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“Good morning, Lo!” Patton sang out, bustling into his workshop in a flurry of dust and sunlight. “Did you sleep well?”
Logan didn’t bother to look up from his book or respond, continuing to hold his copy of Wuthering Heights with a knowing smile as he gazed at its pages. Patton took a moment while tying on on his supple leather apron to admire the other man.
He was beautiful.
His face was alight with intelligence and effervescence as his stone gray eyes skimmed the pages of his favorite Brontë novel. (The only novel he had read in the past two years, as a matter of fact.) Patton sighed dreamily, mooning over the way Logan’s hair flopped oh-so-gently over his forehead, the way his other hand - so perfectly formed - rested on his knee. His frame was thin and sinewy, but his strength was evident in the way his gray polo stretched across his broad shoulders. His chiseled jaw - Patton giggled - was softened by an impish smile that promised it would let you in on all of his secrets, if you only listened. The golden morning sunlight cast a glow over his perfect features, highlighting his sharp cheekbones, the elegant sweep of his eyebrows, the debonair slope of his nose.
“Honestly, Lo,” Patton sighed as he perused his selection of tools, gleaming with copper and polished oak. “I never got why you love that book so much.” Patton shuddered. “Too much obsession and unrequited love and crazy people.”
Patton thought he heard Logan humming vaguely and a rustling of pages.
“I noticed that your nails are looking a little jagged, by the way,” He chirped as he picked up a chisel, hefting it in his hand to get a feel for the weight. “Not that that’s a bad thing, you just really need to be taking better care of yourself!”
An ideated murmur of agreement.
Patton disregarded the chisel and instead picked up a miniscule pick. “Would you say this pick is small enough to be considered… infinitesimal?” He giggled.
He could practically feel the heat off of Logan’s glare at his back, but when he turned back around, Logan was back to reading his book.
“Fine, fine, I promise I’ll stop teasing you about it.” Patton shot him a smile. “Eventually.”
Patton saw that gorgeous smile change from knowing to fond as Logan conceded.
The artist hummed, sliding the pick and a different chisel into his apron pocket and nabbing a hammer by its soft oak handle. He had a few commissions he need to complete, but there was nothing pressing. If he just got a bit further on the dragon statue today and finished the details of the Van Gogh bust, he’d be good to go.
He dithered for a moment, soaking in the feeling of content that glowed in his bones as he stood in his workshop. He was here, doing what he loved with the man he loved. What could be better?
It wasn’t long, however, before a deep, monotone voice smashed through the glassy stillness of his serene moment.
“Knock knock.”
Patton turned to see Virgil hovering in the doorway, a handful of white envelopes at his side.
“Hey, kiddo!” Patton chirped. “Don’t just lurk over there, come on in!”
Virgil slunk into the bright, airy studio, wrinkling his nose as the smell of dust hit him. “Hey, Pat.” He quirked the corner of his lip into a half-smile, but Patton could still see the edge of something like trepidation coiling his shoulders, bunching them together.
Patton waited a moment then, when no further greeting came, cleared his throat meaningfully, darting his eyes from his friend to Logan and back again.
“Patton, I’m not going to-” Virgil began but was cut off by a sharp glare. A muscle in his jaw twitched before he dragged his words out as if each one took a strip of flesh along with it. “Hey, Logan.”
Logan, offended by Virgil’s surliness, neglected to return the greeting.
“Did you need something, Virge? Or did you just decide to pop in on your ol’ pop?” Patton smiled.
“Yeah, actually…” Virgil shifted awkwardly, plucking at a stray thread on his patchwork purple hoodie. “There’s something kinda important I need to say.”
“Well, come sit down and tell me!” Patton sat down on one of the long, wooden benches that were scattered throughout his studio and patted the space beside him invitingly. “I feel like I barely see you anymore, kiddo.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Patton saw Logan raise his eyes then disregard the current procedures as anything of interest.
Virgil’s leg started to jiggle, bouncing against the floor like an errant heartbeat. “Yeah, well, that’s not exactly my fault.” He stayed standing.
Patton tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t come have dinner with Roman and me last Wednesday.”
“Lo wanted date night, and I couldn’t say no!”
Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t come to Roman’s birthday party either.”
“Logan wasn’t feeling that well, and I wasn’t going to leave him all by his lonesome when he was sick!”
Virgil’s hand clenched into a fist until his knuckles threatened to burst through his taunt sin. “Yeah, I’m sure he felt awful.”
Patton’s smile froze. “I’m not sure what you’re implying there, kiddo.”
Shaking his head, Virgil changed tactics. “I stopped by your apartment on the way over here. You weren’t there, so I just let myself in.”
Malcontent scrunched Patton’s forehead. “Couldn’t you have just texted me? I’d be right there.”
“Would you have?” Virgil snapped. The hand clutching the white envelopes was starting to shake. “Or would there have been another ‘Logan’ related emergency?”
“Now, kiddo, I-”
“Do you know what I found when I went inside your apartment, Patton?” Virgil cut him off. “Nothing. You had nothing in the pantry, nothing in the fridge but some lettuce and a rotten tomato, nothing in your bedroom but filth. When’s the last time you bothered cleaning, Pat?”
Patton frowned, trying to push down the quivering in his chest. “You know I’ve been working really hard on my commissions lately.”
“Is that right?” Virgil snarled. “Tell me when the last time was that you actually finished one on time. When was that? When was the last time you worked on anything other than that pet project of yours?”
Patton shrank back at the venom in his friend’s voice.
“When’s the last time you went somewhere that wasn’t here or your apartment?” Virgil demanded. “Look at this!” He shoved his fistful of white envelopes at Patton. “Overdue bill, past-due bill, final notice - you don’t even check your mail anymore! I had to pick these up for you! You don’t do anything that you need to actually survive.” He threw the papers down on the dusty floor in disgust. “You’re obsessed with that thing. You need to get your head out of la la land and actually try to live your life, Patton.”
“I am trying, kiddo. I’m trying all the time, but it’s just too hard.” Patton stood, shaking. "I… I love him.“ He licked his dry lips and tasted copper. "I love him so much, Virgil.”
“It’s not alive, Patton!” Virgil snarled, jabbing an accusatory finger at Logan. “It’s a fucking statue!”
“No, he’s not!” Patton cried, throwing himself protectively in front of Logan, arms splayed out as if to prevent his friend from attacking his love. “He’s so much more than that and you know it!”
“All that I know is that ever since the real Logan died you’ve been driving yourself off the edge.” Virgil snapped. “Did you even cry at his funeral? No, because you didn’t bother to show up!”
“He’s not dead!” Patton insisted, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Why couldn’t Virgil see that Logan was right there? It was him, he was standing there in the corner, reading Wuthering Heights just like he had been for the past two years. It had just taken Patton a while to get him out of that block of marble first. “He’s right here!”
“No he’s not!” Virgil roared.
Patton flinched, feeling heat prickle at the corners of his eyes.
Virgil’s voice grew quieter but lost none of its steel. “You’re losing your mind over this, Patton. I… I can’t just let you destroy yourself.” He spun away and hunted through the artist’s tools until he found what he was looking for.
He hefted the sledgehammer in his hands and starred Patton down.
“Virgil, what are you doing?”
He stalked forward. “Saving you from yourself.”
“Logan, say something!” Patton begged, backing up as ke kept a frightened eye on Virgil. “Please!”
But Logan stayed silent.
“Virgil, stop!” Patton cried.
“I’m doing this for you, Patton.” Virgil tilted his head so his violet hair obscured his eyes, transforming him into an incomprehensible, unfamiliar monster. “You’re wrecking yourself over a hunk of rock.”
Patton threw himself across Logan’s form - stiff with fear. He was so terrified, he hadn’t even been able to move from his position. “NO!” He sobbed, clutching Logan tightly to his chest.
“Patton,” Virgil said softly, dangerously, tapping his finger against the hammer’s long handle. “Patton, let go of it.”
“NO!” Patton clung to Logan as his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. “No, you’re trying to hurt him!” His arms were aching and the chisel in his pocket was digging into his thigh, but he was terrified that if he even moved an inch, the beast masquerading as his kiddo would strike.
“Yeah,” Virgil sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He cleared his throat. “Ro?”
Heavy boots pounded across the floor of Patton’s studio, and the artist sobbed, curling further in on Logan.
“C’mon, padre.” Large, gentle hands closed around his upper arms. “Up we go.” The hands tried to guide him away, but he just held Logan even tighter.
“Roman,” He pleaded. “Roman, he’s trying to hurt Logan. Please, don’t let him.”
But Roman just tore him away and swept him into his arms, trapping him in a hug. “You’re hurting yourself, Pat.”
“Let me go!” Patton cried, clawing at Roman’s face, his arms, his chest. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms and howled like a mad man, but Roman only embraced him more firmly, murmuring assuagements into the artist’s hair.
He hissed and screamed and wailed and sobbed and begged, and finally, finally managed to escape. He wriggled from Roman’s grasp just in time to see the sledgehammer smash straight through Logan’s torso.
Logan hadn’t even had time to scream.
Patton cried out and collapsed to his knees as Virgil swung again, sending shards of bone, as white as marble, flying through the air.
Virgil finally stopped, his entire body heaving with gulps of air and emotion. “There.” He spat. He let go of the weapon, and it fell to the ground with a jarring crash.
Something rolled away and hit Patton’s knee. He reached to pick it up with a shaking hand, afraid to see what it was but knowing he was powerless to do anything but look.
A stifled gasp.
Wet snuffles.
Tears rolling down his face and splashing against petrified flesh.
“Pat?” Roman gingerly put a hand on his shoulder.
Patton didn’t move, tenderly cradling Logan’s severed head in his arms.
“Patton, say something.” Virgil unconsciously began to twist his sleeves.
Patton gently ran a finger along Logan’s chipped jaw. His finger caught on a jagged edge, but he just kept moving it, trailing scarlet across white marble.
When he looked up at Virgil, his eyes were completely empty. “I hate you,” He said, voice perfectly inflectionless.
Roman sucked in a short, surprised breath.
Virgil tensed, hand coming to clench the material covering his chest, as if he could tear out whatever he was feeling. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” Patton turned his face back toward the Logan’s, tenderly pressing his forehead against stone. “I hate you so much.” He murmured the words as deliberately as a vow, pressing each one into Virgil’s skin until he bled.
“Hey, pops,” Roman faltered. His words sounded wrong, cracking and fraying around the edges. “Let’s not say anything that we’ll regret here.”
“Oh, Roman.” Patton sighed, pressing a kiss to Logan’s forehead. “I hate you too.”
Roman’s hand flew off of Patton, as if he had been burned.
“Get out.” Patton whispered, gently laying Logan’s head down. “Both of you, get out.”
“Patton, you’re upset. We’re not just going to leave-”
Patton grabbed the chisel from his pocket and hurled it in Virgil’s direction. A sharp cry, more surprise than pain, let him know he had hit his target.
“Virgil!” Roman rushed to the murder’s side. “Let me see…” He hissed in shock and disgust.
Virgil looked at him helplessly, clutching his wounded arm where it had been sliced open. Blood was starting to trickle through his fingers, staining his purple hoodie scarlet. “It’s just a statue,” He said.
He was a liar.
“No.” Patton found Logan’s book and placed it back in his sundered hand. “He was a man.” He stroked the gently sloping plane of Logan’s palm. He really was so perfectly made. “And you killed him.”
“Virge,” Roman murmured. “Let him be for a minute, okay? We need to get a bandage on that.” He shepherded the emo to the door, but paused for a moment, looking back at Patton. “We’ll be back in a minute, okay, Pat?”
Patton was busy assembling the pieces of Logan’s arm back into place. “Don’t bother.”
The door closed with a decisive click.
Patton’s hands shook as he pieced together the broken pieces of Logan’s body. It took a while to figure out what went where, especially when his vision blurred with tears and panic threatened to strangle him and he had to stop to curl up in on himself, wetly gasping for breath as his fingers laced through his hair, tugging hard enough to remind himself that he was here, he wasn’t dying, he wasn’t losing his mind, he was going to fix this.
His fingers snagged against jagged marble until they were littered with cuts. His hands were slick with maroon; he left red fingerprints on Logan until it looked like he was trying to glue him back together with blood.
He didn’t know how long had passed. He only knew the sharp pain of another cut, reminding him what Virgil and Roman had done. He only knew the trembling of his breath as he huffed a sigh of relief when ever he found pieces that fit together. He only knew Logan.
Logan.
Logan.
“Logan!” He smiled wetly when his love was back together. “There you are. I was…” He laughed in relief, pressing a hand into the ache hollowing out his chest. “I was so scared.” He gently touched the curve of Logan’s cheek, careful not to crack him. “I guess I should thank Aphrodite or something.” He took in the smudges of red smeared across Logan and frowned. “I’ve already got the blood sacrifice.”
He pulled himself up on stiff limbs and stumbled over to the sink in the corner. “We’ve got to get you cleaned up!” He moistened a towel under the bitingly cold spray, watching in a daze as the water turned pink.
Patton wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t crazy or delusional. He knew that Logan was different than before. He also knew, however, that it was still Logan. He still loved him, no matter what. And wasn’t that what love was all about? Loving someone no matter what? Supporting them and helping them through whatever challenges they faced?
Logan was different, but he was still the same. He was just like the water running over his hands. He was dynamic and fluid and ever-changing, but he was always Logan, just as the flow from the tap was always water.
He was Logan. He was.
He was.
The water numbed his hands, stinging in the cuts before everything faded into the same, blissful chill. He was a man made of icicles. The pink of his hands transformed into a pure, blinding white. If he even twitched, he’d fracture into a thousand pieces.
He shut off the tap and wrung out the towel. Ice water trickled through his frozen hands.
“Logan?” He gingerly settled himself in Logan’s - mostly intact - lap. He and Logan fit together so well, as if they had been made for each other. If he sat as he was doing how, his feet gently brushed the floor, and Logan’s arm hugged his back as the artist rested his forehead in the curve of the other man’s neck. “Is something wrong?”
Logan stayed stonily silent.
“Oh!” Patton’s hand flew to his mouth as comprehension dawned. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
Something stirred the artist’s hair, and it wasn’t hard for him to believe that it had been an exasperated sigh.
“I’m sorry.” Patton drew back his head and gently started wiping away the red streaks on Logan’s face. “I should’ve tried harder to stop them.”
He cradled Logan’s cheek in his hand through the wet towel. “I love you, Lo. I’m sorry.”
He ducked his head in shame before he heard Logan speak. “It’s okay, Patton. I love you too.”
Patton raised his head and smiled sunnily. Logan returned his look with a twinkle in his eyes. “I love you,” Patton repeated. He leaned forward and kissed him.
Logan’s lips were cool and chapped under his own, but as Patton pressed against him, brain humming with contentment, they seemed to warm.
And then they opened.
Patton jerked away and fell, sprawling across the floor.
“Patton?” Logan’s beautiful green eyes looked down at him warmly. But something was wrong; they looked gray. “What are you doing on the floor?”
Patton’s jaw moved, but no words came out.
“Here, let me help you.”
Patton placed his trembling hand in the one that was offered to him. It was perfectly formed, smooth and detailed, but lacking anything to distinguish it. No calluses. No discolorations.
No pulse.
“Logan?” Patton, voice and hopes aquiver, let himself be pulled to his feet.
Logan smiled. “Who else would I be?”
Logan was here. He was here and intact and his chest was rising and falling with breath and he was smiling and he was looking at Patton with love in his eyes and he was here.
“How are you…” His hand was trembling in Logan’s. “How?”
Logan wiped a stray line of red off of his gray polo with a grimace. “You said it yourself: a blood sacrifice to Aphrodite. I came straight from her.”
Patton didn’t even realize he was crying until Logan gently wiped moisture off of his cheek and pulled him into his lap.
“It’s okay, my love.” Logan murmured into Patton’s hair. Patton could feel the movement of his lips, the soft puffs of air that carried his words, but there was no warmth of breath. “It’s okay.”
Patton curled up further into Logan’s lap. “You’re not him, are you?”
“I’m whoever you want me to be.” The statue assuaged him.
“But…” Patton pulled back, observing the statue. “You’re not him.”
The statue smiled. It didn’t have dimples. Logan had dimples. “No.” It agreed amiably, gently stroking Patton’s back. “I’m not. But you’ve been deluding yourself for so long, what’s a while longer?”
Patton’s throat closed in on itself, fear and sadness threatening to suffocate him.
“I love you, Logan,” He whispered, trying to bury his face in the crook of Logan’s neck, convinced that if he just pressed down far enough, he’d catch Logan’s familiar scent. But all he could smell was marble.
The thing that wasn’t Logan smiled as Patton pulled his head back. “I love you too,” It lied.
Patton gently placed a hand on its shallowly moving chest. No human could take breaths so shallow. He waited to feel the bum-bum bum-bum of a heart beat, but a heart of stone cannot move.
It wasn’t him.
“No.” Patton shook his head and tried to push away, but his limbs were far too weak. “I love Logan. I love Logan.” He said it again and again until the phrase was no longer words, just sounds stringed together by habit and desparaton. “Not you.”
“It’s okay.” The statue cupped Patton’s face in the palm of its smooth, perfectly formed hand. “Soon enough you’ll love me more than anything else.” It smiled, revealing cracks underneath its skin, and kissed him softly, heedless of the tears rolling down the artist’s face. “I am Logan after all.”