’s hand. “You -”

“Don’t,” says Janus.

Roman’s smile has too many teeth, is a bit too maniac. He looks more like his brother than ever before. “What? Afraid of the truth? You’d know if I was lying, wouldn’t you?”

“Roman,” Logan says, looking pained and unhappy and... the word to use here is almost certainly heartbroken. “Please; I understand that you are upset and exhausted and angry, and – Roman, your emotions are understandable, and more than that they are valid. But lashing out like this isn’t the way to death with this. Although the turn of phrase may be entirely too on-the-nose to use here... you’re really only hurting yourself, behaving like this.”

Maybe it’s the way that Logan’s words are even so slightly condescending, even though it’s overwhelmingly obvious that he’s trying so, so hard not to be. Maybe it’s because the word valid has been used and overused so often that it’s honestly divested itself of any genuine meaning. Maybe it’s the slightly accusatory twist at the end, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but Roman does not like any of this.

“Oh, I know,” he says. “I know I’m only hurting myself, and I know I’m being unfair, but Specs – Logan? Do you want to know something? I don’t actually care.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and starts walking away, and with ever step he sinks deeper and deeper into the ground until he’s completely gone.

“Oh, Christ,” says Thomas numbly. He feels like he’s drowning. Choking on water or loathing or something even thicker and more insidious. “I think I hate myself.”

And it seems like neither Janus nor Logan have anything to say to that. No clever words, no platitudes, no gentle explanations, nothing. Janus doesn’t even try to lie about it.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” Logan says seriously, hand on his arm.

Thomas grimaces, flinches away, folds back into himself – glances to Janus somewhat pleadingly.

Janus shakes his head. “Not getting away from it this time, I’m afraid. We need to deal with this at some point, and for once denial isn’t the option I’m inclined towards picking.”

Thomas wants to curl up into a ball and cry. But he’s already done that, like, twice so far today, and he’s not sure if you can get fatally dehydrated from imaginary dreamscape sobbing but he’s not sure he wants to test it. That’s not how he wants to die. He wants to die in so very many less painful ways.

“Okay,” he says instead of any of that. It goes without saying, really. He tries to thank them, but the words turn into ash in his throat and he just ends up nodding. “Okay,” he says again, “okay, all right. See you later.”

And there’s no flash of light and sudden transportation, or door to the real world to walk through; nothing like that. He just closes his eyes and then opens them again and he’s no longer hiding inside his own head.

There is a wall. Thomas stares at the wall. The real, tangible wall. Not some daydream wall or construct, just... the normal, boring real-world wall.

“Thomas, are you listening?” says someone. Is this a meeting? Yeah, it looks like a meeting. Something to do with merch, maybe.

He misses the coffeeshop already.

He bites his lip, forces himself to focus. “Yeah. Yeah, I – well, no, actually. I think I zoned out for a minute there.”

“More like fifteen,” says someone else. “You doing good there, bud?”

He forces a smile, and wishes that doing it didn’t feel quite so much like slicing his mouth open ear-to-ear with a rusty knife. “Just fine. Uh, can someone catch me up? You’ve got my full attention now, promise.”

And they do. He pays attention. Nothing about the state of the inside of his head can be remotely called fine; he’s not lying to himself about that anymore, but at the least he can pay attention and nod along when there’s actual work to be done.

Later, he’ll have a long talk with Janus, refusing to meet his mismatched stare but listening carefully nonetheless. He’ll think about what to say to Virgil, to Logan – to Roman, and he’ll start looking up therapists. Right now, all of that scares him unreasonably.

But it’s got to be done, because things have got to get better. They have to.

He doesn’t want to think about what he’ll do if they don’t.