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Patton takes a deep breath. You're okay, he reminds himself, staring at the present now tacked up on his corkboard. Logan surprised him with that. It's cute and a little messy, and he can see the twins' handiwork in it, too. You're a pawsitively amazing big brother, Patton!
And maybe that's true, but it doesn't feel like it right now. He glances at the bed, where the crumpled sheet of paper still resides. He wishes he hadn't snapped on Logan. Logan didn't do anything wrong. Logan even went and made something to cheer him up. And it did cheer him up, it's just. Well.
He walks back to his bed, picking up the paper and smoothing it out. He can almost recite it by heart at this point. It's a note from the counselor, to his parents. Talking about his "possible depression." Saying that he should "see a therapist."
His mother argued with him the entire way home, because of course the counselor wanted to see her, too, of course he couldn't just eighty-six the paper and pretend he never saw it. His mom is angry, but he thinks that she's more upset than anything. Because he's not supposed to have depression. He's supposed to be happy. He's the good kid. The responsible kid. Oh, Logan's the good kid, too, of course, but Logan is different. And while he loves his parents, he also knows how they feel about "different" and sometimes that makes him hate them. Sometimes he feels that way a lot.
"I don't understand," his mother told him, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "What's wrong with your life? Haven't we always gotten you what you wanted? Don't we take care of you?"
"It doesn't work like that," Patton said dully, staring out the windshield and wishing he was anywhere but there. "That's what Ms. Donovan said, too. I don't know why I feel like this, okay? I just...do."
She doesn't understand. Patton's shoulders slump. He doesn't want to go downstairs for dinner. He doesn't want to face his mother's disappointment or his father's angry confusion. He doesn't want any of it to splash onto Logan. He doesn't want Logan to know.
A quiet knock sounds on the door.
"Yes?" He calls. He isn't sure who he wants it to be.
"Pat?" It's Logan again. "Can I come in?"
"Sure," Patton says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. Logan tiptoes in, his gaze fixed on his shoes.
"Mom says it's dinner time," Logan says. "She sent me to get you."
"Thanks," Patton says. Logan looks up, his eyes soft and full of affection for his big brother. It makes Patton's heart twinge. "Hey, um- about today-" Patton starts. Logan tilts his head to one side.
"Yeah?" He asks. Patton swallows hard, the lump in his throat growing. Nope. He can't do it. Can't explain to Logan what depression is, that he thinks (and Ms. Donovan thinks) he might have it, that he's started digging his nails into his skin when things feel too bad or too hard or too much, he just-
He just can't.
"Nothing," Patton says instead. "Let's uh, let's go down to dinner then, huh?"
Logan darts over and throws his arms around Patton's middle in a quick, bird-like hug.
"Race you downstairs," Logan offers.
"Not if I get there first," Patton says, half-laughing. For a moment, he feels okay. For a moment, everything is okay.