Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

          Warm summer air whipped through the honey-blonde curls escaping Patton’s bandana and ruffled his sky-blue top as he sped down a long, empty road surrounded on either side by lush, green fields. The Beatles harmonized in mellow voices over the crackling radio of his rusty little truck and the air smelled so fresh it was almost too good to be real. Despite the idyllic atmosphere, Patton couldn’t help but let out a delicate shudder when his wandering gaze landed on the manila envelope sitting innocently on the cracked leather bench seat by his side.

          The envelope was thin, only hugging the deed to three acres in Sunflower Farms, the keys to a big old farmhouse, and the registration to the very truck he was driving between its papery arms. There wasn’t much else to Patton’s name besides a few hastily taped cardboard boxes of necessities packed by moonlight that sat in the bed of the truck and a letter that told him to move to a little farm in the middle of nowhere. It was an odd request, no doubt, but Patton never disobeyed his Grammy while she was living, and he wasn’t about to start now just because she was no longer around to pester him herself.

          There’s a little old farm where your grandfather and I lived until we were blessed with your mother, it had read. We never had the heart to sell it, especially when she passed. I have to admit it’s probably in need of a lot of fixing up, and the life you’ll lead there will be full of hard work, but it’s a beautiful place and it’s far from everything else. You could choose to stay at home. Or you could take this opportunity and get out. You already know what I’d tell you to do but if you’re not sure, remember that you may live at your dad’s house, but you left your toothbrush and diary at your Grammy’s.

          “Your destination will be on the right,” said the soft British lady voice chimed from his phone.

          “Thanks, Janet,” Patton said under his breath as he squinted through the grimy windshield of the truck. He couldn’t see anything but tall grasses waving in the breeze and towering trees embraced with emerald ivy. The supposed destination was nowhere in sight.

          The road had lost its crumbling pavement in favor for soft dirt miles ago (his allergies were aware of this fact before he was), and he hadn’t seen a building in much longer, so he was beginning to think he’d somehow missed the turn on a road with no turns. Then he spotted a rickety wooden gate with thick tufts of purple flowering weeds growing so densely around it that the gate was almost completely hidden.

          “Hey, I think we found it,” Patton said as he put the truck in park in the middle of the one-way road. The door screeched in protest when he pushed it open and he sneezed at the dust cloud that bloomed upward when he dropped converse-clad feet onto the road.

          The gate was unlocked, but it took quite a bit of tugging at the giant clumps of monster weeds and even more fighting with rust encrusted hinges to finally pry the gate open.

          “Success!” he cheered, waving his splinter-free hands in the air and giving them a triumphant little wiggle. Then he raced back to his truck, wincing at the god-awful, metal-grinding-against-metal squawk that ripped through the air when he pulled the driver’s side door open.

          “Should probably get that fixed,” Patton muttered under his breath as he put the truck in drive and bit his lip before threading the needle through the very tight space the gate offered. He let out a deep sigh when he finally got all four wheels and the short bed past the gate and onto the path leading through the property. Only one of the truck’s wheels tipped off the edge of the path and onto the sharply sloping shoulder, so Patton considered that a win.

          The field stood tall, so Patton couldn’t see much of the property on the drive through it, but his jaw dropped when the house came into view. It was a big old, sunflower yellow, two-story wonder with honest to god turrets, a big rickety wrap-around porch, a balcony with a hole in its floor, and blue shutters framing the unnumerable windows that all looked smeared with dust even from several yards away. There was no driveway, so he pulled up beside the home and parked in a dry mud patch that was imprinted with ancient tire tracks and a edged with knee-high dandelions.

          “Well, I’ll be,” Patton breathed as he stepped out of the truck, slipping on the sidebar and nearly faceplanting into the weeds.

          Tall grass surrounded the home, barring the long dirt driveway, but the house was built on a little hill, so he could still see the rest of the property from there. Across from the home sat a little, cherry-red barn a good 30 yards or so away with white chickens scratching about in front of it and cows grazing nearby, untied.

          “I have chickens,” Patton whispered to himself in awe. “I have cows!”

          Then realization hit him.

          “I don’t know how to take care of chickens and cows!”

          Like credits rolling across a TV screen, everything that could go wrong in the raising of chickens and cows flitted through Patton’s mind. They could be attacked by foxes or wolves! The cows could get mad cow disease and die! The chickens could get the avian flu and die! They could starve to death because he forgot to feed them! They could get sick because he fed them too much! They could be stolen! They could get out and wander away and get lost or hit by cars! They could start fights!

          “But won’t it be fun to learn how to take care of them?” Patton said to himself, interrupting his own stream of thoughts as he watched one of the cows smack the other with its tail. “It’s like having pets!”

          With renewed vigor, Patton scuttled to the bed of the truck where a few beat up boxes sat. Two said “clothes” with a few doodles of cats surrounding the word, one box said “toiletries” and had hearts scribbled around it, and another said simply “stuff” and bore quick sketches of five-petal flowers.

          “I hope furnished means fully stocked,” he muttered to himself, looking at his meager belongings. Hopefully it at least meant “there’s some blankets and a pans and maybe a plate or two lying about.”

          Patton carried the boxes, plus the folder from the front seat, to the house in two trips and dropped everything on the porch by the faded blue door that had two brass gas lamps hanging on either side of it. In that short time, Patton had decided he was scared of the porch. Sure, it was quaint with its rickety rocking chairs, stain-glass table, long porch swing hanging crookedly from a single chain (the missing chain being nowhere nearby), and an empty flower box in both the left window looking into the living room and the right window looking into the kitchen. But what made it scary was how loudly the wooden floorboards creaked under his feet, how parts of the steps were rotting so badly they sagged under his weight, and how an actual black widow creepy-crawly death dealer scuttled up from between the wooden slats of the floor and disappear behind one of the rocking chairs.

          “Great,” Patton said with a weak smile as he fumbled with the keys in the door as quickly as he could. There were quiet a few keys, all of which were big, clunky, decorative looking things that seemed to be right out of a fairytale.

          Once the door was pushed open, Patton was hit with the smell of musty, dusty, nasty old house. He was greeted by a big entry way with an organizer that had pegs, cabinets, and a bench for storing all kinds of things someone might need near the front door. There was a brassy chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a flight of dangerous looking stairs before him leading up to a second floor. Peeking around the corner, he found that the room to the left was indeed a living room. There was a faded yellow sofa, a pair of stripped armchairs, and a nice big fireplace that had clearly had some water damage to the chimney, but what really grabbed his attention was the baby grand piano. It looked to be in much disrepair, but Patton couldn’t help how his heart raced at the sight of the dusty old thing. He was no Beethoven, barely even a high school choir kid, but music was something he’d always loved.

          A peek to the right of the front door revealed a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the 80’s. An old electric coil stove (a relief, gas stoves were terrifying) stood on the right wall, a squat little blue fridge stood on the opposing wall, and a dinky microwave sat by the sink on the wall directly across from him. There was even a little breakfast table with four mismatched chairs pushed neatly into it.

          “Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all,” Patton said as his gaze darted from the soft, butter yellow cabinets to the blue floral backsplash to the screen side door. “A little dated, maybe, but kind of nice.”

          Pulling his focus back to the task at hand, Patton hefted two of his boxes into his bug-bite freckled arms and carefully approached the staircase. It was leaning. Well, the banister was leaning. And one of the steps was bashed in like someone had accidentally stomped through it. Patton let out a deep breath before placing one foot on the first step and carefully adding more and more of his weight to it. The step groaned.

          “N-nice to meet you, too,” Patton said weakly as he added his second foot to the step. Then he slowly made his way up the stairs, taking careful note of how the entire banister leaned even farther away from him like it was trying to avoid being held onto for support. It didn’t have to worry, though, because Patton was pretty sure his family was more supportive than this banister.

          Reaching the top of the stairs was like getting a B- on a test he thought he’d failed. Patton let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding the moment both feet were firmly planted in the hallway of the second floor. He counted five bedroom doors and two linen closet doors spaced out against the blue and white pinstriped wallpaper with its peachy little flowers speckled throughout. There was a door on the ceiling that probably led to the attic, but Patton wasn’t thinking about that and was instead thinking off the awesome cross breeze that the windows on either end of the hall would create. What were most interesting, however, were the gas lamps hanging on the walls of the hall.

          “Oh boy,” Patton said, eyeing one of them closely as he walked by to pick his room. “Please tell me this place has electricity.”

          This place did, in fact, have electricity. On the first floor. Only on the first floor. It wasn’t that big a deal, Patton decided as he heaved his second load of boxes onto the floor of the room he picked. He wasn’t a spoiled, pampered prince who couldn’t survive without power on one floor of the house. The land was huge and sprawling, the house held incredible potential, and he had pets. It was good.

          The room he picked was good, too. It was a spacious corner room with windows facing the front of the house and the side with only a closet, a queen-sized mattress on a metal bedframe, and a white radiator to decorate the space. He’d had worse. He’d had less.

          After his boxes were delivered to the room, Patton’s next quest was to the linen closets, one of which was empty and the other of which he was ecstatic to find was stocked with pillows, sheets, blankets, and towels. They smelled musty as anything, which brought Patton to his second quest: finding the laundry room. That took him back downstairs with an armful of white sheets, a pastel striped blanket that appeared to be hand-made, and a few towels. At the foot of the stairs, Patton turned down the hall between the staircase and the kitchen, discovered that there was an actual cupboard under the stairs, that there was a screened back door, and that the laundry room was behind the kitchen. Only there was no washer or dryer. There was, instead, a long metal basin, a built-in shelf of soaps and brushes, and a few strings lined with clothespins stretching from wall to wall a few times over. A quick glance out the window of the laundry room revealed a clothesline outside, as well.

          “Well, darn,” Patton said with a sigh as he dropped his pile on the cracked tile floor and rummaged through the shelf beside the window. He found a dead bug he couldn’t identify, a few unlabeled jars with different coloured goop, two scrub brushes with different kinds of bristles, and a glass mason jar that said “soap” in his Grammy’s cursive. He had to take a second to breath after that.

          Patton traced the elegantly shaped letters with a shaking pointer finger, admiring how smooth the writing was. If the letter his Grammy had written him was accurate, she had left this place when she was expecting her first and only child, which would have been in her late twenties. That meant that this handwriting was from a much different time, written with a much steadier hand and by a much younger Iris who was only a little older than Patton was now.

          “Thanks for the soap, Grammy,” Patton whispered, feeling his chest tighten as he popped the latch of the jar and gave its contents a sniff to make sure it was safe. His verdict was: smells like soap.

          Satisfied that the soap was safe and not molded over, or suffering from whatever happens to soap when it’s left around for a few decades, Patton turned to fight with the stubborn the tap hanging over the metal basin on the floor. He cheered when water came gushing out at a lukewarm temperature.

          Patton sprinkled some of the powdered soap into the water and let it foam up a bit before dropping the armful of linens into the water. He lost himself in the scrubbing and wringing out process of handwashing and began singing quietly to himself. Chores were something Patton was quite familiar with. The steady, never-changing, always-present, mindless tasks that needed to be done day in and day out were comforting. Washing, drying, scrubbing, cooking, dusting, sweeping— it was all so easy to do and simply. . . slip away on the inside.

          Patton’s imagination carried him to far-off lands where the prince fell in love with the gardener or the cook or the apothecary or all three,  where the dragon was actually a shape-shifter and the princess was her girlfriend and they were actually very happy in their castle, where the monsters worked with the villagers to keep their land and the forest safe, where trolls under bridges and goblins in caves were friendly rivals, and before Patton knew it, his chore was done.

          “Oh, well that was fast,” Patton remarked, holding a towel up to his face. It smelled like lavender

          Once everything had been meticulously scrubbed to his satisfaction, Patton dusted off a wicker basket he found under the tub, piled the damp clothes in, and cradled the basket in his lap. Nothing in the house was going to have much sentiment for his grandmother. She and his Grandpa had only taken the things they needed, which meant only the truly sentimental things and some basic necessities were taken. So things that weren’t really important—or things that couldn’t be moved—were left behind. And yet, here Patton was, lovingly tracing the cracks in the strips of flexible willow and the chips in the white paint. His grandmother’s laundry basket. Something she used nearly every day, something she likely got from a flea market or a bargain store, something she never thought twice about if she even thought of once.

          Huffing under his breath, Patton stood and settled the basket on his hip, then marched out of the laundry room. He unlocked the door and pressed his back against it, backing out and letting the screen slap shut behind him with a squeak of its hinges. The clothesline was a thick string of twine stretching between a thick branch each of two solid oaks that both arched at least as tall as the home, if not taller, and they were gorgeous.

          Patton chattered away as he hung the linens on the clothesline, thanking the trees for holding his Grammy’s clothesline all these years and remarking to himself that he had to thank the person his grandparents had asked to care for the property in their absence. It was true that the home seemed to be in pretty great condition, considering it had been about sixty years since someone had lived there full-time.

          Peace washed over him so suddenly it made Patton’s knees wobble. It was like reality had just made itself known but in a grounding kind of way. It still knocked him to his knees when he realized that his Grammy was so so far away. That it would take him years and years and years to reach her. That this was her safe place that she’d had to abandon with the hope of returning, but never did and so knowingly signed it away in the event that she died. That it was his now. His home. It still knocked him to his knees.

          But with the wind making the white sheets billow on the clothesline and Patton’s hair strain against his bandana while he looked out over the grassy acres of land, with the chickens bopping around by the lazily chewing cows, and with the big house waiting for him to get to know it, Patton finally felt that everything might be okay now.

Chapter Text

          Waking up was disorienting. When Patton felt age-stiff sheets against his skin and smelled the sweet and heavy scent of lavender, his mind offered an image of his room at his Grammy’s house. His mother’s twin-sized childhood bed pushed into one corner, her old desk with two drawers against another wall, and dark blue curtains on the window. But when he shifted, rolled over onto his side to get his face out of the streaming sunlight beckoning him to wake up, something seemed off. The ancient bed springs he expected to hear didn’t so much as squeak under his weight, and the smell of something citrusy rose up amongst the lavender.

          He wasn’t at his Grammy’s.

          Patton’s eyes flew open, and he was rolling off the bed and onto his feet in seconds, head turning every which way as he scanned the room. White radiator. Two windows. Long closet. A nightstand. And a bed that wasn’t from his Grammy’s house—at least not the house he knew to be hers growing up.

          Flushing, Patton dropped back onto the bed and sagged forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. He wasn’t at his Grammy’s home where his mother had been raised. He was at his Grammy’s dream home that she’d left waiting and for him. He glanced over his shoulder at the gentle morning sunlight that brightened up the otherwise plain room.

          “Good morning, sun,” he greeted quietly with a croaking voice.

          With a heavy sigh, Patton rose from the bed and winced at the chill of the floor as he stretched his arms high above his head, making his baggy sweatshirt rise from his thighs to his hips and sending a shiver down his spine. He padded over to the boxes of clothes he’d placed near the closet, since he had yet to hunt down hangers or a dresser, and began rummaging through them for something that might be appropriate to wear in a . . . traditional sort of town.

          He finally found a pair of mildly high-waisted light-wash jeans in the box of pants and shorts and moved on to the box of tops. It was a bit harder to find shirts that were safe to wear. He pawed through tank tops, a crop top that a friend from college gave him as a joke, a sweatshirt he had stolen from his second eldest brother, and a few brightly coloured sweaters he knit himself before finding a peachy button-down and a white t-shirt. Removing his keys from his faded blue converse and slipping them on, along with his chosen outfit, Patton found himself decently satisfied with his mostly straight-passing outfit.

          He snagged his dog patterned wallet out from under the yellowing pillow that had cradled his head comfortably that night, fingers tracing over the familiar smiling puppy faces and the flowers that dotted between them. It was such a simple task, to the leave the house and drive to a store, but a part of him felt like he was about to walk onto the front lines of global war or maybe across an abandoned field of landmines.

          This was something most people did at least once a week, often more than that. This was something teenagers sometimes did to help support their families, something that most college students could do for themselves. But it was never something Patton volunteered to do for his family, never something he was expected or asked to do, either. But he remembered laying the ratty quilt covering his bed in his dad’s and stepmom’s house, staring up at the popcorn ceiling and trying to block out the sounds of shouting while thinking how nice an hour perusing around a grocery store sounded at that moment.

          Shaking his head, Patton pocketed his wallet and keys and headed out, wincing as he carefully eased his way down the rickety stairs. He was also cautious on the front porch when he was stuck standing there while locking the door, vulnerable to all kinds of creepy-crawlies. A stumble down the rotting porch steps snapped him out of his fear, bringing his attention to the rosey-gold sunrise looking over the tops of a softly waving field.

          The drive to town was similarly picturesque with a stretch of road boarded by fields that gave him a good view of the sunrise, and a longer stretch of forests whose great canopies let dappled light shine down on Patton and his little truck. The ride was only about forty-five minutes, which was much less than Patton was expecting. And the town itself was as charming as a cherub.

          The boutiques and restaurants were cozy close in a strip on either side of a pleasantly wide road lined with rickety wooden benches, young trees, and lamp posts that held hanging baskets overspilling with flowers. There was even a giant old-fashioned clock standing tall in what looked like a small garden at the heart of the town, and a dog park that already had a few pups and dog parents playing in a fenced area full of benches and dog toys. What wasn’t so cute, however, was the parallel parking.

          “Oh, gosh,” Patton muttered under his breath as he backed his truck up, pulled it forward, and repeated the process in front of a grocery store about eight times to fit his truck between a muddy blue pick-up, and a delivery truck with cartoon fruits and veggies doodled on the sides. He was just glad that the grocery store he was attempting to park in front of didn’t seem busy. The less damage caused to his reputation by his poor first impression, the better.

          It was such a relief, when he finally parked the truck and shuffled toward the store. Big windows on either side of the store’s open front door were full of hanging wooden signs that exclaimed things like “fresh produce daily!” and “20% of canning supplies!” in loopy handwriting.

          “Canning, huh?” Patton said, cocking his head to the side as he observed a funnel, a few different sizes of jars, a set of metal utensils, and other supplies sitting displayed in the window.

          Patton stepped through the entrance of the shop, giving a cheery wave to the clerk that stood behind a single cash register at a counter near the door and grabbing a wire basket from the stack on the other side of the door. The store was small with blue and white tiled flooring and a butcher station at the back. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as a Walmart, in terms of brand options and number of products, but Patton was happy to find that it still had everything needed. He got a jar of honey with a handwritten label, a box of green tea, a brown sack each of flour and sugar, a few little bottles of spices, and a slab of yellow butter before having a stilted conversation full of long pauses with the gruff butcher who taught Patton that chuck steak would be best for the stew he was planning to make that night, even giving Patton the “rookie” discount. Normally, Patton might stiffen at being treated as incapable or naïve, but the awkward lumberjack vibes of the butcher who was rounding up Patton’s request for a three-quarter pound of chuck to a full pound with no extra charge softened Patton’s reaction.

          “Thank you,” Patton said, offering his sweetest smile to the butcher, who only cleared his throat and grunted as Patton made his way to the clerk at the front of the store.

          “This all for today?” the elderly clerk asked as he rang up the items Patton placed on the counter. The clerk had deep smile lines in his face and his earthy, moss-green eyes were quite lively, despite the morning still being early.

          “Sure is,” Patton said with a grin, relieved to come across a town resident that was a bit more outwardly friendly than the butcher.

          “You must be visiting someone in town,” the man suggested as he placed Patton’s purchases into two brown sacks he pulled out from behind the counter.

          “I actually just moved here,” Patton explained, digging out two ten-dollar bills from his wallet and handing them to the old man. “I’m Patton!”

          “Then, welcome to Little Bloom, Patton! Most people call me Uncle Jim,” the man said with a wide grin. “We don’t tend to get visitors, often, let alone new residents, so I hope you won’t mind the nosey neighbor-folk.”

          “I love meeting new friends,” Patton assured as he accepted his change. “I don’t think I have many close neighbors, so it’ll be nice to meet people in town.”

          “If you’re looking for friends, you should come to the farmer’s market,” the man suggested, handing Patton his two paper bags of groceries. “Vendors set up their stalls in this road from six at night to eight on weekdays and from eight to five on weekends.”

          “That sounds perfect,” Patton said, chest warming at the thought of befriending vendors, or meeting other buyers.

          “I’m glad you think so, young man, it was lovely to meet you.”

          “And you as well,” Patton said, bidding the man farewell and heading back to his truck with his arms full of grocery bags. Stepping out of the store broke the spell and Patton’s chest tightened as he took a slow, deep breath and carried the bags back to his truck.

          He placed the groceries on the passenger seat and braced his hands against the seat, closing his eyes and counting his breaths until his chest loosened. Then he moved onto his next list: toiletries.

          It didn’t take him long to find a cosmetics shop, which was made of lavender painted brick and had an apartment with a balcony built on top of it. When he entered the store, he was hit in the face with a wonderful concoction of scents blending together and a friendly greeting from a girl with a bright pink hair up in a bun and a purple and white striped apron standing behind a register.

          “Welcome in, please let me know if I can help you find anything!” the girl said with a dimpled grin.

          “Thank you!” Patton chirped back as he turned his focus to the baskets of bath bombs, soap bars, and deodorants, the shelves of lotions and shampoos, and the metal bins of laundry soaps and dish soaps. He left the store with beeswax soap, a shampoo with a delicate fruity scent, deodorant that claimed to smell like coconut but really just smelled like a beach vacation, and dish soap made from eco-friendly materials.

          He also made a quick visit to a clothing store right next door, which had a vibe that was a unique mashup of cool, jazz café and Grandma’s old attic. The interior was unfinished brick with woven blankets hanging at different angles and levels on the walls, and there were wooden barrels hanging from the ceiling with balls of yarn seeming to be spilling out of them, suspended in the air by translucent cords. The floor was covered in intricately woven rugs all overlapping, knit sweaters and dresses hung from free standing racks, and wooden barrels of mittens, hats, scarves, and socks lined up next to each other along one wall like an old country store. Patton happily left the store with a patchwork printed bag of thick wool socks to protect him from the cold floors of his home.

          With his truck full of new goodies, Patton made his was back home feeling accomplished, relieved, and exhausted by his short shopping trip. The drive back did wonders to sooth his rolling stomach and ease his tense shoulders, which had hunched nearly to his ears as his mind replayed his most recent interaction with the cashier from the store with knitted goods in which Patton acted like a very confused, stuttering mess upon being asked if he wanted to become a member at the store and found he couldn’t remember his new address to tell the cashier in order to be signed up for a membership he didn’t even want.

          He had expected at least one mild trainwreck like that to pop up during his little adventure. What he didn’t expect, however, was to come home to a small sedan parked on his dried mud driveway and a man standing on his front porch holding a briefcase.

Chapter Text

           Patton’s first thought upon seeing a man in khakis with a neatly tucked dress shirt standing on his front porch and carrying a brown leather briefcase was that this was either the cutest little lost professor he’d ever seen, or that this was the gangliest and least confident private detective he’d ever seen. When the man looked over at him with an expression of pure unadulterated relief, Patton’s stomach clenched and he double-checked that the doors of his truck were locked. Without losing eye contact with the stranger, Patton unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted around the groceries on the bench seat until he could reach out and crank the passenger side window down.

          “Um,” Patton said, wincing at how high his voice had pitched as he leaned toward the window, both hands gripping a space in front of him on the seat. He cleared his throat, putting his Happy To See You smile on and mustering up the voice to match. “Hi there! Are you lost?”

          “I—well, yes,” the man stammered, stumbling to a stop a few feet from the truck and clutching his briefcase in front of himself with both hands.

          “Okay,” Patton said, voice still a little too high even to his own ears. “Let’s put you to rights, darling. Now where are you headed?”

          “I am in search of the hotel,” the man explained in a stilted voice, like the words were foreign to him and he wasn’t sure he was using them correctly. “A few children claimed that I would find one off of Strawberry Lane, however this seems to be the only building—”

          “I think I see what happened here,” Patton said with a wince, feeling the tension release from his shoulders. “This town actually doesn’t have a hotel, sugar—I checked before I moved here, the nearest one is a few hours away in the town over—but tricky little foxes who tell white lies can be found in every town.”

          “Damn,” the man said, closing his eyes. He let out a heavy sigh through his nose and Patton couldn’t help but feel guilty.

          “Is everything okay, sugar?” Patton asked, feeling his heart constrict at the crestfallen expression on the stranger’s face. “You look a little blue.”

          “There is no need to burden you with my situation,” the man said, voice back to its steady calm. The tightness around his eyes and the crease between his brow told a different story.

          “You don’t have anywhere to stay, tonight, do you?” Patton asked as softly as he could.

          The impact of his words still made the man look away, shoulders drooping.

          “I had secured an apartment near the downtown area within walking distance of my new place of employment—despite my discomfort with cohabitating—however, there was an unexpected collapse of a supporting wall in the unit above mine—” the man cut himself off, head lowered to the point that his chin nearly hit his chest.

          “Unfortunately this all took place earlier today and, as I was traveling, I did not pick up my landlord’s persistent calls to inform me. I only discovered the bad news upon my arrival just moments ago,” the man continued in a calmer tone. “A few children nearby must’ve overheard my dilemma as I spoke with my landlord, and they suggested that I could stay at the hotel on Strawberry Lane.”

          “That’s awful,” Patton whispered. “I mean, I figured that’s what happened, but. . . “ His mind whirred like a sewing machine stitching through three layers of velvet as he tried to pull up a word of comfort or advice. The man looked up with wide eyes.

          “Yes, well,” the man said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry to bother you with all of this, I truly would not have intruded on you and your home had I known those children were playing a practical joke. Perhaps I was a bit too hopeful for a solution and neglected confirm the information I was receiving, especially when considering the age of my informants.”

          “Don’t worry about it, honey” Patton said softly, eyes flicking to the door between him and the stranger. “Why don’t I get out and we can talk while I put my groceries away, hm?”

          Before receiving an answer, Patton rolled the passenger side window up and slid back across the bench to the driver’s side. He slipped out of the truck and bundled his two grocery bags into his arms with only mildly trembling fingers, struggling to grab the bags of toiletries and socks without spilling his groceries all over the muddy ground.

          “May I be of assistance?”

          Patton screeched and startled so hard he almost dropped his groceries at the sound of the man’s voice coming from right behind him when they’d been on opposite sides of the truck only a second ago. The man reached forward as if to catch anything that fell out of the bag, sputtering apologies with a vocabulary that was steadily growing increasingly complex.

          “You’re fine, it’s totally okay,” Patton said sheepishly as the man took one of the bags. “Oh, thank you, I appreciate your help.”

          “It’s no trouble,” the man said, holding a hand out for the two smaller bags Patton had grabbed out of the truck. Patton had to force his fingers to release the bags and managed to do so with only a slightly tense smile. “I’m Logan, by the way. Logan Forester. I probably should’ve introduced myself before sharing my burdens with you.”

          Patton smiled at the poor man, heart warming at the pink blush dusting his cheeks.

          “Don’t worry about it,” he said, eyes staying glued on Logan’s face as he made his way up the crumbling front steps of his home. “I’m Pat— oh, gosh!”

          In his attempts to search for a reaction—recognition, resentment, disgust—in Logan’s face, Patton made the biggest mistake any owner of a mildly dilapidated home could make: looking away from where he was walking.

          The firm, warm grasp around his elbow was very much welcomed when Patton felt himself tipping forward, groceries already shifting to fall out of his grocery bag. The pull on his arm quickly changed his path to falling back against Logan’s chest. The bags in Logan’s grasp crinkled loudly from the impact of Patton’s weight, making him very grateful that only soap and socks were being crushed, and not produce and eggs.

          “I’m so sorry!” Patton babbled, leaning forward to find his footing again. He overcorrected and found a slim arm wrapping around his waist to pull him upright. “Sorry!”

          “Are you alright?” Logan asked urgently, voice a bit sharp as Patton steadied himself. Patton turned to apologize again, but found Logan’s eyes locked on the steps.

          “Peachy,” Patton said with a weak smile.

          “This is the most dangerous flight of stairs I’ve ever seen,” Logan said, disapproval tangible in his voice. Instead of being offended, Patton couldn’t help but laugh as Logan prodded the fourth and most rotted step with his foot.

          “Well, I’ve only just moved in,” Patton admitted, holding the paper bag against his hip while he dug in his pocket for his keys. “I’ll be making repairs for quite a while, I think.”

          “I see,” Logan said, following Patton inside after a long fumble with the key and the doorknob by Patton finally resulted in an open door.

          “Welcome to my home!” Patton said with as much cheer and warmth as he could muster. His slightly lackluster greeting was completely lost on a very distracted Logan.

          “I rescind my previous statement,” Logan said flatly, staring at the staircase leading to the second floor of the home. “This is the most dangerous flight of stairs I’ve ever seen.”

          “Like I said,” Patton repeated, pushing the door shut with his foot and kicking his shoes off by the door. “Just moved in.”

          “Oh, yes, of course, I am by no means attempting to insult your standards of home maintenance,” Logan rushed to explain. “I’m more just. . . concerned with the considerable number of safety hazards that I can see just in the—is that an exposed wire?”

          Patton paused in the arched doorway of the kitchen to look over his shoulder at Logan, who was pointing up at a stray wire hanging down from the chandelier in the entryway. Patton carefully did not make a face.

          “Nope,” Patton said confidently, turning on his heel into the kitchen. “Come on, we can chat in here!”

          Logan followed, but only after an obvious closer inspection of the staircase. Patton huffed a sigh out of his nose and set the bags of groceries on the long mint-blue kitchen table, flinching when the table made a cracking sound under his weight as he leaned against it. Logan slipped around him and balanced his briefcase on a chair that was painted a soft sage green and set the other shopping bags on the table. Logan slowly made his way around the kitchen, pointing out defects and hazards as he went and Patton found it oddly comforting as he put the cold groceries in his dinky fridge.

          “Approximately how old is this oven?” he asked in the same “disappointed teacher” voice that used to haunt Patton’s middle school nightmares.

          Patton didn’t even get a word in before Logan pulled the oven door open and stuck his head inside, poking at the two metal racks inside of it and muttering what sounded like speculation about the wattage of the oven’s lightbulb. Patton cocked his head and watched for a second but quickly turned his focus back to the groceries. A good host doesn’t stare at his guests, after all.

          “So, Logan,” Patton said with a winning smile as he pushed the fridge closed, making note of the satisfying click it made. He plopped down at the kitchen table, hand quickly going up to cover his mouth when Logan hit his head against the inside of the oven while trying to remove said head from said oven. “Oh gosh, are you okay?”

          “I am optimal,” Logan lied, straightening his tie and giving a little shake of his head that made his gel flattened hair flop to and fro in chunks.

          “Right,” Patton said, flattening one of his shopping bags against the table and smoothing a hand against the edge to form a sharp crease. “How long do you think it’ll be until the apartment is fixed?”

          “Well,” Logan said, easing into a lilac chair across from Patton and pining his gaze on a patch of worn patch of paint on the tabletop. “My landlord is still waiting on a professional opinion. After that, we’ll know if the damage can even be fixed at all. Then it will most likely be a few months before repairs are completed, but that’s assuming that any necessary materials and labor are readily available.”

          “Oh,” Patton said, folding another bag.

          “Indeed,” Logan said. Patton could see a fine tremor in Logans’ clasped hands.

          Patton hummed quietly, mind flooded with the memory of his Grammy lounging on her patched recliner watching Dr. Phil every morning and reciting his words of wisdom. “The threshold of change” and “pivotal choices that change the trajectory of your life” and the like.

          He remembered how quiet this old house was in the morning with the sun peeking through the windows like it was searching for something as it lit up an unmoving, unbreathing, unchanging house that couldn’t feel warmth or squint at light. He remembered flinching at the thought of going downstairs for water alone in a house that made entirely too much noise to be so empty and that was entirely too big with grounds that were too sprawling for one person to fill or maintain. And he remembered missing the jabber of overlapping voices, the clinking of cereal bowls, the sizzling of oiled pans, the morning news droning on in the background as at least one of Patton’s brothers tugged or poked at whatever part of him they deemed too small, too girly, too soft that morning.

          “Do you have any other bags? I can help get them upstairs if you want,” Patton said, placing his second folded shopping bag on top of the first.

          “Upstairs?” Logan repeated.

          “That’s where all the bedrooms are,” Patton clarified, standing and pushing his chair in.

          Logan didn’t move, seeming to be holding his breath.

          “Why do you look so nervous?” Patton asked with an indulgent smile, slipping his stack of folded grocery bags into the cabinet under the sink. “I know you said you don’t like roommates, but I’m not that bad. Promise!”

          “Of course, you aren’t, you seem like a perfectly lovely – wait, you. . . What?” Logan stammered, also rising from his seat. His brow drew down and together from a confused and placating expression to a frustrated one. “What are you saying?”

          “Isn’t it obvious?” Patton asked, bracing his hands on the table and offering the sunniest grin he could. “I’m offering you a place to stay.”

          Logan gaped at him.

          “I have four open bedrooms,” Patton said with a shrug.

          “You can’t–we just met!” Logan spluttered.

          “Do you have the money to take an hour-long taxi ride from the nearest hotel to the school here for work and then back again every day?” Patton asked, already knowing the answer.

          “Well, no, but—”

          “Neither do I,” Patton admitted, stomach bubbling. “So, you’ll stay here, just until your apartment is fixed. How does that sound?”

          “Please give your offer careful forethought before permitting a complete stranger to reside in your home—the very home in which you live alone,” Logan pleaded, looking much more stressed than the situation called for.

          “Logan,” Patton said, heart warming for this strange, thoughtful man. “Why don’t we go up and pick you a room?”

Chapter Text

          A gentle breeze whispered through the open kitchen windows, making the sky-blue curtains dance and cast graceful shadows across the porcelain countertops. The space glowed with soft, early morning sunlight which refracted through the jar of peach preserves on the table, making it sparkle with amber. Bacon sizzled cheerily next to fluffy yellow eggs in the black pan with the wiggly wooden handle while Patton expertly flipped a blueberry pancake in a pan that had a few teeth marks in the handle.

          Maybe this was bliss. Maybe bliss was standing barefoot in the kitchen of his home while cooking whatever the hell he wanted for breakfast and wearing whatever the hell he wanted (currently; the little shorts he’d hidden in the back of his closet at his dad’s house) with no one to complain. Maybe bliss was mornings where he woke up to the sounds of a heavy-footed roommate and a handful of roosters, forced the sealed windows of nearly every room open because said roommate has a dust allergy, and made a hurried packed lunch out of his famous ten-minute bacon biscuits with a note detailing the microwave instructions because, in all of the excitement of the day before, Logan had forgotten that he was going to need to eat in the middle of the day. His “solution” of skipping a meal just this once had Patton immediately rolling up his sleeves and dusting the counter with flour.

          “I promise I can make much healthier lunches than this,” Patton had said as he handed a re-used paper grocery bag of carefully wrapped biscuits to Logan. “But this will keep your belly happy, so it works in a pinch. There’s a little pot of honey and a teabag in there, too, in case you need a pick me up later.”

          “I—thank you,” Logan said, accepting his humbly made lunch with two hands and wide eyes. “That’s very kind of you.”

          “Any time, honey,” Patton said with a grin. Logan inclined his head and stumbled out the door, leaving Patton alone in the achingly silent house and mentally counting the hours left until 3:15.

          Having his own home that he lived in by himself was something Patton had dreamed of since he understood the concept of owning a home. He’d grown up in a three-bedroom home with four siblings, a parent, a step-parent, and whatever creatures his older brothers saw fit to bring home, which could range in size from jumping spider to mostly intact squirrel to rabid stray dog. The kitchen had a single row of manilla cabinets hanging above a narrow counter and it melded into a living room just big enough to fit a sofa for three, an armchair, and a box TV. His bedroom was made for one but split between two, and the single bathroom the house had to offer was really best left unmentioned. With double the people stuffed into the home came double the opinions in major decisions like “When is it too early to decorate for Christmas?” and “Who’s picking the TV channel tonight?” and “Should Patton be allowed to have a second cookie or dye his hair for breast cancer awareness month?” Since Patton’s opinion was almost always outvoted one to six, it was strange to think that his opinion could now either be right, or it could tie with the opinion of the only other person he was sharing his new home with. Patton liked those odds. What he didn’t like was how empty a house made for eight was when there was only two to fill it.

          Patton shook himself back to the present. His to-do list was only growing, and he definitely needed to get a start on home repairs, now that he had an attentive roommate with the eyes of a hawk to keep safe from exposed wires and crumbling staircases. He also had to tune the piano, de-wallpaper and paint a few rooms, explore the attic and the other rooms on the second floor, scrub the whole building top to bottom, inspect the barn for damages and fix whatever things can go wrong in a barn that’s been abandoned for a few decades, and clear out the overgrowth of three whole acres of land. But, for today, the stairs were his main goal.

          “At least I don’t have to feed the animals,” Patton mused as he glanced out the window above the sink. A cow was lazily chewing through a clump of grass with a dandelion sticking out of her mouth while a chicken nearby yanked a squirmy work out of the dirt.

          Making a face, Patton plated his breakfast and hopped up on the counter, watching his animals as he plowed through buttery soft eggs and crisp bacon with a fork that was decorated with a lovely little vine dotted with tiny leaves. The next few hours were spent washing dishes in hot bubbly water that smelled like lavender, which led to a side quest of him scrubbing the floor with a rag in hand and a dented tin bucket at his side and wiping down every surface in the kitchen because cleaning up a few stray soap suds had his dish rag coming away quite grimy and that would just not do. Once the kitchen was sparkling and his shirt was soaked in water, Patton caught a glimpse of the stairs out of the corner of his eye.

          “Gosh,” he grumbled under his breath with a sigh, putting away the cleaning supplies that had distracted him from the day’s main mission.

***

          Patton stared at the rickety staircase that led up to the second floor of his home, clutching a book on home repair to his chest in one hand and holding a rusty metal toolbox in the other. The staircase needed a lot of help. It wobbled when he walked on it and one of the steps was just a jagged, splintering hole like someone had put their foot through it. He could get up the stairs if he pressed close to the wall and stepped over the really bad step, but it wasn’t the safest and he had more than just himself to think of, now.

          With a huff, Patton set the toolbox beside a stack of wood he’d found in the closet under the stairs, which was a dark, musty little space with dusty spiderwebs lacing from each corner to the next.

          “Well, it certainly won’t fix itself, now, will it?” he said to himself. He reached up and tightened the bandana patterned in smiling suns that was taming his curls back from his face.

          “Okay, step one,” Patton said in the most determined voice he could muster, hands on his hips to generate as much confidence as he could. “Research.”

           He flipped through the home repair book and winced when the cover crackled and debris spilled out from between the water-stained pages. He made a triumphant sound when he found the “wobbly and squeaky” section of the “staircase” chapter.

          “What’s a stringer?” Patton wondered aloud, flipping through the pages and quickly finding that a book wasn’t going to be enough to help a beginner carpenter fix a staircase on his own.

          “Well, I’ll just make new. . . whatever this is,” Patton decided, waving a hand at the crooked post on the leaning railing without looking up from the book. He closed the book with a sharp snap and dropped it to the ground beside the toolbox, examining the crooked post.

          When Patton was seven, his oldest brother pushed him out of a tree. The result was Patton spending his birthday in the emergency room with a broken leg that his second oldest brother had haphazardly splinted with a thick tree branch tied to his leg with twine their father used to tie up old magazines and newspapers for the recycling. Since point of the splinting was to keep his broken leg from moving and causing further injury, the same practice could probably be applied to a leaning post. Probably.

          Paton lifted one of the thick wooden boards and stood it upright on the first step of the staircase so it rested against the leaning post. He rummaged through the toolbox, pushing aside rusty screwdrivers and loose screws until he found a ball of thin brown rope. Shrugging to himself, he held the end of the rope at the base of the board where it leaned against the post and pushed the post inward toward the set of stairs so it was more vertical, wincing when the aged wood groaned and creaked under the pressure of being put upright again. Patton knelt down, straddling the post with a knee on either side of it to keep it upright and against the board while he slowly began to wrap the ball around both. When he ran out of rope, Patton tied the end of it to a loose nail he had just noticed was sticking out of one of the steps. Then he stood back and admired his work.

          The banister wouldn’t be safe for leaning against until the post was replaced, but this was as good as he could do with zero carpentry skills. The board helped the post of the banister stay straight, and the pulk of the rope end tied to the nail kept both standing upright.

          The bashed in step had been harder to fix because it was apparently the home of a particularly territorial squirrel. When Patton pried up one of the broken pieces of the step, he’d heard a chittering sound coming from the hole, which was unnerving to say the least. Then he pried up another piece of wood and a furry little body jumped out of the hole, targeting Patton’s face with the spirit of a feral hellhound. Patton let out an embarrassingly high-pitched screech, fell back on his rear and down a few steps, and then sighed at himself when he realized he hadn’t paid enough attention to see where the squirrel had run off to. It was likely still in his house.

          He elected not to tell Logan.

          The rest of the day was spent dusting this, scrubbing that, polishing the other, and carefully avoiding contact with the squirrel or any spiders that might be lurking in the dark spaces of the home and preparing to rise against him in a fight to the death over the rightful ownership of the house. Poor Logan came home to find Patton laying spread out like a starfish on the floor of the living room with a bucket of brown water by his head, a mob laying across his chest, and a handful of rags dotting around him like fallen soldiers on a battlefield.

          “Patton!” Logan called from the front door where he’d dropped his briefcase and clenched his hands into fists.

          “Huh?” Patton snorted, lifting his head up just enough to see Logan. He took in a sharp breath, glancing around the room to get his bearings. “Oh, hey, welcome home.”

          “Are you. . . Um, are you well?” Logan asked, eyes flitting from Patton’s face to rest somewhere around his feet.

          “Most definitely,” Patton said, cheery grin slipping onto his face like an itchy old hand-me-down sweater. “How are you?”

          “I am . . . satisfactory,” Logan said, blinking rapidly and adjusted his tie. “You’re on the floor.”

          “Oh, yes.” Patton laid his head back down, spluttering when the mop head left a wet smear across his face. “I was fixing up the house and, uh, got tired, I guess.”

          “When one is suffering from exhaustion, it is common practice to rest in a bed. Or at least on a large, soft object such as a couch,” Logan scolded. “Laying on hard and unyielding surface, such as a floor, is terrible for the alignment of your spinal cord, especially in the cervical, lumbar, and sacrum portions of the spine.”

          “Two of those sound very much not like parts of a spine,” Patton said slowly.

          “I assure you they are. And they are at risk if you continue to lie on the ground like this.”

          “It’s not like I’m planning to sleep here,” Patton said, raising up a little to lean back on his elbows. “It was just a short rest.”

          “The body is quick to adjust its need for balance, an even distribution of weight, and its preference for symmetry—”

          “Logan, it’s not that big a deal,” Patton said as nicely as he could while he stood up. His smile felt tight and his voice was gratingly bright from a sudden spike of adrenaline that sent his heart into a galop and made his whole body flash hot.

          “You don’t understand—”

          “Logan, I’m fine, really. I was just taking a little break—”

          “A little break,” Logan repeated, mouth pulling into a frown.  “A little break that could lead to years of misalignment, chronic pain, swollen joints—"

          “It’s sweet of you to worry,” Patton managed through grit teeth. “But don’t need help.”

          Patton wasn’t sure if Logan was frustrated from a bad day at work or if he was just stuck in teacher mode, but he made a move to step closer to Patton, finger raised in admonishment, and Patton reacted immediately. He lurched back, stepping into the bucket of cold, murky mop water and falling back when his foot slipped right out from under him. A moment of weightless flight was quickly punished by a hard landing on his back that had his skull slamming into the polished hardwood he’d scrubbed at for about an hour.

          Patton blinked and found Logan’s face was hovering over his with wide eyes. In an effort to calm him, Patton reached up to pat his shoulder but Logan jerked away like Patton’s touch was dirty. Even though he realized that a hand covered in mop water was legitimately dirty, Patton couldn’t help the burn in his eyes and the frown tugging the corners of his lips down with a weight he couldn’t fight. He rolled his head to the side so he could look away from Logan’s intense stare.

          “. . . and any rotating of the cervical vertebrae or engagement of the scalene muscles could severely exacerbate injuries to the incredibly vital and already fragile neck—”

          “Wuh?” Patton interjected woozily.

          “Do you have a concussion?” Logan demanded to know, voice sharp.

          “No, no, I—”

          “What’s the capital of Florida?”

          “What?” Patton asked, rolling his head back to see Logan’s face. He earned himself two hands tightly pressing against the sides of his head to hold it in place. The warm pressure counteracted the slowly building throb in his temples and his eyes and the back of his head.

          “Answer the question, I am attempting to ensure that you do not have a concussion.”

          “Oh. Uh, Atlanta? Oh, no wait, that’s Georgia. Columbus? Shoot, no that’s . . . not Florida.”

          “I think you have a concussion.”

          “I think I just don’t know the capital of Florida,” Patton said with a lazy grin.

          “Most children enrolled in an American public school learn the capitals of the fifty United States of America in the fourth or fifth grade.”

          “That makes sense,” Patton said thoughtfully, wincing as the back of his head started to burn in response to the slowly failing adrenaline that now pumped a bit weaker through his system. “I failed the fifth grade.”

          “How did you fail the fifth grade?”

          “By not remembering the states capitals.”

          “That can’t have been the entire curriculum,” Logan protested, squinting at Patton with suspicion.

          “I’m also bad at school, so. . .” Patton shrugged and shifted himself out of Logan’s grip. “Anyways, thanks for your concern, but I’ve got some more work I want to get done tonight. How was work today, by the way?”

          “Satisfactory, the children were quite welcoming,” Logan said, rising to his feet and following Patton into the kitchen. “Though I have deduced that one of my coworkers seems to believe I am incompetent.”

          “How’d you come to that conclusion, Sherlock?” Patton asked, silently congratulating himself on a successful distraction and grabbing a handful of hand embroidered kitchen towels to clean up the spilled mop water. One towel had little chicks embroidered at the bottom, another had curly letters spelling out the “daily bread” part of the Lord’s prayer, and the last one had a cow’s head framed with colorful wildflowers.

          “She offered to inform me on how best to control a classroom,” Logan said in a clearly disgusted voice as he trailed after Patton back into the living room.

          “How so? Do you remember what exactly she said?” Patton asked, kneeling on the floor and beginning to sop up the mop water with the towels. When the white fabric began to turn a dingy brown, Patton belatedly realized that it might have been wiser to use bath towels instead.

          “Of course, I remember. She said ‘hey, Logan, let me give you some pointers on dealing with your kids. We can talk over lunch.’ It took me a moment to realize that by ‘your kids’ she did not mean my offspring. She meant ‘your students,’ a colloquialism most likely resulting from the mentality that the inhabitants of a sparsely populated area ought to be ‘close,’ which is a behaviour born out of the natural instinct that urges us to grow our social network to be as strong in both number and loyalty as possible in order to survive in a remote or rural environment. In this instance, however, it could also be an example of the infamous and so-called ‘southern hospitality.”

          By the time Logan paused to take a breath, Patton had finished cleaning up the floor and was kneeling by the pile of wet towels while watching Logan with rapt attention.

          “So, this lady told you that you can go to her for help if you need it, and maybe asked you on a date or is just trying to be friends with you because you’re new and alone, and you think that means she thinks you’re a bad teacher? Or are you annoyed that she’s trying to, uh, grow her social network with you and make you grow your social network with your kids? I mean, your students.”

          Logan stared at Patton with a blank expression and Patton held his breath. It was the kind of silent look Patton was used to being on the receiving end of. When someone froze like that, they were giving you a chance to undo what you’d just done. If you failed to do that to their standards, then they unfroze with a lot of shouting and grabbing at anything that looked remotely like a projectile. Unfortunately for Patton, there were many things that looked like projectiles around him because he left the toolbox out. Instead of chucking a wrench at Patton’s head, however, Logan slapped a hand onto the side of his messenger bag as if making sure it was still there and turned on his heel. His footsteps were louder going up the stairs than they had been going down them that morning.

          “Maybe he’s just sensitive about making friends,” Patton told himself when he heard a door slam upstairs. The hot ball of guilt tightening his guts didn’t loosen and his hands shook when he picked up Logan’s briefcase from off the floor and carefully lay it on the kitchen table.

Chapter Text

          “You want me to sign a roommate agreement?” Parton asked in a high voice as he vigorously whisked a ceramic bowl of egg whites and sugar. The kitchen was a bit humid, so he was having trouble forming stiff peaks for his meringue.

          “Yes,” Logan in the short, clipped tone that Patton was coming to realize was his natural speaking voice and not a warning sign.

          “Well, I think it’s perfectly alright to make some rules, but I don’t think we need a contract or anything that serious,” Patton said cautiously, making a face when some egg white leaped out of the bowl and landed with a splat on his cheek.

          “It’s important to keep an official record of all social agreements you involve yourself in and to be able to hold others accountable for their actions by having proof of what guidelines they have agreed to uphold,” Logan said slowly, which was the actual warning sign. Patton pursed his lips and whisked a bit harder, grimacing when a few more drops escaped his bowl and smeared onto the ruffly butter-yellow apron his middle older brother had gotten him half as a joke.

          “I can agree to that, but I don’t want to sign things. We’re roommates, not business partners.”

          “Signatures make the document more official. Studies have proven that people are more likely to adhere to a select set of social mores if legal action, like signing a document, is imitated and if they have a roll in forming the list of rules. Of course, it wouldn’t be a legal document, meaning neither party would be able to sue the other over infractions in a legitimate court of law.”

          Again, it made sense and Patton found himself at a loss on how to even begin to counter.

          “You’re too good at arguing,” Patton informed his new roommate.

          “On the contrary,” Logan said, whipping an honest to God fountain pen out of his little tweed jacket and placing it on top of the stack of papers in front of him at the breakfast table. “I am merely sharing the facts of the matter, and you are rational enough to see that my reasoning is sound.”

          “Uh-huh,” Patton said flatly, tipping his bowl upside down to test the stiffness of his meringue. He tilted his head to peek under the bowl and made a face when the peaks wilted. Not set yet. “But you’re forgetting that the facts of the matter include that I don’t want to sign something.”

          “But if you do not sign the agreement, I have no way of holding you responsible,” Logan argued.

          “Darling,” Patton said, stomach in knots as he chose his words carefully. “I appreciate you trying to make our housemates thing go smoothly, but you can’t go forcing people to sign things. Sometimes you just gotta trust that people will do the right thing and do what they agreed to.”

          “But people don’t!” Logan nearly shouted, smacking his palms onto the surface of the kitchen table and causing the pen to roll off the table.

          The outburst took Patton aback and he froze in the middle of whipping his meringue. Catching himself before his very nearly stiff peaks wilted, he continued whipping while giving his roommate a careful look. Logan’s face was hard and unmoving, but there was a kind of desperation in his eyes. It made his controlled vibe seem a little more frazzled, especially when he looked away and slumped.

          “Um, hey, I have an idea! Why don’t we write the rules down and keep them where we both can see them, like in the kitchen? That way, when someone does something against the rules, we’ve got a public copy and proof that the rules are very clear and easy to find, so there’s no excuse to act up.” Patton pulled that one right from stepmom’s book. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing another list of rules pinned to an otherwise blank fridge every time he walked into the kitchen, but this would be temporary. Only until Logan moved back into his apartment. And Patton could deal with a lot of things if it was only temporary.

          “I am willing to compromise with this as I realize that I am a guest here. The decision is ultimately yours,” Logan said, sounding like he’d picked his words just as carefully as Patton had.

          “Great, well, I’d like you to think of this place as your home. I don’t want you feeling like an intruder.”

          “Not an intruder,” Logan corrected, eyes flicking from Patton’s nose and up to the dusty lighting fixtures above them. “A guest. Someone who is welcome to make themselves at home, but who must fit themselves into the culture that the host creates. Common courtesies and niceties that make the living arrangements more agreeable for all parties involved, like rules and such.”

          “You talk like a lawyer, you know that?”

          “My father is a lawyer,” Logan said, jaw snapping tightly. “I would like to discuss the rules, now.”

          Patton looked up from where he was carefully layering his sunny little lemon pie with his glossy merengue.

          “Oh, uh, sure. What’s your first order of business, Attorney Logan?”

          “Cleanliness,” Logan said, the nickname either going unnoticed or just well-ignored.

          “Don’t have to worry about that, sugar, I run a tight ship,” Patton said with a cheeky grin, the memory scent of lemon cleaner and bleach filling his head.

          “I still think it would be wise to divide chores fairly and confirm a set of standards for what cleanliness looks like,” Logan said firmly, whipping a leather-bound notebook out of nowhere and beginning to scrawl away inside of it.

          “Oh, um, well I can do anything, when it comes to cleaning,” Patton admitted. “Though I usually get distracted and sort of bounce from task to task. I get the work done, but I may only mean to do the dishes and I’ll end up having done the dishes, polished the silverware, and washed the floors of the entire house and or something.”

          “I’ve been informed that this is not typical behavioral for young male bachelors,” Logan said almost suspiciously.

          “I’m. . . well-trained.”

          “Interesting choice of words. I myself am quite adept at maintaining clean floors mostly because nothing irks me more than dust and grime from outdoors being tracked through the home, possibly introducing all sort of bacteria and pathogens to the microbiosphere of the home,” Logan said, nodding to himself as he wrote something else in his notebook. “Therefore, I will take care of the dusting, sweeping, and mopping. I will also ensure that walkways are cleared, for safety, however I expect that you’ll take care of your own bedroom.”

          “Um, okay?”

          “We will do our own laundry and wash our own dishes, however the dishwasher ought to be run every night and emptied in the morning. Can you manage that?”

          “I once managed an entire household of three teenagers and three adults, excluding myself. I think I can handle a dishwasher for two.”

          “Your experience in this field has been noted and will no doubt be very beneficial to the health of your home and the future of our relationship as housemates,” Logan replied immediately like a pre-recorded message. “Though my interest is certainly piqued in regards to your previous living arrangements.”

          “Sorry to disappoint but it wasn’t very interesting. I just like to help people. Don’t you, Lo-Lo?” Patton said, drawing out the cutsie name. It did the trick.

          “Never call me that again,” Logan said, nose wrinkling at the nickname.

          “Ugh, fine.”

          “Next matter: do you cook?”

          “Sure, I like cooking. I can do breakfast and dinner, and even make lunches for you to pack if you like.”

          “That would be much appreciated; however, I am able to take care of my lunch” Logan said, flipping a few pages in his notebook before writing again. “I’ll also add taking out the trash and organizing the recycling to my assigned duties, if you are amendable.”

          “I’m very amenable,” Patton said, unable to keep the amused grin off his face as he popped the pie in the oven for a quick bake to brown the meringue.

          “Moving on to noise levels,” Logan said. “I go to bed at 9:00 p.m. sharp every evening and as such, I ask that you take extra caution so as to not awaken me. I rise at 6:00 a.m. sharp every morning and will do my best not to disturb you, in return.”

          “Sounds great,” Patton said, whipping his hands on a tea towel patterned with chickens. “Quite a strict schedule for someone your age, though.”

          “Sleep is one of the most important currencies for any individual to invest in their health,” Logan explained flatly before perking up with a spark in his eye. “Actually, strongly suggest that you adapt a sleeping schedule similar to mine—”

          “Not gonna happen, but your suggestion is noted.”

          “Hm. Very well, then. We will revisit this matter at a later time,” Logan raised one calculating eyebrow and flipped through his notebook with obvious displeasure on his face. “Onto visitors. Please alert me at least 48 hours in advance when you plan to have a guest visit. Please also inform me of how long the guest will be staying and what activities you expect to engage in.

          “Uh, I can understand why knowing how long they’ll stay could be important to you, but I’m not sure that what we’re doing is really your business,” Patton said slowly, face warming back up again as he winced at his own words.

          “I simply want to ensure that no illegal or distracting recreation is taking place inside the home I am currently residing in, however temporary that stay may be. If it appears that your guest’s visit will likely be disruptive, I can make arrangements to visit a library or another quiet place for the duration of their stay. If it appears that your activities will be illegal or immoral, I will do my duty as . . housemate to deter you from harming your future,” Logan said as if he was expecting Patton to throw raves in their 50s style farmhouse with the plethora of friends he’d made in the past three days of living in the middle of nowhere.

          “I promise to let you know if I’m going to do loud or illegal things with my rugged band of hooligans,” Patton said with a sharply sweet smile. “Now eat your toast.”

          Logan glared at the innocent piece of toast that had been resting on a little white China plate by his elbow for the past half hour.

          “It’s dry.”

          “Then use the marmalade, sugar,” Patton suggested, pushing the orange bottle of preserves across the table toward Logan.

          “Pushy,” Logan huffed, flipping back through his notebook.

          “Helpful,” Patton corrected, coming around the table to sit next to Logan. “Now what’s next on your list?”

          “Sharing,” Logan responded immediately. “We must ask before using each other’s things, including food items we individually purchase for ourselves. However, we must dispose of spoilt foods, even if the items aren’t our own.”

          “Reasonable.”

          “Should we have concerns with each other’s conduct, or should we wish to add to our house rules, we can call a house meeting. Additionally, both parties must agree to any proposed rules.”

          “Agreed.”

          After about twenty more minutes of agreeing to more of Logan’s proposed regulations, Patton took a quick trip to the craft store in town for supplies to make their rules list, which Logan had refused to accompany him to. When Patton was proudly showing off the decorative list he’d written in colorful gel pen with subject relevant doodles in the margins (a sponge with bubbles and a mop leaning against a bucket drawn near the “chores” subheading, a pie cut into even sections beside the “sharing” section, etc.), he felt that his roommate was less amused than Patton thought he had any right to be.

          “Gel pen and glitter are important for making our list friendly,” Patton declared as he stuck the list on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a necktie, which he’d found on a clearance shelf at the store and refused to explain its significance to a bemused Logan.

          “That makes no sense, lists are not sentient and, therefore, cannot have personality traits such as friendliness,” Logan said, voice tight as he looked at Patton like he was one of his unruly students.

          “You make no sense,” Patton argued. “Everything has a—uh—capacity for friendliness.”

          “I still think we should share our lists of emergency contact numbers,” Logan muttered as he sorted Patton’s newly acquired skeins of yarn by color on the kitchen table.

          “I’ll just make sure not to have an emergency,” Patton said with a mockingly haughty toss of his head. “And besides, I still think we should have each other’s list of current allergies, injuries, and such like that just in case.”

          “As I have already explained, that would be a breach of privacy and also—”

          “I know, I know,” Patton said with a laugh at Logan’s unamused expression. “Alright, were there any other roommate things you wanted to go over?”

          “Ah, just one,” Logan said, gaze drifting to the kitchen window behind Patton as he placed the last skeins of yarn onto the table.

          “What’s up?”

          The moment of silence that stretched on made Patton look up from where he was placing the other fun magnets he’d acquired on the fridge.

          “I realize that I’m not the easiest person to live with,” Logan said, hands twitching around each other like he was trying to lace them together but couldn’t quite remember how. “I’ve been told that I can be controlling and impatient and, well, I’m sure that someone with your charisma and charm can easily see that I’m not very good with people. So, thank you. For allowing me to stay. And for being kind to me.”

          “Oh. . . Oh, Logan,” Patton sighed, his frustration melting easily into guilt. “You don’t have to thank me for treating you like a human being.”

          “Most would not classify me as such,” Logan said, like curling like he’d tasted something sour. “I’ve been told I more resemble a robot or an alien. And I am often treated as such.”

          “Oh. People can be very cruel,” Patton said, easing into the chair next to Logan with his hands full of magnets shaped like puppies playing and sleeping.

          “But not you,” Logan said, glancing quickly at Patton over the tops of his glasses without lifting his head. Patton almost startled when they made eye contact.

          “No,” Patton agreed, dropping his gaze to his hands. “Not me.”

Chapter Text

          At first, Patton didn’t know what had awoken him. He lay in bed, blinking lazily up at the ceiling and remarking on how boring a plain white ceiling was when he heard a distant groan. He bolted upright in bed, holding his breath and straining his ears for a listen to see where the sound had come from. Probably just the wind making the creaky porch swing rock or the ancient oaks surrounding his home sway back and forth. But then he heard a clatter that had him snapping his head to the side to look out his window. The sound was coming from somewhere pretty far off, but definitely on the left side of the property, which was what Patton’s window faced. It was the same side that the barn stood on.

          Patton let out a nervous squeak and flung his rainbow striped Afghan off of his legs, hopping through the room as he stuffed his feet into the beat-up converse that sat bedside on the floor. He hesitated before pocketing the little whittling knife his oldest brother had gotten him a few Christmases ago, but ended up slipping it in his back pocket. He grabbed his mother’s long white shawl off the hook on the back of his bedroom door and draped over his shoulders as he slipped into the hall, instantly relaxing at the feeling of the soft knit lace against his skin.

          The house was so quiet and still that the silence roared in Patton’s ears as he snuck past Logan’s room on tiptoe, wincing when a few floorboards creaked under his weight. He stuck close to the wall when he made his way down the stairs, a trick he’d learned early on in his stepmother’s home. Once he’d safely reached the bottom of the stairs, he dropped his forehead into his hand with a huff upon realization that he’d left his phone—his only source of light—upstairs. A quick trip to the closet under the stairs rewarded him with a dusty box of matches and a mildly tarnished lantern that only cost him two burns and four tries to light with shaky hands.

          Then Patton was slinking out the front door, pulling the edge of his shawl over his head when the chilly night air nipped at his face and raising the lantern to see the ground below him as he made his way toward the barn. The tree branches arching overhead looked like long, dark monster claws stretching out to grab him the moment he looked away, and he couldn’t help the feeling of someone watching him shuffle through the field toward the barn. The high grasses were their own kind of torment. The lightening bugs were fine because they looked like little stars floating around his head, but he could’ve done without the mosquitos and whatever the hell else was biting at him.

          “Oh dear,” Patton muttered under his breath when he got close enough to the barn to see that one of its giant doors was cracked just enough for someone about his size to slip inside. His knife felt heavy in his pocket and his heartbeat was loud in his ears.

          Patton eased closer to the door, holding his lantern down as if lowering the light would somehow make the glow less obvious in the pitch-black darkness of a rural southern night. Dry grain crackled as he crushed dead stalks underfoot and the leaves shushed as they brushed against each other when he parted them and oh God that was movement–

          Patton froze mid-stride, one foot shaking mid-step just above the ground as his other leg trembled under his weight. Then he heard a metallic clang resonate from within the barn. Then there was a whispered curse that certainly didn’t come from Patton’s God-fearing vocabulary.

          Patton clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and took a deep breath.

          “H-hello?” he asked in a shaking voice.

          Unsurprisingly, there was no response. Patton made the wise decision to poke his head into the barn. A blood-curdling scream ripped through the barn with a buzzing sort of distortion warping the voice into something otherworldly and horrific. Patton’s instant response was to start crying while simultaneously screaming back in terror. It was a great combination of despair over a life soon to be lost much earlier than was fair and a sheer terror that gripped his heart and had his stomach rolling with panic. The intruder’s screams were cut off by a grunt but Patton’s screams only ended when he ran out of air. Silence fell again.

          Patton sniffled helplessly, gripping the splintery barn door with his free hand to hold himself upright as his knees knocked together with how hard he was shaking. His fingers went numb around the handle of the lantern, which smelled sweetly of smoke.

          “I think you made her cry,” came an accusatory voice. The response was a shriek that was definitely from the same . . . thing that had unleashed the blood-chilling scream earlier.

          “Will you sto—okay, look, lady,” said the second voice. Patton strained his eyes to see the two figures shaped like people, but the light from the lantern was only working against him. Too weak to cast light very deeply into the barn, too strong to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

          “I’m not a lady,” Patton spluttered, in spite of himself.

          “Oh, I see. What are you, then?” the voice asked, smooth and confident like a 9-1-1 operator.

          “Why are you in my barn?” Patton countered, holding his lantern farther out in front of him and taking a small step into the barn. He squinted but was only able to just barely make out the glint of something green and shimmery slinking through the darkness somewhere behind an ancient tractor.

          That was when Patton realized just what a precarious situation he was in. This person lurking in his barn was all lean muscle, moving quickly and silently, and there were two of them and only one Patton, who had one measly little knife with which to defend himself. He was in no place to make demands.

          “We are in need of asylum,” came the calm, smooth voice again.

          “From what?”

          “Those who would do us harm.” The low whisper made it sound like a confession.

          “Did you do something bad?”

          “Define bad,” said the other voice, which was gravelly and playful when it wasn’t screaming.

          “Did you hurt someone?” Patton asked. The responding silence was deafening. “Well, that answers that question, I supposed.”

          “We—” the smooth voice began.

          “Are you going to shoot us?” The gravelly voice asked. The question was asked so lightly and with such an honestly curious tone that Patton took a step back.

          “What? God, no!” he spluttered. “Why. . . Why would I shoot you?”

          “Because somebody shot Janney.” The tone reminded Patton of little kids he used to babysit. They answered difficult questions simply and with firm, cheery voices that made no room for disagreement.

          “Somebody shot at me,” Janney, the calmer one, said. “They shot you.”

          “One of you got shot?” Patton repeated, brain churning to keep up with the conversation as he imagined lightning-quick images of gunshot wounds and blood staining the barn’s hay and dirt floor.

          “Eh,” the gravelly voice said. Then there was a pause. “Only a little.”

          “Get in the house.” The words were spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

          Silence again, but this time Patton wasn’t waiting.

          “I said get in the house, let’s go,” Patton said tightly, already leading the way. A brief argument erupted behind him in a language he wasn’t familiar with, but then there were two nearly silent pairs of footsteps shushing through the field behind him. He didn’t look back until he was letting them inside and ushering them both into the bathroom tucked behind the stairs where the light wouldn’t wake Logan. The guy could sleep through a tornado, but Patton didn’t want to test it on a school night.

          So, he listened. He heard ragged breaths, muffled grunts, and uncomfortably dirty jokes whispered to a companion with a dry chuckle. And he heard the clicking of heels on the hardwood floors of the hallway as he slipped inside, closing the door behind him and his two new. . . acquaintances.

          “Oh, my,” Patton whispered when he finally turned around. The boys before him were maybe a few years older than him and looked like they’d seen decades more of this life than that.

          One had dark hair with sloppily dyed silver highlights and makeup smeared on his face like he’d been dolled up, got hammered, got in a brawl, and then got in bed for a nap. His emerald sequin crop top was ripped from across the chest but no blood showed through the slice, only dark chest hair. His neon green mini tutu was absolutely shredded and his bare legs were caked in mud. His friend, who he leaned bodily against like he was melting, was in a black pinstripe suit complete with a gold pocket watch chain peeking out of his pants, gloves with shimmery stitching, and a walking cane that had a little ruby-eyed cobra head perched on top of it.

          Patton couldn’t help but take a second look at them, totally unsure of what he was looking at: a fancy gentleman who was dressed sharply all dark and sinister, accompanied by a guy wearing barely any clothes and covered in blood, grime, and day old makeup

          “I’m a friend of the family,” the fancy man explained with an easy, sleezy smile. “My companion here got separated from his brother.”

          “And your name is?” Patton asked.

          “I’m Remus!” the one in the green outfit perked up before doubling over and wrapping his arm around his stomach where a thin line of blood was dribbling from the waistline of his tutu.

          “You may call me J,” the other responded flatly.

          “I’m Patton,” Patton said with a weak smile as he turned the tap of the sink faucet to warm. While the water heated, he rummaged through the cabinets below the sink for the first aid kit and plopped it onto the toilet seat cover. He patted the sink counter, smiling to himself when Remus immediately hopped up like a bouncy little kid. “Is the bullet out?”

          Patton looked up from the first aid kit just in time to see Remus digging in his own bullet wound with dirt caked fingers. Patton quickly looked away with a gag tearing through his throat and his stomach churning. He blindly handed Remus a pair of tweezers, eyes fixated on the white tile floor. The bullet was much bigger than he thought it would be when Remus finally pulled it out and held it up triumphantly between two long fingernails that had been filed to sharp points. J held his hand out with his pocket square and Remus dropped the bloody, muddy bullet into the waiting palm.

          “I have to confiscate them,” J explained, slipping the bullet into his pocket. “He likes to eat them.”

          “He eats bullets?”

          “My favorite kind of shot!” Remus cackled, hugging his arms around his torso and kicking his dirty heels against the cabinets with glee, sending mud splattering onto the floor. “Great source of iron!”

          “But why?”

          Remus’s smile went feral. “Payback,” he hissed, teeth flashing.

          “Ah,” Patton said, nodding agreeably as he dabbed at the blood crusted wound on Remus’s stomach. The air smelled like pennies.

          “I can do that,” J said, forcibly jerking the washcloth from Patton’s hand. Patton blinked, flinching and splashing rubbing alcohol onto his hands. That was when he remembered he’d burned his fingers on the lantern when trying to light it a little while earlier.

          “Gosh!” he hissed, gripping the wrist of his injured hand.

          “What’s wrong with you?” Remus asked, which was a frankly irritating question. As if Patton was the most . . . atypical person crammed in the bathroom at the moment.

          “Nothing at all,” Patton said with a tight smile. He reached around Remus slowly and rinsed his hands in the sink without taking his eyes off of the pair before him and picked a spool of cloth bandages out of the first aid kit. While his guests were distracted, Patton made quick work of slathering the mild burn in slightly expired ointment, wrapping it, and making a quick trip to his room for clean clothes for Remus. Once Remus was patched up and in a pair of pink Hello Kitty sweatpants and a baggy Beatles sweatshirt stolen from Patton’s youngest older brother, Patton guided both him and J to the kitchen and stood by the stove to watch the kettle. His visitors looked on with varying degrees of fascination.

          Remus sat on the counter beside the stove, swinging his legs and letting them thump quietly against the kitchen cabinet below him, and J sat primly at the kitchen table with a blank expression. Patton crossed his arms and stared down at the teapot, mouth pressed into a hard line.

          “How close is whoever you’re running from?” Patton asked without looking up, even when there was a significant pause between his question and the response.

          “We lost them in Virginia,” J said, voice sharp and a little moody.

          “Will they find you here?”

          Another pause.

          “It’s possible. But not likely.”

          Patton thought about Logan looking lost, anxious, trying to keep it together as he stood in Patton’s kitchen with just a briefcase and a moving truck with no ETA. And he thought about these guys. The strange little demon man whose smile and laughter had shuttered into a stony silence, and the dapper gentleman whose polite caution had turned barbed in defiance. And he thought of himself. And his sad little boxes. And how he was wrapped in his late mother’s shawl and using his late grandmother’s kettle.

          “Where will you go?” Patton asked, lifting the little lid of the kettle off to drop a few teabags in. He chose a mix of lavender and chamomile.

          “That is not your concern,” J responded immediately. Remus grunted and looked away when J met his gaze with a hard look.

          “Look, I can’t in good conscience send you guys back out there,” Patton said with a sigh, pouring the kettle into three mismatched mugs. He handed Remus one with little corgis dotted all over it and blinked when Remus brushed their fingers together. He kept a sunflower-patterned mug for himself and held a pink one with rainbow polka-dots out to J before fetching the milk, honey, and sugar.

          “It’s not your concern,” Remus parroted J after adding entirely too much sugar to his tea and then burying his face in his mug. Patton sighed, looking up to the ceiling when Remus started slurping loudly.

          “Seeing as your blood is all over my barn right now, it’s definitely my concern if you’re in legal trouble,” Patton said, leaning back against the counter and sipping slowly from his fragrant honeyed tea. He felt very tired all of a sudden.

          “We’ll be sure to clean up after ourselves,” J said, eyes hard and face completely expressionless. Patton threw his free hand up and rolled his eyes.

          “There’s extra rooms upstairs. Take it, or don’t. It’s your choice.” Then he left the kitchen and started creeping back upstairs with his hot tea. “And don’t make any noise, or—”

          “Patton? With whom are you conversing at this hour?” came an adorably sleep-slurred voice.

          Patton looked up to see Logan standing at the top of the staircase in a set of midnight blue pajamas and rubbing a fist against his eye, blocky glasses and perpetual frown missing from his face.

          “Oh, sorry Logan,” Patton said with a sigh, leaning sideways against the wall and dropping his head into his free hand. “I have some, uh, friends over.”

          “I thought we agreed to inform each other when we planned to have company,” Logan said coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. Patton’s heart ached.

          “This wasn’t exactly planned,” Patton admitted, casting a glance to the guests behind him.

          “You still could’ve informed me when they arrived,” Logan said with a sigh.

          “You said to never disturb you in your sleep,” Patton said, taking a step backward down the stairs.

          “You ought to have told me that there were others here, especially during quiet hours and on a school night,” Logan’s voice soared over Patton’s. Patton took another step down, face burning.

          "Goodie-two-shoes over here sure seems like a fun roommate,” came Remus’s voice from directly behind Patton. Patton glanced over his shoulder to see Remus standing at the foot of the stairs, chewing absently on a teabag.

          “Don’t insult our generous hosts,” J reprimanded gently in the kitchen doorway. “Patton, here, is the reason you didn’t bleed out in a barn tonight.”

          “Oh, please, I’m the one who got the bullet out,” Remus scoffed. “He just offered a place to stay.”

          “What?” Logan asked, beginning to descend the stairs like a bat swooping down on its prey. Patton reeled back, colliding with Remus’s chest and locked between a handsy stranger and an infuriated friend.

          Patton yelped when arms went around his waist from behind and he immediately gripped the wrists lying just below his navel, still trying to twist away from the incoming confrontation.

          “We’re roommates, now,” Logan said firmly. “You can’t make decisions that affect us both without my input.”

          “Aw, come on Logan, everything’s gonna be okay,” Patton said with a weak smile. “They’re good guys, I can tell.” He squirmed in Remus’s grip.

          “That still remains to be seen. And what are you – don’t play on the stairs, that’s dangerous,” Logan said, making an aborted move to reach out. “Release him.”

          “Alright, why don’t we all relax,” came J’s smooth voice, the low calm striking through the scuffle.

          “You input is unnecessary,” Logan said before turning back to Patton, who flapped his hands once to let the long sleeves of his sweater hide his hands. “Who are your friends?”

          “I, well, I don’t really know them.”

          “You let complete strangers into this home?” Logan demanded eyebrow rising.

          “Well, yes, but—”

          “Do you even realize what a dangerous situation you’ve put us both in?” Logan asked. Patton wrapped an arm around his waist and wedged the thumbnail of his free hand between his front teeth, biting down. “This was very irresponsible and could end in serious consequences for us both.”

          “I know it looks bad,” Patton admitted, waving his hands in the air a little frantically. “And—well, actually I can’t say it’s not as bad as it looks because I don’t actually know—uh, they haven’t told me—”

          “It might be best if I explain,” J interrupted with his low, honeyed voice. Patton heaved a sigh of relief. “My acquaintance and I were made victims of a crime this evening, and we sought asylum in one of your outlying buildings that we wrongly assumed wouldn’t be accessed until morning.”

          Logan’s jaw twitched.

          “This is all highly suspect,” he said in a cold voice.

          “We should go,” J said, turning abruptly toward the door and Patton’s stomach dropped like he’d was zipping down a loop-di-loop on a roller coaster.

          “But I like it here!” Remus whined, draping himself on the banister of the creaky staircase. “And I’m sleepy.”

          “Your charms are useless against me,” J said flatly, earning a cackle from Remus that had the corner of J’s mouth quirking up.

          “Please focus. Since it’s late and I have work in the morning, we will discuss your infraction at a later date,” Logan said, boring holes into Patton. “This is not the appropriate time for this conversation.”

          “Well, I—well, that wasn’t a very nice way of saying that,” Patton said. “I was just trying to help. It was the right thing to do. I know it upsets you to have guests over without knowing who they are or when they’ll be here, but. . . but they needed me. And I took a chance on them. Like I did with you.”

          Logan’s face spasmed like he was caught between two emotions before he quickly looked away from Patton’s gaze.

          “We’ll discuss this at a later date,” he repeated firmly, storming up the stairs and disappearing down the hall of bedrooms. For a moment, a heavy and awkward silence settled in the house and Patton found himself floundering a bit.

          “Well, he didn’t say you can’t stay,” Patton said with a weak smile, tugging at a lock of hair curling behind his ear. “So, um, feel free to take any of the empty bedrooms. I think we only have one spare of linens, though.”

              “We can share!” Remus said with a giggle, leaping toward Janus and wrapping his limbs around the poor man. Janus, however, didn’t seem too surprised and took the affectionate jostling in stride as Patton delivered the spare linens to his guests and made himself scarce, disappearing to his room for the rest of the night

Chapter Text

          Patton was carefully folding a veggie and cheese omelet in the battered skillet when Remus came bounding down the stairs with the force of an elephant stampede, still dressed up in his lime green tutu and ripped sequin crop top from the night before. In the daylight, the glitter on his cheeks and the smeared eyeliner around his eyes looked almost cartoonish. Patton’s stomach flipped, even though he knew Logan had already left with the slam of the front door at 5:30 in the morning.

          “O-oh, hey, hi Remus,” he said, shaking hand almost ripping the omelet.

          “Top of the mornin’, sugar hips!” Remus said, jumping down the last four steps of the staircase and striking a pose with his bottom sticking out and his hand displaying a peace sign up in the air.

          Patton forced a laugh, shaking his head before giving a more composed greeting to Janus, who was close behind Remus and practically gliding down the stairs.

          “Good morning, Patton. You slept well, I trust?” Janus asked as he eased onto the baby blue painted chair at the kitchen table.

          “Of course!” Patton lied through his teeth with a grin so big and wide that his eyes nearly closed from the tightness of his cheeks. “I hope you did too.”

          “Of course,” Janus parroted, one slim eyebrow raising. Patton’s smile faltered and he turned back to the stove.

          “You know, I was thinking that we could hit the town today and get you guys some things you might need. Like toiletries and clothes and stuff,” Patton said lifting his frying pan and tipping the fluffy omelet onto a chipped plate sitting on the counter. He plucked a few leaves of fresh parsley off a bundle standing in a small vase of water in the kitchen window and sprinkled it over the egg.

          “Aw come on, Patty, don’t you like to share?” came a sultry voice right at his ear, warm breath fanning on his neck as a pair of hands fluttered against his hips.

          Patton’s voice caught in his throat and his plate of eggs slipped from his numb fingers and crashed to the hardwood floor below. He jerked back in a futile attempt to escape the hands, slamming his back into the chest of the man who owned those straying hands. Patton tried to scream, the easiest way to communicate getawaybackoffstoptouching to the feverishly warm length of body against his back but only a guttural gag bordering on dry heaves scratched its way out of his throat.

          And then it was gone and there were no hands and no warm breath and his gaze was pinned on a stain on the counter that he hadn’t even realized was there. He felt the heavy gazes of two people behind him and his face burned under the scrutiny. Time to save face.

          He whirled around, possibly a bit too quickly if the jump from Janus was anything to go by, and plastered his face-splitting, eye-squinting smile on again.

          “So sorry about that, you just startled me a bit,” he said, smoothing down the front of his apron. Two blank gazes watched him but he only had eyes for the shards of white ceramic and bits of fluffy golden egg strewn about the floor. “Oh, dear.”

          “There’s this saying, I’m sure you’ve heard,” J said, placing both of his palms flat on the kitchen table and rising from his seat like steam off a pond.

          “Pardon?” Patton asked, blinking quickly. J smiled and lifted the dustpan and brush off of a hook on the wall by the kitchen entrance.

          “No use in crying over spilled milk,” J said kneeling in front of Patton and carefully sweeping the mess into the dustpan.

          “I can do it,” Patton said dropping to his knees so hard the stove rattled. “You don’t have to—I can—”

          “Darling,” J said, giving Patton a slightly patronizing smile. “Of course, you can do it.”

          “But—no, but that’s my job, I can do it,” Patton argued, hands shaking uselessly in the air because you don’t make company clean up but you also can’t take things from company like a grabby toddler.

          Janus looked up at him with a blank expression cocking his head to one side. For a moment the room was completely still. Remus didn’t budge from where he’d backed himself toward the kitchen door, though Patton was distantly aware of how the guy’s shoulders were heaving. And Janus didn’t look away from Patton, eyes locked and hands still gripping the dustpan and brush.

          Then Janus’s eyebrows were rising slowly to the point that Patton wasn’t sure they’d ever stop. Then Janus’s chin was lifting a bit and his eyes were a bit wider. Patton felt his skin prickle with animal instinct, always able to instantly recognize when someone got too close or peeled back a rotting layer they weren’t supposed to see under.

          “Well, it’s already done,” Janus said, lurching to his feet so quickly he stumbled a moment. He smoothed a hand over his gel slicked hair and his head pivoted as if on a swivel until he targeted the trashcan and dumped the dustpan’s contents into it.

          Patton heaved himself upright by gripping the counter, warily eyeing the hand that had been outstretched to him once Janus had put the dustpan and brush back. Janus pursed his lips and looked past Patton, brushing by him.

          “Remus,” Janus was saying lowly. Patton froze.

          When he was a kid, Patton had a fear of monsters. His middle oldest brother had a bit of a cruel streak and liked to tell his little brothers scary stories that kept them up at night, which didn’t help any. Patton’s youngest older brother was the type to spring out of bed and race out of the room the moment a floorboard creaked or bird cawed outside, but Patton was the kind of kid who would close his eyes against the things that scared him. He’d lay perfectly still and he’d make his breathing so shallow that it looked like he was dead. When he was little, he could pretend that monsters only existed when he saw them, that they went away when he closed his eyes. What he didn’t realize was that it only made him more vulnerable to the real monsters that were actually there lurking in the dark.

          But this time, when Patton turned around, Remus wasn’t there. It was just Janus standing in the doorway of the kitchen fixing Patton with a dark look complete with pinched lips, a set jaw, and narrowed gaze.

          “I-I’m sorry,” Patton said, voice small and low to his own ears. Janus shook his head.

          “Don’t apologize to me,” Janus said. “Not unless it’s for something you’ve done wrong, and not unless you mean it.”

Chapter Text

          Patton was kneeling beside the piano in the living and using a soft cloth to rub nasty smelling polish on the scratched legs of the instrument. He wiped the back of one hand across his sweaty forehead, freeing a few curly locks from his sun patterned bandana and leaving a streak of grease on his face. The sound of voices bickering filtered into the otherwise peaceful room as Remus and Janus passed the open window of the living room and started up the porch steps. Patton did a double take when he saw something lumpy wrapped up in Remus’s arms.

          “It wasn’t my fault!” Remus was arguing, his gravelly voice pitching up as he grew defensive.

          “I can’t imagine who else would be at fault for this.” That was Janus’s smooth, low voice. But there was an edge of fond exasperation to it that Patton hadn’t heard before.

          Then the front door swung open and Remus was tromping through the foyer and upstairs. With a human being in his arms.

          “What’s that?” Patton demanded, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice as he slowly stood, polishing cloth dropping from his hand. “What do you have?”

          “A friend!” Remus called over his shoulder with a maniacal grin.

          “A hostage,” Janus muttered, reaching out to lift the edge of the stranger’s purple sweatshirt from where it was dragging on the ground.

          “He’s taking the room next to mine,” Remus added.

          “W-what, wait!” Patton scrambled after his two roommates and up the stairs to catch up with them. “Where did you find him?”

          “In the middle of the road,” Remus and Janus said at the same time, both looking over their shoulders and down at Patton.

          “Remus ran him over,” Janus clarified when Patton looked at him helplessly. Remus giggled and made a beeline for the room catty corner to Patton’s own, nearly skipping with glee. His footsteps were loud against the hardwood floor, strong enough to make the photo of Patton and his roommates shake on the wall.

          “What is happening?” Logan asked, peeking his head out of his room slowly as if afraid of what he might see.

          “I got us another roommate!” Remus crowed as he passed Logan’s room.

          “Remus hit someone with the truck,” Janus added, shrugging when Logan gave him a mildly concerned look.

          “With my truck?” Patton spluttered, jogging to keep up with his long-legged friends. “I’m not insured on that thing!”

          “What did you think Remus ran him over with?” Janus asked over his shoulder.

          “What do you mean, you aren’t insured on your only vehicle?” Logan asked over top Janus.

          “I’m not exactly swimming in millions here, Lo,” Patton huffed, quickly grabbing a fresh set of linens from the hall close on his way into his newest roommate’s room. He pawed at the corner of the mint and lilac quilt that hung over the edge of the top-most shelf in the closet.

          “Does our new. . . friend require medical attention?” Logan asked in a calm and steady voice, reaching up and catching the worn quilt before it fell on Patton’s face.

          “Thanks,” Patton said with a weak smile when Logan held onto the quilt and gestured for Patton to walk ahead.

          “I do not believe so,” Janus said, crossing his arms and watching Patton quickly make up the bed. It was a tarnished metal bedframe with a slightly sagging pinstripe mattress, but it was what they had at the moment and it was better than the floor.

          Logan stepped up to help with the fitted sheet when Patton whined as the last rounded corner popped off the mattress for the second time. While Janus and Logan bickered about whether or not they should bring the stranger to the hospital—though it seemed Janus was just arguing for the sake of arguing—Remus laid their new guest on the mattress, supporting the guy’s head with one big palm until it was fully resting on the pillow Patton had grabbed from the closet. Remus stared down at their newest addition with a blank face and wide eyes while Patton slipped the holey converse off the stranger’s feet and placed them on the floor in front of the nightstand for easy access.

          “Well, it’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing,” Patton muttered to himself, pulling the blanket up to the stranger’s chin and tucking it around his shoulders. That was when Patton finally got a close up look at the stranger’s face, glad to see no blood or bruising. “He seems young.”

          Young and tired. Dark circles ringed the poor guy’s eyes, his skin was slightly grey in colour, and his hair was greasy and stringy. His jacket was haphazardly patched together and cobbled from what looked like other pieces of clothing, and his dark jeans were torn in a few places, missing most of the beltloops, and had a paperclip in place of the slider on his zipper

          “Maybe he’s a student,” Remus suggested, hopping up onto the desk across from the bed and beginning to chew on his pinky fingernail. “He was leaving the library when I hit him.”

          “You’ll be lucky if his parents don’t sue,” Logan said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. Patton pulled his gaze from the kid’s face and snuck between the other three people in the small room toward the window.

          With a grunt and the crack of dried paint bending to force’s will, he finally got the window open and a cool, fresh breeze wafted in with the mildly icky smell of the pink dogwood tree blossoming outside. Patton turned around to face his roommates with a confident grin and nearly had a heart attack when he found the stranger sitting upright and curling into the headboard of the bed.

          “Oh,” Patton said.

          And then Logan was reciting what sounded like a checklist for diagnosing concussions, Remus gestured wildly and kind of suggestively from his perch on the desk, and Janus was making some sarcastic comment that Patton couldn’t quite hear over the stranger’s labored breathing.

          “Uh.” Patton let out a nervous laugh. “Hi, there.”

          The wind rushed in through the window, bringing a storm of pink petals into the room and sending Patton’s hair whipping around. Luckily, it pulled the stranger’s attention away from the other three and suddenly a pair of wide, wet eyes with chocolatey brown irises were locked on Patton.

          “Aw, don’t be scared,” Patton whispered, slowly edging closer to the bed. His stomach twisted into knots when the eyes on him grew wider and more fearful. He hip-checked Janus out of the way, ignoring the indignant harrumph he was awarded with, and eased onto the foot of the bed. He rested a feather light touch on the stranger’s blanket covered foot and was instantly aware of how silent the room had gone.

          “My name is Patton. You’re at my house, about an hour from town. These are my friends. They live here with me, and it looks like you will, too, for a little while. At least until we make sure you aren’t hurt badly.”

          “You kidnapped me?” the stranger asked in a whisper as he pressed himself tighter against the headboard of the bed, clutching his blanket to his chest.

          “No, no, no!” Patton said, hands waving about as he leaned backward. “You’re free to leave any time, I just. . . Well, I just hope you’re willing to stay a while until you’re feeling better.”

          “W-what happened?” the stranger asked, uncurling just a bit and pulling the blanket away from his face so Patton could see a little silver tongue ring glinting in his mouth. Patton was scrambling for a polite way to explain the less than friendly introduction between his truck and the stranger when their new friend threw out an arm to point accusingly at Remus. “You ran me over, you psycho freak!”

          Patton flinched back so hard he had to rise to his feet to keep from falling off the bed. A quick glance to Remus proved that even he was surprised. Then thick lashes framing brilliantly emerald eyes began to flutter like butterfly wings and Remus’s grimace pulled into a too sweet smile.

          “Oh, sweetheart, you say the darnedest things,” Remus crooned in a falsetto thick with a faux southern accent. The stranger’s face screwed up into a disgusted look and Patton eased between the challenging stares of Remus and the stranger.

          “Hi, I’m Patton! What’s your name?’ Patton said loudly with a weak grin, back as stiff as a board as he physically shoved Remus out of the stranger’s line of sight. Only weeks of training were able to prevent him from flinching at the loud thump of a body hitting the floor.

          “You already said that. Uh, sorry, I mean—you can call me Verge,” the stranger said, ruffling his purplish hair and ducking his head.

          “As in to be ‘on the verge’ of something? Such as a discovery or success?” Logan piped up from where he was standing in the corner of the room.

          “Or a disaster!” Remus added helpfully.

          “S-sure, whatever,” Verge said, hands coming up to scratch at his arms over his thick hoodie.

          “Fascinating. Quite a unique name.”

          “It’s not—yeah, yeah I guess it is,” Verge said, raking a hand through his messy hair again and sending a long glance to the doorway of the bedroom. Then he exploded into action, blankets flying into the air as a streak of purple and black raced toward the doorway. Before Patton could even protest, Verge was collapsing into a heap on the floor near the doorway.

          “Oh my God,” Patton blurted out, running around the bed toward Verge with his hands fluttering uselessly in the air. “Are you okay? What just happened? Did you break something?”

          “I believe our new roommate was merely overwhelmed by the situation and attempted an escape,” Logan said, pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately for him, his body is still recovering from the trauma of today and was not prepared for such strenuous activity.”

          At this point, Patton had made it to Verge’s side and immediately reached out. With his brothers, his hands were welcome, his touch was welcome, his hugs were welcome. That was not the case with Verge. The moment Patton placed his hands on his newest friend, Verge exploded back into motion. Patton was pinned on the floor, head bashing against the ground as skinny, frail Verge somehow managed to shove Patton onto his back and hold him there.

          Patton immediately tipped his head to the side and tucked his chin down to protect his face, jerking his arms—still in Verge’s grasp—to form a shelter over his torse, fingers curls into fists to keep them safe. Then his legs came up, feet flat on the floor and knees in the air to add an extra boney shelter for the soft and squishy parts.

          The room was chaos with hands grabbing at both Verge and Patton and voices all clamoring over each other. Patton quickly realized that Plan A (staying still until it was over) would not be an option. The only other option was Plan B: escape. So he curled up into a ball as best he could and threw his full weight to the side, taking Verge with him in his momentum. Once Patton had gotten himself upright and was practically sitting on Verge, he arched back to free his arms and grunted when he landed hard on his back. At the moment of impact, he rolled to the side and used the momentum to leap to his feet, flinching away from faceless hands. He backed himself into the corner between the bed and the window, shooing his roommates out of the way.

          “Shush, I’m fine, help Verge,” he muttered, his southern twang coming out a little heavier than usual. He forced slow and deep breaths, fixing his gaze on the pink dogwood outside and distantly listening to the whispers coming from the other side of the room. That old familiar whooshing and roaring built up in his ears but he just let it come. It sounded like the ocean anyways. And then it cleared and the room was silent.

          “Verge, did I hurt you?” Patton asked, ducking his head as he looked back at Verge over his shoulder. He knew he probably looked like a little kid who had just been scolded, but he couldn’t help the shyness that came with the knowledge that he had just been rough with someone.

          “N-no?” Verge said from where he still sat on the floor.

          “Ah, that’s good, then,” Patton said, eyes fitting back to the floor.

          “Patton?” Logan piped up, stepping into Patton’s line of view but leaving plenty of space between them.

          “Hm? Do you need something?”

          “I—no, Patton,” Logan said with a frustrated huff. “I don’t need anything, I want to inquire about your wellbeing.”

          “I’m fine, nothing happened.” It spilled right out without second thought. The words were a mantra, practically a prayer.

          “Do you want to leave the room?” Logan asked, taking a step closer and lowering his already soft voice.

          Relief spread through Patton like a sun-warmed blanket and he dipped his head in a nod, grateful when Logan placed a hand lightly at his lower back and used his other hand to gesture for their roommates to move. With Logan parting the sea and gently pushing Patton through the room, they were out in the hall in seconds with Verge’s door closing behind them.

          “Are you alright?” Logan asked again.

          “Mm-hm!” Patton said brightly through a tight-lipped smile. “I’m going to my room to rest a bit.”

          “Oh, yes, okay,” Logan said, gaze flitting somewhere around the ceiling of the room. “Just. . . Just tell someone if you need something.”

          Patton felt himself snap back into reality like jerking awake on an airplane as it touched down on a runway. But a much nicer version of that.

          “Thanks, Lo,” Patton said with the sweetest smile he could muster. Logan blushed bright red, further lifting Patton’s already brighter spirits as he slipped into his room.

Chapter Text

              Patton’s original plan was to wallow in his room until the sun went away. But that got old very quickly due in part to the fact that Patton never really had the time to wallow before, so he didn’t have much experience with it. After that revelation, he turned to what he did best: cleaning.

              In the dead of night, he grabbed supplies from downstairs—the dustpan, broom, and mop from under the stairs and the cleaning caddy with all sorts of cleaning solutions and scrubby things from under the kitchen sink—and snuck back into his room without so much as a creaking floorboard to announce his departure or return. And then he lit the floral hurricane lamp on his nightstand and got to work. In just hours, his windows were impeccably clear, the floor shone glossy in the foggy lamp light, and every corner and knickknack had been dusted. This left Patton sitting on the floor surrounded by the carnage of his cleaning spree feeling accomplished but restless.

              It wasn’t enough. His hands itched to scrub and brush and sweep and polish, his heart had evened out into a steady working pace, and the endorphins buzzing warmly through his veins from the physically demanding and ultimately satisfying tasks urged him to keep going.

              The hall was next. The added challenge of having to quietly tiptoe past bedroom doors and keep the old broom from making too many scratchy noises against the floor brought a level of risk that kept his mind from wandering too far. And then he was in the bathroom, moping at the tiles and scrubbing the toilet and shining the cabinet mirror. And then he was sweeping the stairs and polishing the banister, finally making his way to the kitchen where he collapsed at the table. And that’s when he got really desperate and the baking began.

              “It just—it comes out of nowhere!” he muttered to himself as he carefully constructed the lattice work for an apple pie. “I freak out and it’s like the world is ending. And I can’t. . . I can’t put the pieces of the earth back together while I’m falling.”

              “And it’s not like, ya know, reasonable stuff, either,” he added, turning around to pull a dozen lemon muffins out of the oven. “Someone laughs too loud and I’m hiding in the corner. Well, not literally. But that’s how it feels. On the inside.”

              “It’s not the worst quirk in the world. I could sneeze blue goop or glow pink when I get mad or something,” he soothed himself with a weakly cajoling tone while piping a cluster of practice rosettes on a napkin. “These aren’t half bad. Man, muscle memory sure is something, ain’t it?”

              Patton was two apple pies, a dozen lemon muffins, and one three-tier orange zest cake into his baking extravaganza when the sun started rising over the treetops outside the kitchen window. The roosters began crowing amongst themselves, the sky was a cozy blue-gray, and dew sparkled on the grass like a field of diamonds. Inside, Patton was whisking cinnamon vanilla pudding over the stove when he realized that there were several pairs of eyes on him. Logan, J, and Remus stood in the doorway of the kitchen with varying degrees of surprise and concern on their faces.

              “I can explain,” Patton said. That was when he realized he was wearing only a little pair of boxers and a baggy tie-dye shirt, still holding the wooden spoon in the pudding pot.

              “No need, I’ve seen enough,” Logan said, holding up a hand to silence Paton’s explanation and sweeping into the kitchen to grab the lunch he’d made himself the night before. “Can I bring a muffin to work?”

              “Sure, uh, take as many as you want. Take some for your friends at school,” Patton said, gesturing to the muffins sitting on their cooling racks on the kitchen island. “They’re lemon.”

              “I love lemon,” Logan said, shoveling three muffins into his galaxy print lunchbox and disappearing into the hall again. “I hope you feel better today.”

              “Oh, uh, thank you!” Patton called distantly as he heard the front door swing open and shut.

              That left him in the silence of the kitchen with an island overflowing with baked goods and kitchenware, plus two blank-faced roommates.

              “Oh, my gosh!” Patton exclaimed, staring at Remus and J with an open mouth. “I forgot about Verge!”

              Patton zipped around in a circle, trying to find an unoccupied space to place his messy spoon and eventually stuck the spoon into J’s fist due to lack of real estate.

              “Did he have everything he needed last night? Did someone make sure he ate?” Patton asked, giving Remus a wide berth and racing up the stairs. “I did laundry yesterday so there should’ve been enough towels for everyone to shower, did anyone show him where they were or where we keep the extra toothbrushes and—oof!”

              Patton bounced off a firm surface and found himself face to face with just the guy he was talking about.

              “Shit, I—uh, sorry, I didn’t. . . Um,” Verge trailed off, taking a step backward up the stairs. He was wearing the same ripped jeans and patchwork hoodie from the day before with the hood up and his fists curled under the cuffs of his sleeves.

              “Hey! Um, hi, hello!” Patton babbled, finally gathering himself. He smoothed a hand through his hair, grimacing when a few curls flopped into his eyes. “Sorry, I’m usually more presentable in the mornings.”

              “You look presentable,” Verge said, face flushing pink. “I mean, you look nice. I mean, not in a weird way because you’re wearing boxers—not that I’m looking!—but you look good. Yeah.”

              “Oh, thank you,” Patton said, face burning with the power of a thousand suns. “Do you need anything? Did you eat last night? Did anyone give you a tour yet?”

              “Um, I kind of just passed out after everyone left, so . . .” Verge mumbled rubbing at the back of his neck as he followed Patton back down the stairs.

              “Passed out?” Patton repeated, casting a panicked look over his shoulder.

              “Not literally! I just mean, I fell asleep.”

              “Oh, right,” Patton muttered, easing between J and Remus to get back to the kitchen. “You should come have breakfast, I made lemon muffins!”

              “I don’t like lemon,” Verge said immediately, as if it were a knee-jerk reaction. His face went red and he ducked, clutching absently at the back of his hood. “Sorry, I mean…”

              “Oh, no, that’s okay!” Patton said, waving his hands to brush away Verge’s apology.

              “Ouch, newbie,” Remus said, throwing an arm across Patton’s shoulders. “Not one for first impressions, ey?”

              “Says you,” J muttered, thumping Remus on the back of the head as he disappeared into the kitchen with a bored expression.

              “Yeah, Remus, not everyone likes lemon. It’s a strong flavor!” Patton wormed his way it of Remus’s grip, narrowly escaping a friendly noogie and scuttling to the kitchen. “Have any preferences? I can make anything you want. Waffles, pancakes, biscuits, crepes—if I can find the cake flour—bacon, sausage, eggs—unless you only eat them with cheese, someone forgot to put it on the grocery list—”

              “I’m not really a breakfast person,” Verge muttered, leaning against the wide doorway of the kitchen with his arms curled up against his chest. He looked as out of place as a biker gang in a tea shop. Not that bikers can’t drink tea, they absolutely should.

              Patton bustled through the disaster zone that was his kitchen, nearly knocking himself out slipping on a splatter of raw cake batter on the floor and waved off the concerned shouts of his roommates.

              “You can’t skip breakfast, it’s the most important meal of the day,” Patton said, narrowly catching a cake pan teetering over the edge of the counter.

              “Yeah, Verge, very important! Must have!” Remus cackled, skipping into the room and plopping onto a peachy toned chair at the breakfast table. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his chin on his hands, elbows pinned onto the surface of the table. Verge glared at him.

              “Exactly, you didn’t eat all night while you were sleeping, so—”

              “Bold of you to assume I sleep,” Virgil scoffed, hands burrowing into his sweatshirt pocket. He sputtered unintelligibly when Patton fixed him with a horrified stare.

              “You didn’t sleep at all?” he asked, voice pitching upward.

              “Now you’ve done it,” J murmured, seemingly appearing out of nowhere as he slipped out of the shadows in the corner by the kitchen door.

              “D-define at all. I mean, I slept a little, but . . .”

              “That’s it,” Patton said, clapping his hands together and sending a cloud of flour into the air. “You’re eating.”

             “N-no, I’m fine.”

              “Then you’re sleeping.”

              “No, that’s—I don’t need you to take care of me!”

              Patton paused. “Well, I guess I can’t make you eat what I cook for you. . .”

              “Oh. You’re gonna cook either way?”

              “Of course, Remus likes oozy pancakes and J likes savory crepes.”

              “The ooze is red jelly but I pretend it’s guts and blood!” Remus said with a sweet and sunny grin.

             “Didn’t need to know that,” Verge said with a grimace. “Well, if you’re already making stuff . . .” Verge bit his lip and for a moment, Patton felt a bit guilty for his little trick. The feeling quickly dissipated when Verge nodded slowly and eased into a robin’s egg blue chair catty corner to Remus.

              “Lovely, now how do you like your eggs?”

Chapter Text

              “You can’t catch me!”

              “Give me back my meat tenderizer!” Patton shouted between gasps for breath as he chased Remus through the house. “What are you even planning on doing with it?”

              “That’s for me to know and you to have nightmares about,” Remus said with a cackle as he burst through the back door and leapt down the steps. Before Patton could follow, the landline started ringing instantly and cheerily.

              “Logan! Phone!” Patton called, pausing at the back door to retie his shoe as Logan’s low voice filtered through the hall where he was answering the phone.

              “It’s for you,” Logan said, holding the phone out.

              “Oh, must be UPS again. They can never find this place, poor things,” Patton said, accepting the phone. Remus wouldn’t get far. Probably.

              “If half of one’s job is to locate and deliver to residences, one would think that improving directional skills would be a priority,” Logan muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose as he disappeared to the living room.

“Ha, you and me both kid,” Patton said before lifting the phone to his ear and leaning comfortably against the wall. “Hello? This is Patton!”

              “Patton?”

              Patton froze, breath caught in his throat and his heart landing somewhere on the floor.

“Patton, are you there?”

              He immediately smacked a palm on the cradle of the phone to end the call. The monotonous drone of a disconnected call filled his head. After a moment’s consideration, he dropped to his knees and ripped the cable out of the wall. Then he set the phone back onto the cradle and stared down at it for a few seconds. Satisfied that it wasn’t going to ring again, he took a calming breath, turned around, and walked out the back door.

              He thought that’d be it. Leave the phone unhooked for a few days, wait it out, and then resume life as usual. Continue to build his new world in this house on a farm in the middle of nowhere with people he chose to fill it with. But a few hours later, when Patton was minding his own business knitting a sweater on the sofa, the phone rang again. For a moment, his heart stopped and his mind offered up every horror movie scene of an unplugged appliance turning on by itself. It made sense that a ghost could use a phone with their electro-something-magnetic-or-other energy, but Patton didn’t think that applied to the living. Then again, this was his first time being haunted by something with a heartbeat.

              Before he could shake himself into focus, Patton heard Logan’s crisp voice answering the phone with a quiet greeting. He strained to hear the tinny, urgent chatter on the other side of the phone.

              “I apologize, ma’am, but I am not in the habit of monitoring my housemates’ calls. If he didn’t talk to you, I'd assume that he was busy or didn’t want to engage in conversation at the time. Would you like me to hand the phone to him again?”

              Patton bolted. He dropped his long metal knitting needles onto the low coffee table and quickly untangled from the forest-green yarn he’d been working into a sweater. He made it to the front door before Logan, who was standing in the hall with the phone outstretched and a neutral expression on his face, spotted him.

              “Phone for you,” he said evenly.

              “Um, I’m heading out. Can’t talk,” Patton spluttered, fumbling with the door before finally pulling the heavy thing open.

              “You don’t have your keys,” Logan said. Patton blinked, then snatched his keys off a row of pegs by the door that held spare sets to the house, the barn, the gate, and the vehicle.

              “Thanks, bye!” Patton said, tripping out the door as Logan informed the caller that Patton was “just heading out.”

              Pulling the door shut behind him, Patton collapsed back against it and let out a slow breath. He squeezed the keys in his hand, focusing on the cold metal and the blunt teeth digging into his palm as he strained his ears for Logan’s voice. He peeked through the stained-glass panels in the door and watched Logan drop the phone back on the receiver with a little more force than necessary and stalk back into the kitchen where he’d been doing dishes before the phone rang. With limited options of getting back inside unnoticed, Patton made the executive decision to sneak into his own home through the backdoor.

              Shoving the keys into his pocket to limit their jingling, Patton trotted down the porch steps and ducked around the side of the house to take advantage of the high butterfly bushes lining both sides of the residence. The things grew like weeds and created perfect cover for getting around without being spotted. At the back door, Patton carefully unlocked it, wincing at the loud click of the lock’s teeth disengaging and the bolt thudding open. The door groaned and the screen door squealed, but the clattering of dishes in the kitchen and the talk show chatter from the living room concealed the sound well enough. Patton let out another slow breath when he eased the door shut behind himself, tummy bubbling with nerves. Tiptoes and breath holding got him to the phone in what felt like an hour, but he spent even longer staring down at the plastic phone sitting innocently on the cradle.

              Just unplugging it wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t go as far as canceling phone service. If anyone needed to call 911, not having a phone would be a pretty serious mistake. He’d just have to take care of this tonight, he decided. Resolute in his new strategy, Patton unplugged the phone and wrapped the cable and the cord around it while peeking around the corner. Logan had his back to the hall and was busy scrubbing away at the sink and muttering under his breath, probably reciting something and not likely to snap back to reality anytime soon. Patton hugged the heavy phone to his chest and snuck past the kitchen, sticking close to the wall of the staircase. He made a sharp turn around the banister and let caution fly, pounding up the stairs as animal instinct valued speed and escape over stealth.

              “For the last time, please cease running up the stairs!” Logan called from the kitchen. Instead revealing his identity by responding, Patton raced down the hall and practically threw himself into his room. Kicking the door shut behind him, Patton grabbed the spare fleece blanket from the top shelf of his closet and wrapped the phone with it. He stuck the bundle in his laundry basket and backed away from it until he stumbled and fell onto his bed, dreading nightfall.

…

              Patton sighed as he settled onto the cold grass outside of the laundry room window, which was cracked just enough for the cable and cord of the phone sitting on his lap to snake through. He was so lucky there was a jack in the laundry room. Otherwise, he would’ve had to stand in the hall and do his best to whisper “leave me the fuck alone” down the phone line when it was already difficult to not shout it from the mountains. He took his millionth deep breath of the day and closed his eyes, absorbing the sounds of nocturnal wildlife and the trees rustling in the wind. Then he looked down and started dialing. Despite being right outside a house full of people, he’d never felt more alone.

              “Hello?” came the deceptively soft voice of his mother.

              “Hi Sherry,” Patton said, looking down at his knees.

              “Patton? Honey, is that you?” she sounded so excited. Patton could see her gripping the phone with both manicured hands, blonde curls cascading around her angular face to her shoulders and her bright green eyes teeming with worry. She was always good at acting.

              “I need you to stop calling this number,” Patton said flatly. He forced himself not to think, not to feel, not to worry.

              “I—Patty, when are you coming home?”

              “I’m not coming home,” Patton said flatly. “How did you get this number?”

              “Oh, you know how Jasper gets when he’s worried. He can find anything.”

              “I asked how you found this number,” Patton repeated, stomach clenching.

              “I talked to the sheriff—”

              “You reported me as a runaway?” Patton squeaked. “I’m not even a minor!”

              “You might be emancipated, but you’re still a child.”

              “So, what? You shook Dale down for my phone number? Do you know where I am?” Patton’s heart surged to his throat.

              “Yes, you need to come home.”

              “No!” Patton stumbled to his feet and started pacing from the laundry room window, past the back door, and to the bathroom window and back. “I can’t believe you made Dale investigate me under the guise of me being a runaway! But I can definitely believe that he overlooked protocol to help you.”

              “Patton, please,” his mother begged. He could practically see the crocodile tears. “Your brothers miss you.” Knife to the heart.

              “Don’t bring them into this,” he spat out, jabbing his pointer finger into the air like his mother was right in front of him.

              “I will speak of and to my children when I want,” Sherry barked back indignantly. There she was.

              “You lost that right decades ago, so don’t even try to pull that with me. I’ve been more of a mother to my brothers and myself than you ever—”

              “Patton, I’ve made my mistakes. I wasn’t there for you, I know that now,” Sherry said, voice thin and desperate. Whatever she was going to say next was cut off when someone else snatched the phone.

              “Pat? Pat, buddy, is that you?” Charlie’s deep baritone was like cool aloe balm to an achy hot sunburn. Patton held his breath, grasp flexing around the phone as his mind scrambled to create a plan. A quieter voice joined in the background, which was probably Jasper trying to calm their mother down.

              “Patton, are you okay?” And there was Jackson. “Say something! You didn’t leave a note or a text—you disappeared! We thought you were kidnapped or something and then mom said Sheriff Boars told her you were at the old farm. Why are you at the old farm?”

              “Jacks, buddy, calm down. Let him answer,” Charles said before his voice got a little more distant, like he was talking over his shoulder. “Jasper, come talk to Patton. He won’t respond.”

              Patton swallowed a swell of hot bile rising at the base of his throat as he heard the rustle of the phone being passed around.

              “Patton, come home.”

              He was actually relieved when his mother’s voice filtered through the phone again. He didn’t think he could ignore pleas from all three of his brothers.

              “I’m not going back to live at your house. I have my own house. Don’t call this number again, don’t visit my house, and stop making your cop friends hunt me down. If you continue to harass me, I’ll file a restraining order.”

              “Paton, please, your family is worried about you and wants you to come home. You can’t file a restraining order against that,” his mother said, and she was probably right.

              “Watch me,” Patton said anyways. “I’m hanging up. Don’t call back.”

              Just as he hit the “end-call” button, he heard the overlapping voices of his brothers all shouting various messages he couldn’t parse out. Once the line went dead, Patton dropped the phone onto the grass and sank to his knees.

              He took in the symphony of cicada chirps, owl coos, leaves rustling, and the house creaking as it settled further into its foundation. The air was cool, smelling fresh and sharp as night air always did, and the grass was just as cool beneath his sweaty palms. He allowed himself this moment of peace because he knew he wouldn’t have it again soon.

Chapter Text

              “Uh, Pat?” Verge’s voice floated up from downstairs. Patton’s head perked up from where he’d been stretching a pulled muscle in his leg from helping Logan hang a tire swing on the tree in the backyard.

              “Yeah, hun?” he called, standing on one leg and lifting the other so his heel rested above his head against his slightly crooked dresser.

              “Can you come here for a sec? Please?”

              The “please” is what caught Patton’s attention. As the lone enforcer of basic manners, Patton found himself routinely outnumbered and had learned that the rare occasion of compliance was usually preceded by something that either took a lot of clean up or required an actual cover up.

              “Coming!” he called, dreading what was to come. It was a good thing he loved his boys.

When he hit the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner into the living room, Patton froze.

          “Why is there another one?” he demanded when he found Verge glaring down a stranger standing in the living room. The surprise guest was pretty tall with a freckled model’s face that went well with his red letterman jacket and distressed jeans.

          “Hey, I had nothing to do with this one,” Verge said, hands up in surrender. “And for the record, I had nothing to do with my own kidnapping either. Take that up with the snake and the rat.”

          “Nothing to do—you have everything to with this!” the stranger spluttered.

          “Oh, dear,” Patton said lightly. “Well, hi darling. How’d you get here?”

          “Wow, didn’t realize how far south I was,” the man said, his lip curling. “That’s quite the accent, darling. Do you even have all your teeth?”

          “What the hell is wrong with you?” Verge sneered right back.

          “Weird question, but no,” Patton admitted, tongue immediately poking at the trick tooth where his second bottom molar on the left side should’ve been. “Why? Looking for a dentist recommendation, kiddo?”

          “What?” Verge asked.

          “What?” The stranger demanded, pressing a hand to his chest and lurching back.

          “You’re missing teeth?” Verge asked.

          “Just the one.”

          “Don’t say that too loudly,” J warned, appearing in the doorway of the living room. He leaned against the doorway, looking as suave as ever in a pinstripe suit with a gold pocket square. “Logan will have a conniption.”

          Verge snorted and slunk toward an end table across the room on the other side of the sofa where he could eavesdrop without being dragged into the conversation. Patton envied how easily he blended in with the shadows.

          “By the way, you never said what you needed,” Patton prompted the new guest. The stranger looked back at him and did a double take. “If you need our help, you’ve got it.” The man did a doubletake like he was seeing Patton for the first time.

          “I love your blouse,” the man said loudly without inflection, pointing suddenly at Patton.

          “Uh, thanks?” Patton said, shrugging his shoulders to make his loose sleeves flounce. “Secondhand. Not exactly couture, but it’s cute.”

          “I’m sorry, but do you need something?” J interjected, sounding not at all amused as he waved a gloved hand in the air.

          “Oh, right,” the poor guy blushed, which was absolutely darling. That was before his face hardened into a sneer again. “Your little gremlin over there tried to bite me.”

          “You were being an ass!” Verge shouted from across the room.

          “I was just talking to you!”

          “Yeah, in an asshole-ish way. Like an ass.”

          “Maybe I need to be more specific,” J said, voice drawling out with disdain and boredom. “What brought you here? Why are you intruding upon Patton’s house?”

          “Oh. Because I didn’t know if this guy had rabies or not and he wouldn’t tell me.”

          “I told you I didn’t!”

          “No, you said ‘make a wild guess’ and ran away!”

          “My apologies for thinking you had some common sense and wouldn’t think a normal and coherent person wasn’t rabid—”

          “You’re definitely rabid, I just wanted to know if you had rabie—”

          “I didn’t even draw blood! Rabies is transferred through bodily fluids!”

          “Okay, why don’t we all just take a break, hm?” Patton asked with a forced smile, planting himself between Verge and the stranger. “Feel free to put your jacket by the door, if you want. Care for a drink? J made lemonade fresh this morning and it’s divine.”

          “Oh, sure,” the guy said, pulling off his jacket and following Patton to the kitchen. He placed his jacket on a hook on the minty teal entryway organizer and they were both startled by a voice behind them.

          “Excuse me,” Logan said, appearing at the top of the stairs like a disapproving hall monitor. “I realize that our luck with unexpected guests has been . . . oddly satisfactory as of late, but we agreed to alert one another before guests visit. That being said, I do recall that, upon discovering guests unexpected to me in our home previously, my assumption that you planned to invite said guests into our home without notifying me first had been grossly incorrect. Thus, I will endeavor to allow an explanation before—”

          “Woah, who’s the robot?” the stranger snickered.

          “Do not refer to me as such,” Logan snapped, a muscle in his jaw twitching and he clenched the banister of the staircase.

          “Please excuse the jock,” J interjected, tilting his head toward Roman. “We found him wandering the streets and I felt bad.”

          “You felt bad for him? I was the one being attacked in front of a grocery store,” Verge muttered from where he was now crouched on the arm of the couch. Patton sent him an apologetic look and then ushered Logan downstairs with a waving hand, heart warming when his friend complied.

          “Oh, no,” Janus said with a quiet chuckle, one gloved hand splayed delicately on his chest. “I felt bad for the neighborhood he was inflicting himself upon. And then you bit him, which seemed fair, at the time.”

          Verge snorted, but Patton felt his stomach twist as he watched Logan and Roman continue to glare at each other.

          “Hey now, y’all, let’s not be mean,” Patton said.

          “Wow, teach, do you always let dad fight your battles?” their guest asked with a chuckle. Logan’s face went tomato red and Patton crossed his arms over his chest, brow furrowing.

          “That’s not very nice,” he said firmly.

          “I don’t need your help!” Logan bit out, giving Patton a snarl that was all flashing white teeth. Patton’s stomach rolled. Not his fault, he’s just overwhelmed, he’ll apologize later, you’re being too controlling, too sensitive, too—

          “Wow, someone has a short fuse,” their guest said, eyes widening in faux surprise. Patton huffed, dropping his forehead into one hand as he tried to clear the panicked babble of his mind and focus on de-escalation. He could practically hear Logan gearing up for battle.

          “My fuse, as you say, is not short. I merely have little patience for those who consciously make harmful comments toward others, especially as it’s often due in large part to their own lack of confidence or regard for—”

          “Oh, so you’re allowed to say rude shit, but I’m not?” the stranger interrupted. “Hypocrisy is an ugly color on you, Microsoft nerd.”

          Logan didn’t respond verbally, but he certainly made his feelings clear when he grabbed a cream cable knit pillow off the organizer bench near the front door and lobbed it at the stranger. It bounced harmlessly off the guy’s face, but he sank to his knees with a hand clutched over his eye the moment the pillow glanced off his face.

          “My eye!”

          “Logan!” Patton hissed, dropping to one knee and prying at the stranger’s hand to inspect the damage. “I know you’re upset and our guest is being mean and a pillow isn’t going to do much damage, but physical violence has no place here.”

          “I, uh, I apologize,” Logan said, blinking rapidly and glancing around the room as if looking for something. “I’m not sure why I did that.”

          Knowing what an overwhelmed Logan looked like, Patton quickly stood and eased himself between friend and guest with his hands up in a placating gesture.

          “It’s—It’s fine, no one’s mad at you. Just. . . don’t throw things at people, okay?” Patton pleaded tiredly. When the panicked look in Logan’s eyes retreated to a stressed gleam, Patton crouched back by the stranger’s side.

          “Get off me, I don’t need—”

          “Are you okay?” Patton asked softly, interrupting before the guy could hurt anyone else’s feelings.

          “What?” the man jerked back with a disturbed look on his face as he eyed Patton up and down.

          “I asked if you’re okay,” Patton repeated, the hand that had been hovering in the air above the stranger’s shoulder finally making gentle impact with its target. The man jolted like he’d touched a live wire.

          “I’m not that fragile,” he scoffed, pulling away. He lurched to his feet and backpedaled toward the doorway of the living room.

          “I didn’t think so, but I wanted to be sure,” Patton said, also rising.

          “Great, good, just so we’re on the same—” the stranger cut off when a high-pitched squeal tore through the house. Patton sighed, wondering when his life had become such a circus.

          “Ro-Bro!” came Remus’s joyous cry. Patton flinched at the sound of his roommate barreling carelessly down the stairs, bouncing between the wall and banister a few times and missing a few steps.

          “What have I said about running on the stairs?” Patton said, rubbing a hand down his face.

          “You said to stop running on the stairs,” Logan piped up over the sound of Remus crashing toward the living room. Patton sent grateful smile at Logan, who looked away while rising up onto the balls of his feet before sinking back onto his heels.

          “Remus?” the stranger—Ro, possibly?—asked, sounding out of breath and looking like he’d just been slapped.

          “My beloved, long-lost, most dearest and treasured—” Remus’s heartfelt declaration was interrupted by a brutal slug to the jaw.

          “Oh my God!” Patton exclaimed, surging toward the now squabbling Remus and Ro. J’s solid grip on his wrist kept him back as the fighting pair hit the ground and began rolling through the living room in a tangle of flying limbs. Patton winced when the back of Ro’s skull impacted with the leg of the sofa, sending Verge flying out of the living room like a cat escaping a bath.

          “Hold on, darling, this is just how they say hello,” Janus said lowly.

          “This is not how we say hello!” Patton argued, flinching when Remus and Ro rammed into the piano and sent it rolling a few inches. “Not the baby grand!”

          “Yeah, Ro-Ro, not the –”

          “Don’t call me that!”

          “Enough!”

          At Logan’s “I Am the Teacher, You Will Listen to Me” shout echoing through the house, the room went silent. The pair froze in their awkward tangle, making it impossible to tell which limbs belonged to whom, and Patton slipped out of J’s loosened grip.

          “You guys are—ugh, I can’t believe you—you’re in so much trouble,” he muttered, prying Ro and Remus apart. Remus gave him that usual besotted expression he got whenever Patton or J so much as looked his way, and Ro stared up at him like he’d grown an extra head. 

          “Did you hurt yourselves? Are you okay?” Patton demanded, smoothing his hands down two sets of arms and running fingers through two heads of thick hair as he searched for bumps and blood.

          “I’m okay. Thanks, daddio,” Remus said with a big smile, lashes fluttering as he latched onto one of Patton’s arms. Patton huffed, shaking his head and reaching out to free Remus’s big hoop earring from where it got caught between them.

          “Any time, sugar,” he promised before turning back to Ro. “What about you, trouble?”

          “What?” Ro asked, blinking rapidly at the name. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

          “Good. Now why don’t we go sit on the couch and chat like grown-ups instead of brawling on the floor like a couple of drunks at a frat party?” Patton asked, folding his hands neatly on his lap and looking expectantly between the two. Remus was on his feet in an instant like gravity and laws of physics didn’t apply to him while Ro rose fluidly and grumpily extended a hand to help Patton up.

          “I . . . It was not my intention to damage your piano,” Ro said, looking like the admission pained him.

          “I’m more worried about broken bones and concussions than I am about an old piano that barely holds tune anymore,” Patton said dryly as he pushed Ro to sit next to Remus. “Now everyone sit.”

          Logan swept through the room and perched on the edge of the fluffy yellow armchair with his legs crossed and Janus reappeared in the doorway, leaning against it again. Ro sunk gingerly onto the couch as far from Remus as he could get and Verge peeked cautiously into the room from the other side of the doorway.

          “Now, what’s your name?” Patton was finally able to ask Ro.

          “Roman,” was the quiet response.

          “Lovely. Now, how do you know Remus, again?”

          “Can’t you tell, Patty?” Remus asked, sliding across the couch and throwing his arms around an accommodating Ro. Remus pressed his cheek against Ro’s and grinned up at Patton while Ro’s gaze flit to the side and his face remained stoic and tense.

          “They’re brothers. Obviously,” J drawled from the doorway, looking as aloof as ever, though he met Patton’s gaze head-on like he was looking for something.

          “Oh my,” Patton said mildly, noting Ro’s flinch at the response. “I think we’re officially out of guests rooms.”

Chapter Text

            “I think it would be great if aliens existed because I think we could teach each other a lot and there would be literal planets and galaxies full of potential new friends,” Patton said, shaking out a freshly washed bath towel so he could fold it neatly.

            “I think they’d either kill us all and steal the Earth’s resources—you know, the ones we haven’t killed or used up ourselves—or they’d leave quicker than they came and they’d mark this place as ‘danger no-no zone’ on all their alien maps and turn us into scary bedtime stories for their kids,” Verge countered, swinging his legs where he sat on the baby grand folding hand towels.

            “That’s a very Verge thing to say.”

            “Thank you,” Verge said, sticking out his tongue. His moment of bold playfulness, always equal parts fleeting and precious, turned to wary tension in seconds when they heard heavy footfalls on the front porch. He flinched when the front door swung open, hinges squeaking and doorknob cracking on whatever it hit.

            “I still don’t get how this is my fault!” Remus shouted as he burst into the foyer, face screwed into a scowl.

            Patton met Verge’s gaze from his cozy spot on the couch and dark rimmed eyes stared back at him from across the room. Verge dropped the towel he was folding on the top of the piano and joined Patton in watching Remus and J have a genuine row in the foyer.

            “You lack all tact, all subtlety, and you don’t listen,” J hissed, hands pinched and shaking in front of his face in a way that had Patton briefly wondering if he had Italian roots.

            “Hey, I’m doing my best! Maybe try removing that snake up your—”

            “If you were trying, and I mean really trying, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” J bit back. Patton was almost entranced, completely at ease with watching a squabble because of his years of growing up with brothers.

            “That is not fair,” Remus said, each word punctuated with a jab of a pointing finger.

            “That is the truth,” J corrected.

            “I don’t get what the big deal is!” Remus said, throwing his arms up and spinning in a circle. Something on his person jingled like sleigh bells. “They didn’t even see us, and even if they did, they wouldn’t recognize us!”

            “And you know this how?” J asked, dangerously cool for someone who had been shouting just seconds ago. He stalked across the foyer toward Remus with his shoulders hunched like a hunted animal and his teeth bared the same way. “How do you know they didn’t see us? Didn’t recognize us? Didn’t follow us?”

            “They didn’t follow us. Because if they did, you wouldn’t have come here.” Remus’s chin was in the air and his eyes were strangely calm, hands now still at his sides.

            “How do you know that? How can you be sure I would’ve noticed we were being followed? How can you be sure I wouldn’t lead them here? How can you be sure of anything? How can you not have retained the most basic lesson of all the things I’ve taught you?” Then J was on him, hands gripping the shimmery black material of the puffy sleeved top Remus wore.

            Verge made an aborted move to scram, and Patton rose to his feet but held himself back from interjecting into the conflict. The choice to end a fight took careful consideration and there was a fine line between an argument and a fight.

            “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

            “Don’t. Trust. Anyone.”

            “Sorry, snakey,” Remus said with his typical Cheshire grin. “I’ve just known you too long for that.”

            Everything was still and silent for one heartstopping moment before J scoffed and shoved Remus, who nearly landed on the stairs but recovered quickly. The two stared each other down and Patton couldn’t tell what the competition was or who might be winning.

            “I’ll go make a plan. Continue to piss away your trust if you wish, but don’t expect me to be there when everything comes crashing down,” J said lightly as he brushed past Remus and strutted up the stairs with a flourish of the hand.

            Patton sighed, shaking his head. Turning back to the basket of clean towels he and Verge had been folding, Patton aimed a knowing look at Verge but did a double take instead. Verge was gripping the front of his patchwork hoodie with one hand and used the other to keep a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the baby grand he was perched on.

            “Verge?”

            Dark eyes like the midnight sky locked onto his before skirting to the side. When he didn’t get a response, Patton tried again.

            “You okay?”

            “You overheard that conversation, and you’re asking if I’m okay?” Verge snapped. Patton blinked.

            “Well, it seemed worth asking.”

            “Aren’t those two being chased by the mafia or something? What if J is right and they actually were followed? Are J and Remus leaving? Should they leave?”

            “Uh, okay, so that’s a lot,” Patton said hands up in surrender against the onslaught of questions he didn’t have answers for. He whipped out his best “what the hell do I say” tool: repeat and confirm. “Remus said that J wouldn’t come here if he thought they were being followed by someone dangerous. And I believe that.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Verge said, visibly deflating.

            “And I don’t think they’ll just up and leave. They could, of course, but they’ve been here for a while and they’re kind of established members of our household, ya know? They’d tell us first and I know they’d come back.”

            “Yeah. Okay, yeah, that makes sense.” Verge was still staring in the direction J had stormed off to, chewing at his lip.

            “It’s gonna be okay, Verge,” Patton said firmly, lifting another towel off the pile to fold. “You’ll see.”

            Verge nodded, placing another folded towel into their basket and letting out a long huff of breath. The moment of peace was shattered by the heavy footfalls of Roman bounding down the stairs.

            “What’s got the snake’s scales all in a twist?” Roman asked as he swept into the living room, dragging a hand through his perfectly coifed hair. “I think he hissed at me in the hall. Like, actually hissed at me.”

            “I’m not entirely sure,” Patton said slowly, mostly honest. “He and Remus just got back so we don’t really know what’s going on.”

            “J and Remus are fighting,” Verge blurted out, slapping a hand over his mouth.

            “Okay? What about?” Roman asked. When his question was met with silence, he crossed his arms.  “Come on, spill the tea. It’s like pulling teeth trying to get you people to talk!”

            “Maybe we just don’t like talking about people behind their backs,” Verge bit back.

            “I don’t believe that for a second. I know for a fact you watch gossip Youtubers.”

            “How the hell do you know that?” Verge demanded in a high voice, rage and anxiety momentarily overridden.

            “We share a wall, loser, how do you think?”

            “Okay, let’s not name-call, guys,” Patton said gathering his basket of folded towels. “We really don’t know what’s going on, besides the fact that they seem to be fighting. Maybe try asking one of them?”

            Both Roman and Verge gave him a flat look.

            “Yeah, then again, maybe not.”

            “Have they ever fought before?” Roman asked, following Patton into the hall. “They have a weird ass dynamic, but they kinda struck me as the type that didn’t fight. Are they dating? Maybe it’s just a lover’s spat.”

            “I think they’re more like brothers than lovers,” Patton said, flicking on the light of the downstairs bathroom and plopping the basket on the sink counter.

            “Siblings fight all the time, probably nothing to worry about,” Roman said, waving a hand as if to shoo away concerns about J and Remus.

            “That doesn’t mean it’s not serious,” Verge muttered, dropping onto the closed toilet seat like the wind had been knocked out of him. Patton nodded as he neatly stacked hand towels in the cabinet under the sink while Roman leaned in the doorway, looking pensive.

            “I guess that’s true, seeing as they’re adults and not children. What were they saying when they were fighting?”

            “Roman, we really shouldn’t talk about people like this,” Patton said, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice. He sat back on his heels and looked imploringly up at Roman, internally pleading for compliance.

            “If it affects us as their roommates, then we should be able to talk about it.”

            “If we have concerns about them, we should go to them about it. Gossiping together and coming up with theories about what’s going on isn’t going to help anyone. I think we should take a step back, give them some privacy, and wait for this to blow over. If they come to us for help with their conflict, that’s a different story.”

            “You people are insufferable,” Roman said flatly, spinning on his heel and storming way from the bathroom.

            “For the record,” Verge said after getting up and pausing in the doorway. “I get that brothers fight and all, but I think everyone in this house has the right to know that Remus and J might attract dangerous people and bring them here.”

            Patton sighed after Verge’s footsteps disappeared back toward the living room and he tipped his head back to look up at the ceiling. He might be the type to get lonely living alone, but sometimes he wondered if that was better than this.

Chapter Text

          No one noticed there was a problem for roughly twelve hours, but Verge had been tense all day. He sat silently at the kitchen table all morning, watching Patton putter around meal prepping a six-layer lasagna for dinner (and probably at least two nights of leftovers) and baking the special sourdough bread with which Logan liked to make his sandwiches for lunch at work.

          “Verge, I get that you’re anxious about—”

          “Oh, really? Do you? Do you get it?” Verge snapped, head whipping up to reveal bared teeth. His leg bounced uncontrollably, making the dishes on the table rattle and the centerpiece vase of daisies shower petals down onto the table’s surface.

          “I do,” Patton said lowly, after a moment’s hesitation and a step back. “It’s okay, it’s normal. Do you wanna talk about what’s making you anxious?”

          “I don’t know, Pat, maybe it’s the anxiety disorder,” Verge said through a sharp smile, gaze flitting around the room. Patton couldn’t tell if he was searching for clues or threats.

          “Alright, alright, I hear you. But they’ll be back. J is very independent, you know he comes and goes without telling us all the time. Remus is pretty impulsive and tends to follow J around. Nothing is out of the normal, as far as we know, and we should do our best to stay calm until they come home.”

          Verge let out a loud sigh, slumping back into his chair like he’d lost every ounce of adrenaline that had been fueling his sleepless night and high-strung morning.

          “Yeah, I know. You’re right, I just. . . I’ve got this awful feeling . . .” Verge pressed a fist against his sternum, looking away again with a pained expression on the little bit of his face that wasn’t covered by his hood. Patton felt his smile drop. Poor kid was really hurting.

          “I understand. I miss them, too, and I’m worried about if they’ll remember to get lunch and if they’re in trouble with whoever was following and if they need me and—” Patton broke off with a huff. “I’m worried, but I worry every time you kiddos go out.”

          “You do?” Verge asked, tilting his head and peering up at Patton through his dark bangs.

          “Of course,” Patton said, creeping forward and slipping into the chair across from Verge. His heart ached when a cold hand clasped onto his.

…

          “Patton, have you seen Remus lately?” Logan asked, peeking his head out of the laundry room as Patton came inside after weeding the garden.

          “He and J aren’t back yet?” Patton asked, looking over his shoulder at the red sun setting over golden fields that waved in the wind like rippling water.

          “I do not believe so. Remus and I had planned to spread the compost over the garden once you were done weeding—he claims to enjoy the smell of rotting organic matter, however it’s more likely that it triggers positive scent memories—but I haven’t seen him at all today to remind him of our gardening hour.”

          Despite the urgency of the situation, Patton couldn’t help the warmth blooming in his chest at hearing that his roommates had a standing appointment for “gardening hour.”

          “You haven’t seen either of them all day?” Logan asked, turning off the utility sink in the laundry room, which had been filling with suds.

          “No, I figured they were just out and about. I really thought they’d be home by now.” Patton glanced down to the floor. “They never miss dinner.”

          “We should find Verge and discuss what to do,” Logan said as he rolled his sleeves to his elbows and plunged his arms into the big sink.

          “Don’t you think we should figure out whether we should be concerned first? I don’t wanna worry Verge, he’s already upset as it is.”

          “Strange. While I often struggle to decode the innerworkings of the social sphere, it always appeared to me that both Remus and J bring Verge a great amount of anxiety. One would think he’d be grateful to be liberated of the presence of those who cause him such stress,” Logan said, scrubbing at a stained work shirt in the sink.

          “Um, yeah, they stress him out but he still cares about them. Verge is very empathetic and compassionate,” Patton said. “He was already pretty upset this morning when he hadn’t seen them at breakfast.”

          “I’m still not sure excluding him from the conversation is our best course of action,” Logan said, pausing his scrubbing.

          “I’m not saying we don’t involve him with filing a missing persons report or big steps like that, I just think we should figure out how worried we should be before dragging Verge into this. Everything’s all uncertain and up in the air, right now, and he gets really stressed out with stuff like that. I don’t want to worry him if we find Remus and J are just loitering around the library or something.”

          “Alright. Let’s decide between ourselves what our next step should be. Then we can discuss whether to involve Verge.”

          “Well, we have to wait a full 24 hours to do a missing persons report, so there’s nothing we can do just yet on the legal side of things.”

          “Hm. Should we visit their places of work? The vet is closed today so Remus won’t be working, but he could’ve followed J to help at the library.”

          “And J sometimes plays chess in the park. Oh, and Remus likes going dumpster diving, so we can check alleys and behind businesses, too.”

          “Wonderful,” Logan said, lip curling so dramatically that Patton had to laugh.

          “I’ll take the alleys and dumpsters if you take the library and the park,” Patton said, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice at how obvious the relief was in Logan’s face.

          “Thank you.”

          “Of course. Think you can drop me off on Main before you check the park and the library?”

          “Yes. But what will we tell Verge? Won’t he ask where we’re going?”

…

          “Verge is very trusting,” Logan said for the second time in as many minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel of their communal truck so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

          Patton flicked his gaze to Logan’s face and then quickly back down to the notebook where he was listing all of Remus’s and J’s favorite places in town.

          “You could actually apply for a job at the library if it makes you feel better. That way you wouldn’t technically be lying,” he suggested.

          “Regardless, I still told a falsehood. Verge requested to know why I was departing our home, to which I answered falsely that I was applying for work at the library. That is a lie because the reason I am going out is to search for our missing friends, a fact which you still seem to believe is important to conceal from Verge. Applying to a job whilst at the library does not automatically absolve me of guilt.”

          “But you agreed that we should keep it from him until we were more sure about—okay, look, L, sometimes. . . Sometimes telling small lies can protect people. I’m sure Verge will be upset if he finds out that we lied but imagine how distraught he’d be right now if he knew we were concerned enough about Remus and J to plan a mini search party,” Patton said, adding “duck pond” to the “park” bullet on Logan’s list of places to search.

          “I understand that there are times wherein it is most appropriate to lie. But I also know that lying must be avoided as much as possible because it hurts. And I no longer believe that lying to Verge is the right course of action.”

          “We made the best choice we could at the time with what information we had and what information we didn’t have. We can’t take it back. All we can do now is do our best to make sure it was the right decision, or to apologize if we find out that it was the wrong one.”

          “It’s strange,” Logan said after a few moments of quiet. He pulled up to one of the few stoplights in the town and Patton cringed when the breaks squealed in protest of being used.

          “Hm?” Patton hummed distractedly, chewing on the end of his pencil and not looking up from his lists. He added “cemetery behind the old north church” to his own list. After a second of consideration, he added “fresh graves?” to his list as well.

          “I always took you for an empathetic and compassionate person, as you described Verge to be,” Logan said in a thoughtful voice. Patton’s stomach switched rapidly between rolling with anticipation and clenching as he braced for emotional impact.

          “Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m sensing there’s a “but” to that.”

          Logan didn’t react but continued his unwarranted assessment of Patton’s moral character.

          “You may present with a strong sense of integrity, but you also seem perfectly content with manipulating your own friend’s emotions and altering his reality to your needs in times of heightened stress. How curious.”

          When Patton looked up, pencil still hanging from his mouth, he found Logan staring directly at him. They’d been roommates for months, friends for at least half of that, and not once had Logan ever made eye contact with him until now.

          “I learned from the best,” spilled out of his mouth around the pencil clamped between his teeth. He hadn’t even registered his own words until Logan’s usually composed expression became a complicated blend of confusion, concern, and frustration. “You can drop me here,” Patton said, ripping Logan’s half of the list from the pad he’d been writing on and separating it from his own half.

          Without waiting for a response or checking if the streetlight was still red, Patton kicked the passenger side door of the truck open and nearly faceplanted in his haste to get off the ripped bench-style seat. He slammed the door shut behind him, tossing Logan’s list through the passenger side window.

          “Text me if you find anything or run into any trouble. I can make my way back on my own,” Patton said, stuffing his portion of the list in the pocket of his overalls.

          Patton jogged across the street toward the nearest business, which was the family-owned pet store ran by a fiercely devoted mother-daughter pair. He had to practically body slam the ivy choked chain-link gate behind the store to get into the alley behind the business for dumpster inspection.

          The alley behind the store and its neighboring businesses was a long, dark stretch of narrow concrete space between brick walls almost completely shaded by overgrown crawling plants that stretched overhead like a forest canopy. It smelled musty with the familiar lip-curling rank of rotting food, but months of living with Remus and his . . . unusual scent preferences had desensitized Patton’s normal oversensitive nose. Gearing up for a trying day, Patton plunged into the depths of the alley.

        He didn’t hear the truck puttering away until he pulled the gate shut behind

Chapter Text

          After getting stuck on a fence he’d foolishly attempted to climb over, and after getting trapped in a dumpster behind the local diner on “kid’s eat free” day, and after being chased by a skunk, two racoons, and a pack of stray cats—Patton went home. He could feel the scratches stinging on his face and the throbbing bruises on his arms, but they paled in comparison to his steadily growing panic. Two hours of searching yielded zero information on where his friends had disappeared to. After checking everywhere he could think of, he even canvassed a couple businesses and interviewed pedestrians. The entire town probably thought he was crazy for associating with Remus, apparently well-known for dumpster diving and freeing pests from traps behind restaurants, and J, infamous for his slightly superior attitude and penchant for offending anyone with . . . traditional values.

          Patton caught a ride home with his neighbor, Mr. P., but unfortunately Patton’s home was on the end of a very long road with quite a few acres between his and Mr. P.’s homes. That meant a lot more walking. When he finally made it to his front porch, Patton was seriously considering leaving bikes at the driveway entrance for anyone who arrived on foot and didn’t want to walk down the half-mile dirt path to the house.

          “Golly,” Patton huffed, flopping onto a rocking chair on the porch. He felt sticky with sweat all over, his legs ached, and his chest heaved and burned as it fought to fuel him with oxygen. He barely reacted with the front door swung open.

          “Patton? What are you doing?”

          Patton looked up to see J standing in the doorway in a breezy white blouse tucked into brown trousers with suspenders over his shoulders. He looked very casual and comfortable for a guy who was missing.

          “’the hell were you?” Patton asked, voice high and indignant as he flung an arm limply at his roommate.  

          “Ah, yes, about that . . .” J scratched the back of his head and looked away in a very non-J manner. “We didn’t mean to cause you any concern, we just needed to wrap up a few loose ends. We needed some space for that.”

          “Some space,” Patton repeated flatly. He looked pointedly around at the acres and acres of fields and forests surrounding them, then back at J.

          “That’s . . . an excellent point.”

          Now Patton was sure something was wrong with his roommate.

          “What’s going on with you guys?” Patton asked abruptly, tossing his hands without lifting his achy arms off the armrests of the rocking chair. “You came home one day fighting about being followed or something and then you disappear the next day? Are you kidding me?”

          “I realize that we may have been acting a bit strange, as of late,” J said, leaning his hip against the doorway and crossing his arms over his chest. The golden late afternoon sun lit J’s dark, gel slicked hair aglow with auburn and mahogany. “I apologize.”

          Any fight left in Patton’s weary body immediately deflated.

          “I get that it can be easy to forget, but please try to remember that there’s people who care about you. Something tells me that maybe it’s been you and Remus against the world for a while but it doesn’t have to be, anymore,” Patton said as earnestly as he could. “Verge was really scared today, when you were gone.”

          “Verge was scared, hm?” J asked, a knowing glint in his eye. Instead of joining in on the gentle teasing, Patton was startled and pretty ashamed when he felt his eyes filling. He watched J’s fond expression melt into horror and suddenly J was on one knee in front of him, getting pollen on his dark pants. “Oh, darling, we really upset you, hm?”

          Patton nodded wordlessly, feeling like the world’s most depressing bobblehead doll. When he felt two gentle hands on his knees, he lurched forward to grasp those hands in his and struggled against his emotions for control. He forced his breathing slower, ignoring the instinct to take deeper gulps and the feeling of not getting enough air.

          “Just breathe, sweetheart, the rest will sort itself out,” came J’s low, smooth voice. He sounded so warm and cozy that Patton as helpless but to obey, leaning forward and resting his forehead on a soft cotton shoulder that smelled like a strange but comforting combination of lavender, sandalwood, and the old spice deodorant that Remus snacked on when he thought Patton wasn’t looking.

          “Don’t you dare do that ever again,” Patton whispered sharply. “I swear to god, boys, I’ll—I’ll—”

          “Don’t hurt yourself there, Patty,” Remus said from where he’d appeared beside J. “Maybe leave the violence and death threats to me and J?”

          “Yeah,” Patton said, sitting up with a breathless giggle as he wiped his face. “Let me know when you come up with a good one that’ll keep you from running next time.”

          “Will do, sugar face,” Remus said, dropping a kiss on Patton’s cheek as he stood up. Patton accepted the hand up from J and laughed when he was pulled into J’s side. Remus pressed against his other side and the three squeezed together to fit through the front door.

          “Why did you think running away was a good idea?” Patton asked in as non-accusing a tone he could manage.

          “Worked last time,” Remus said with a shrug. “J and I got mixed up with the wrong crowd a long time ago—for very different reasons, but those don’t matter—and we thought it’d be best to check out.”

          “This isn’t a hotel,” Patton said fiercely, wrapping a tight arm around Remus’s waist to get his attention as they shuffled into the living room. “This is a home. Your home. You don’t just check out.”

          Remus gave him the most openly vulnerable look Patton had ever seen on a human being, and the same expression was mirrored at him with a quick glance to J. The trio landed on the sofa in one piece when Patton heard Logan and Verge coming downstairs. They were speaking in urgent but hushed tones and Patton looked over the back of the couch to see if he could catch one of them.

          “Everything okay?” he called back to them when they made it to the bottom of the stairs and were visible in the foyer.  Logan, who looked neat and tidy as always, and Verge, who still had the hood of his hoodie up and his hands in its pockets, both looked up at him with varying degrees of something bad that Patton couldn’t translate. “Guys?”

          “We’re fine,” Logan said before ushering Verge into the kitchen. Verge just stared at Patton, only looking away when he got an impatient poke to the shoulder.

          “What was that?” Patton asked, glancing frantically between a blank faced J and a guilty looking Remus.

          “When we came back, Verge was here by himself and he was kinda freaking out,” Remus explained, voice almost a whisper.

          “He was under the assumption that you and Logan were out running errands while Remus and I were allegedly “missing” and I don’t believe he handled the isolation well, paired with his anxiety and a triggering event,” J added, tracing gentle gloved fingers down Patton’s bare arm.

          “Yeah, he was a mess,” Remus said bluntly. “And Logan kinda let it slip when he got back that you guys were out looking for us. And Verge was, like, a bit worse-off after that.”

          “Because I lied,” Patton groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “I just thought it wasn’t worth bothering him because I was so sure you guys were just out and about or got into a jam and got arrested or something. I really didn’t think you left for good, got hurt, got kidnapped—nothing like that!”

          “I understand you were trying to spare him additional anxiety, but I fear that leaving him alone to stew in that anxiety while attempting to convince him that there was nothing wrong was not the best decision,” J said gently, hand trailing up Patton’s arm and across his shoulder when Patton let out a shuddery breath.

          “But don’t fret, Patty-cake! Verge loves you to bits, so I’m sure he’ll get over being abandoned and lied to,” Remus said jovially, patting Patton’s shoulder. He blinked at the no doubt agonizing expression on Patton’s face and whatever look matched the heavy aura J was putting off. “What did I say?”

          “Point is, darling, that you tried to do a good thing by lying but circumstances out of your control got in the way. You couldn’t have known that Verge was going to get so upset when you and Logan left, or that Professor Goody-Two-Shoes was going to have a change in heart and confess. I completely understand where you’re coming from, and if you had gotten to him before Logan, your plan would’ve most likely been a success,” J commented, flexing is hand and pretending to inspect his nails despite the fact that they were hidden under a pair of gloves.

          “I think you’re supposed to tell me lying is bad,” Patton said, crossing his arms and tilting his head back against the couch.

          “Lying is a tool, silly. Tools aren’t good or bad,” Remus scoffed. Then he dropped his face against Patton’s exposed throat and rubbed his stubble against the sensitive skin.

          “Remus!” Patton giggled, shoving his friend off, only to have his arms pinned to his sides when J wrapped him up in an octopus death grip. “Yall are ganging up on me, two against one is so unfair!”

          “Just give him time, darling,” J whisper into Patton’s ear from behind him. “Make your apologies and remember this lesson for the future. That’s all you can do.”

          “Any time someone lies, they’re using someone else to their needs,” Patton said, shaking his head. “I need to be more forthcoming. There’s things I don’t have to share if I don’t want to, but that’s different than lying, right?”

          “Patton, I think anything a human is capable of doing can be used for good and it can be used for bad. The only issue is that people tend to disagree which is which,” J said. “That’s what you have to decide for yourself. Not whether to swear off a trait or skill altogether, just when is the appropriate tie to use it.”

          “No,” Patton said, shaking his head fervently. “No, this was a bad thing and I can’t take it back and I can’t do it again and I shouldn’t have done it in the first place and now Verge is mad at me.”

          The room was silent for a moment before J’s arms slipped away and Remus leaned back from where he’d been resting his head on Patton’s chest.

          “You don’t have to listen to me,” J said as he rose fluidly to his feet and made his way toward the foyer. “But Verge isn’t mad that you lied.”

          “He’s right,” Remus said before Patton could respond, trailing after J as he always did. “At least that’s not the biggest thing he’s upset about. Maybe you should talk to him before deciding what you did wrong.” Remus shrugged and disappeared into the foyer.

          Patton sat unmoving as he listened to all of his roommates gathering in the kitchen and talking amongst themselves while Patton sat alone in the big empty family room.

          “Pat, what’s—woah, what happened?”

          Patton scrubbed his face roughly and turned to find Roman stumbling toward him with messy bedhead and in Beauty and the Beast joggers.

          “Oh, nothing, nothing,” Patton said, laughing weakly. “I’m just upset because I, well, Verge is really upset with me and—”

          “Verge made you cry?” Roman demanded, looking absolutely scandalized. He was halfway to the foyer before Patton managed to get his words together.

          “No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I—and he’s gone. Shit,” Patton hauled himself off of the couch and made it to the kitchen just in time.

          “What did you do?” Roman demanded, an accusing finger stabbing in Verge’s direction. Verge, who was sitting between Logan and J at the table while nursing a steaming mug, looked bewildered.

          “Stop, Roman, come on,” Patton urged, pulling on Roman’s pointing arm with both hands.

          “What the hell?” J muttered, leaning forward and bracing a forearm on the table like he was trying to make a little protective cage for Verge with his own body. “Patton, what did you tell him?”

          “Nothing! I—I didn’t get a chance to explain,” Patton said, tugging harder on Roman. “Ro, it’s not like that. I messed up and Verge is upset, which is what’s making me upset! Verge didn’t do anything!”

          “The guy’s a drama queen, I doubt you did anything so unforgivable,” Roman scoffed. Then his arm lowered, and he gave Patton a wide-eyed look. “Did you?”

          The silence of the kitchen was deafening as Patton’s mind scrambled for an answer that didn’t vilify lying and upset J and Remus, one that didn’t blame the legitimately innocent and self-punishing Verge, and also didn’t break Roman’s somehow undying faith in Patton as a good guy.

          “Patton made a mistake, but he’s going to apologize,” J explained.

          “Looks to me like three-against-one, and that’s rarely fair,” Roman said.

          “That would be four, not three!” Remus piped up from behind Patton and Roman, startling them both.

          “So that’s that, then? Little Miss Feelings over here gets an emotional booboo and you turn on the guy who’s keeping a roof over your head? Who’s keeping you fed and clothed?”

          The room was still and silent.

          “Why don’t we all just take a breather,” Patton said slowly, hands out in placating gesture. “Verge, I really am sorry I lied to you. That wasn’t the best—or even a good—choice. I get that and I’m not gonna do it again. If you wanna talk about it—”

          “No!” Verge blurts out, half rising from his chair. “No, I . . . I just want to move on. It’s fine. I’m not mad, I just wanna go back to normal.”

          J looked down at Verge and eased back into his seat.

          “It’s not fine, kiddo,” Patton said with a weak smile, hand slipping off of Roman’s arm as every ounce of energy drained and his stomach dropped. “But it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk.”

          With too many eyes on him in too many different stages of confusion and concern and frustration, Patton forced his smile wider and clenched his teeth to keep his chin from wobbling.

          “See, Roman? It’s okay, I just made a mistake, is all,” Patton explained, patting Roman weakly on the shoulder as he turned around and slipped out of the kitchen. “I’ll be in my room if anyone needs anything.”

Chapter Text

          Patton liked to think of himself as a well-adjusted, mature, responsible, and capable young adult. That didn’t keep him from hiding in his room until sundown folding and refolding clothes, organizing and reorganizing crafting supplies and personal mementos, and rearranging his furniture twice. The moment that the fiery gold light straining through his tightly drawn curtains sunk into darkness, he pressed his ear against his bedroom door. He heard softly shuffling footsteps going from the bathroom to Logan’s room and the quiet click of a door closing. And then nothing.

          Easing his door open, Patton winced and then sighed in relief when recently oiled hinges slid together almost silently. Patton held his breath, peeking his head out of his room before inching the door closed behind him and easing down the stairs in slow steps. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took stock.

          The house was full, every bedroom taken. There was a value pack of toothbrushes barely fitting into the chipped octopus-shaped mug in the bathroom and he’d added pegs to the entryway organizer to accommodate his growing household. And he was always meal-prepping and doing dishes and sweeping the floors, trying to keep up with the demand of a house bursting at the seams with people.

          He’d forgotten how much he loved this.

          He’d forgotten how much he hated this.

          The place was usually shaking with noise and energy, but at night could get so silent that Patton sometimes crept to his roommates’ doors just to listen for signs of life. He was almost able to convince himself that this had all been a fever dream, that he was still alone. A quick glance at the full entryway organizer soothed his fears.

          Shivering, Patton wrapped himself in his own arms and bit his lip as a growing ache swelled in his chest. He forced in a deep breath and let it out slowly, pretending it didn’t shake and pretending like his eyes weren’t burning.

          He’d really fucked up. With Verge, who probably didn’t trust him or feel safe at the house, now. With the disaster twins that he’d forced a wedge between when everyone started picking sides. And with the . . . whatever J and Remus were. With them because Patton knew enough about basic psychology to understand that those two were blaming themselves for this whole mess when it was Patton’s poor decisions and cowardly choice to run away from confrontation that turned the house into a battlefield. And maybe that was dramatic. But the tension was so high, so palpable. Patton couldn’t hang around and not address it, but at the same time . . . why invite judgement and rejection?

          “Because ‘head in sand’ works so well, huh, Pat?” Patton asked himself, dragging a palm down his weary face. He made a beeline for the living room, wriggling when a heavy and oppressive weight pulled at him. Maybe this was what those ghost hunting people meant when they said they could feel a dark presence.

          Patton scanned the room for a project to occupy him, quickly realizing he was too agitated to handle chemical cleaning solutions that would dry his hands, burn his nose, and make his eyes water.  But organizing the books on the built-in shelving on either side of the fireplace wouldn’t do anything but bother his mild dust allergy, which would just make him sneeze and itch a bit.

          He gingerly cleared the shelves, placing armful after armful of books onto the ground before sorting alphabetically and reshelving his piles. He was just finishing shelving all the “H” authors when he heard a thump in the kitchen. Nearly dropping a copy of something in French that he was holding, Patton whirled around to face the kitchen. He clutched the battered book to his chest and forced his breath to be slow and silent. Dark spots danced in his vision and he felt himself sway on his feet, the ground feeling unstable under him like the deck of a rocking boat. He quickly recovered and shelved the book so his hands would be free for defending. On an impulse, he grabbed a fire poker out of a tall basket of fireplace supplies standing under the mantle and rolled the heavy iron pole in both hands, bouncing it a little to test its weight.

          Sliding the fire poker lower in his hand so he could swing it like a sword, Patton crept toward the wall of the living room that didn’t have windows and a piano in the way. He slunk through the room in a crouch, eyes peeled and playing tricks on him by making him see movement and shadows he knew weren’t real. He placed his back against the wall just before the doorway and craned his neck around the corner to see into the kitchen, fire poker held upright just below his chin.

          So far, nothing. Just darkness and stillness that was feeling less peaceful and more ominous by the second. Praying to gods that he didn’t believe in, Patton tiptoed through the foyer and knelt on the ground by the kitchen doorway. The French doors were wide open and a quick glance through the glass paneling on either side of the doors showed no signs of movement from within the kitchen. After briefly considering waking a roommate, Patton soldiered on. He could defend his own home. He could protect his own people. And he didn’t like waking people up because responses varied from annoyed at the inconvenience to pissed at the deeply wounding wrongdoing.

          Resolve refortified, Patton stepped into the kitchen with the fire poker held out liked he’d seen people do with wands in the Harry Potter movies. There was someone on the kitchen table with their back to him.

          “Who are you?” he demanded, flicking the lights on to reveal the intruder.

          “Fuck!” Verge shouted, scrambling off of the table and falling onto the ground right on his ass.

          “Oh my God, are you okay?” Patton cried, clapping both of his hands to his face and nearly taking out an eye with his weapon. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were a murderer!”

          “So you decided to take me on with a fucking stick?” Verge demanded, hauling himself to his feet with the assistance of the kitchen table.

          “It’s a fire poker. And it’s very heavy.”

          “Congrats, you could’ve concussed yourself with it. What if I had tried to hurt you?”

          “That’s what the fire poker is for!” Patton defended, waving his weapon of choice in the air for emphasis.

          “Oh, yeah? And what I’d had a gun and tried to shoot you, huh?” Verge asked, throwing his hands up. “What the hell would you do then?”

          “I’d throw the fire poker and run.”

          “And leave your roommates to fend for themselves? How about quietly waking up your roommates so you can all escape together or take down the intruder as a unit?”

          “Don’t be silly, Verge—”

          “It’s not silly! Sure, it’s a hypothetical, but abandoning your friends to die is low-life behavior—”

          “—running would make the bad guy follow me, an eyewitness, instead of going after people who were sleeping and had no idea what was going on. I could get in my car, call 9-1-1, and have the police here looking for an intruder who meets the physical description I could give. Even a dummy would follow me, take me down, and flee the scene instead of letting me go so he could kill rando people who don’t even know he’s there.”

          “Jeezus, Pat, that’s . . . That’s dark, even for me.”

          “Sorry,” Patton said, making an awkward face as he set the fire poker point down on the ground and leaned it against the wall.

          “No, I—” Verge clambered onto a pink kitchen chair, pulling his knees to his chest and laying the side of his face against his knees. He wouldn’t look at Patton. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

          “No, no, sweetie, it’s okay,” Patton said, stumbling closer and waving his hands in his usual gesture of surrender. “It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

          “But everybody is mad at me,” Verge whispered. Patton jolted as if electrocuted. “They want me to leave. I—I think I should leave.”

          All the hot blood in Patton’s face drained away, leaving him nauseas and jittery and oddly cold.

          “You’re leaving?”

          “I—I, well,” Verge trailed off, giving Patton a wildly confused look and biting his scabbed lip.

          “We just got J and Remus back, why are you . . .” Patton couldn’t get the words out. It was almost like a curse or bad luck. If you break a mirror, seven years of bad luck. If you suggest that someone is leaving, they will.

          “I’m just causing problems. I mean, look at Princey. I mean, Roman. Look at Roman. He’s fine with everyone but me and his brother. Makes sense he and Remus have beef because they’ve got a long history or whatever, but why do I fuck it up and piss him off every single day? And then I got everyone mad for making a huge deal out of the J and Remus thing when it was literally nothing, and now everyone’s, like, divided.”

          “You can’t leave!” Patton snapped. Verge’s wide-eyed expression was like a gut punch. Patton looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose and huffing. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that, I just don’t want . . . Sorry, kiddo.”

          Words like “agency” and “boundaries” floated through Patton’s mind and he gripped his trembling hands together and whispered a few more apologies, unable to look at his friend.

          “Either way, it feels like something bad is coming,” Verge muttered, staring out the window above the kitchen sink. Because it was so dark outside, the warm glow of the kitchen light made their reflections solid and clear in the window. “I have to get out before it catches up.”

          “Catches up?” Patton repeated, sliding into a chair across from Verge.

          “I’m bad luck. It just follows me, I guess. And now things here are falling apart, which means the bad luck is catching up to me.”

          “No offense, Verge, but that’s kinda silly. No matter where you go, you’re gonna feel like the bad stuff is following because everybody has bad times. Bad doesn’t follow people, it just happens to people.”

          “You haven’t seen my luck,” Verge said darkly.

          “Hey,” Patton said softly, smiling when Verge looked up at him with only one eye visible through his shaggy hair. He grabbed Verge’s hands across the table. “I think there’s been a lot of good things happening—like you finding this place, meeting all these roommates, making friends with them—and it’s really normal to be scared to lose those good things. Maybe that bad feeling is because you’re scared to lose the good things.”

          “I get that you’re trying to help,” Verge said, pulling his hands out of Patton’s grip. “And I’m not trying to be a dick, but you really just don’t know how bad my luck is.”

          Before Patton could respond, both he and Verge froze at the sound of heavy footsteps storming down the stairs. Patton slowly turned in his chair just in time to see Remus reaching the bottom of the stairs with a huge harpoon in one hand and an old-fashioned diver’s helmet over his head.

          “Hey! What are you weirdos doing up?” Remus asked, cocking his head so far that his neck made a crackling sound. When he didn’t get an immediate response, Remu shrugged and plodded toward the door in galoshes that reached over his knees. “Anyway, I’m off to work. Later, sluts!”

          Patton continued to stare through the kitchen door long after the front door slammed shut and those heavy footsteps disappeared down the porch steps.

          “I thought he worked at that pet place?” Verge muttered.

          “Maybe he’s . . . Catching fish to sell at there?”

          Verge snorted and was almost immediately startled by a wordless shout from upstairs. A door creaked open and banged shut and another set of footsteps came racing down the stairs.

          “Stop stealing my shit!” an irate Logan shouted, briefly appearing as a blue blur through the doorway of the kitchen before he was out the door and no doubt after Remus.

          A much quieter set of footsteps came down only moments later and J swaggered into the kitchen, leaning against the doorjamb and cradling an empty wineglass in one hand.

          “Where’s everyone off to in such a hurry?” he muttered, touching his free hand to his temple and wincing. “Why are you two in here at this hour?”

          “Milking the cows!” Patton blurted out.

          “I had to go to the bathroom!” Verge announced at the same time.

          “You do realize that neither of you are in the correct place for those activities. Right?”

          “I got lost,” was the response in unison.

          “I . . . I’m too hungover for this. Do what you want. Do we have any aspirin or something?” J asked, gliding through the room and placing his glass near the sink before heading back toward the hallway, no doubt to hunt for pain medication in the guest bathroom.

          “Uh, there’s Advil and Tylenol,” Patton offered, half rising from his seat. “I can get it for you.”

          “Tylenol. Pease.”

          “Why do we have two kinds of the same medication?” Verge asked, voice following behind Patton down the hall.

          “Advil interferes with a lot of medications so I wanted to make sure there were safe options for everyone. I’m used to taking Advil and didn’t want to switch, so I chose to have both on hand. It was the only pill I could get down as a kid because the little pills looked like M&Ms,” Patton said with a laugh, slipping into the guest bathroom.

          “And why, pray tell, were you so accustomed to taking pain medication at such an age where swallowing pills was hard enough that you were given a medication that resembled candy?” J asked, leaning against the wall just outside the bathroom and pressing his thumb between his brows as Patton searched through the neatly organized container of cold medications, fever reducers, stomach soothers, and cough drops under the bathroom sink.

          “Calm down, dear, I had my wisdom teeth taken out pretty young and understandably needed something for the pain,” Patton explained, rolling his eyes at his overly concerned roommate.

          “Can’t blame me for . . . You know,” J muttered, waving his hand in the air before applying pressure between his brows again.

          “My worrywart,” Patton said fondly, holding up a bottle of Tylenol. When J didn’t open his eyes and take the bottle, Patton tipped one pill into his palm and gently pulled at J’s free hand. Once it was palm up, he placed the pill on J’s hand. He was about to suggest going back to the kitchen to get J a glass of water when J dry swallowed the medication without even looking at it.

          “Thank you. I’m going back to bed.” J turned with one hand over his eyes to block out the light from the kitchen and used his other hand to feel along the side of the staircase.

          “Shout if you need anything!” Patton called after him, awarded with a lazy wave and a noncommittal hum. “Verge, could you go chase down Logan? I have a mess to clean up in the living room.”

          “On it,” Verge said firmly, pulling his hood over his head like he was straightening a helmet in preparation for frontline battle.

          “And please be nice about it, this time,” Patton requested.

          “Fine. But it’s much more fun my way,” Verge huffed, dropping his head back in defeat and tugging the front door open.

Chapter Text

          When Patton hit the bottom of the staircase still in his baggy Beach Boys muscle shirt and rainbow striped boxers, a mug of cold tea in hand, he wasn’t as surprised to see two local cops on his doorstep as he was mildly inconvenienced. Logan was holding the door open and talking to the officers, but Patton ignored them both and made a beeline for the kitchen while pulling the overly steeped tea bag out of his mug.

          “Morning, boys,” he called to Remus and Roman at the kitchen table, J leaning back against the sink, and Verge sitting on the kitchen island. He tossed the teabag into the compost barrel, gently hip-checked J so he could dump his cold tea in the sink, and headed for the coffee pot. That was when he realized no one had responded to him.

          Looking up from where he was filling his mug with coffee, Patton found all four sets of eyes on him. He quickly glanced down in a mild panic, thinking that he might have forgotten clothes or maybe there was a gross bug on him.

          “What?” he finally asked. He didn’t miss the impressively coordinated four-way meeting of gazes that took place before him as he watched his housemates over the rim of his mug.

          “The cops are here for you,” Remus piped up, immediately slapping a hand over his own mouth.

          “Remus!” Roman snapped, nearly falling out of his chair when he abruptly brought it from balancing on two legs to four.

          “Dude, you don’t lead with that,” Virgil said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his patchwork hoodie.

          “I figured,” Patton admitted, craning his neck to see the cops through the kitchen window. He waved at the male cop who was staring back at him. “Did they say what they want?”

          “Just to talk to you,” J said in a low voice. Patton raised a brow.

          “What do you mean you ‘figured?’ What does that mean?” Verge demanded.

          “It means that this is the beginning of a very long day,” Patton muttered, topping off his coffee and heading back to the foyer.

          “I understand that you can’t divulge sensitive information to a civilian,” Logan was telling the cops at the door in a tight voice. “But this is my home and I’m not going to allow you to harass my friend. If you refuse to tell me what you want, then—”

          “It’s okay, honey,” Patton interjected, resting a hand between Logan’s tense shoulders. Logan looked down at him and immediately slipped off his navy bathrobe, draping it over Patton’s shoulders.

          “Do you want me to stay?” he asked lowly, guiding one of Patton’s arms through a sleeve of the bathrobe and taking the coffee mug so Patton could get the robe on his other arm. “I highly encourage you to let me stay but the social mores of interpersonal relationships dictate that it should be your decision to make.”

          “I’ll be okay, but thank you,” Patton said as he stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him while Logan padded away, no doubt to gossip with their other roommates and watch Patton and the cops through the window. Patton finally turned to the cops.

          “Can I help you, officers?” he asked.

          “We got a call from a concerned—” the gentleman cop with the square jaw and the wrist brace began.

          “Sherry called you?” Patton guessed. “Or she had Dale—Officer Boars—call you?”

          “We can’t disclose any information about who called us,” the lady cop with curly red hair and purple eye shadow explained. “All we can tell you is that we were asked to do a wellness check on Patton Lovelace at Strawberry Lane. Is that you? We’ll need to see some identification.”

          “Yes, I’m Patton, and I’m fine. I’m not being threatened or harmed, my liberty is not being restrained, my environment is safe, and my mental and physical health are intact. Please tell Sherry and Dale to stop harassing me. Thank you, and have a safe rest of your shift. And I like your eyeshadow, ma’am. And I hope your arm heals well, sir,” Patton said firmly.

          Then he stepped back inside and quickly pushed the door shut, locking and bolting it before the officers could respond. He watched them through the stained-glass panels in the door until they walked back to their cruiser.

          “I’ll kill her,” he said in a cheery voice. “I will absolutely murder her. Yep. It’s happening. My Tuesday is about to get a lot messier.” He huffed, took a sip of coffee, and was about to go back to his room and hide from his embarrassment and responsibilities for the rest of the day when Roman peeked his head out of the kitchen.

          “Are you okay?” came Roman’s uncharacteristically hesitant voice from the kitchen doorway. Patton didn’t move.

          “I think some privacy would not be remiss,” Logan said, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen with a mug proclaiming “#1 Teacher” on the front of its blue glazed surface. Patton kept his gaze straight ahead at the flight of stairs before him.

          “What’s going on? Why did the cops want to talk to Patton?” Roman asked.

          “It’s none of your business,” Verge said sharply. His voice was closer than Patton expected.

          “So, you know, but you aren’t going to tell me?” Roman demanded. “Everyone knows what’s going on, but telling one more person—who also lives here, by the way, and would definitely be affected if Patton’s in a mob or something—would be the end of the world so I get to be the one left in the dark?”

          “The world doesn’t revolve around you, asshole, try thinking outside your own morbid curiosity and have some fucking compassion,” Verge snapped back. A warm palm rested softly on Patton’s back and Verge’s voice was right on him, right behind him, right above him.

          “Didn’t realize it was selfish to not enjoy feeling like a second-class citizen in this house.”

          “Oh, please,” Logan interjected. “I try to stay out of your petty fights, but I can’t stand so-called ‘paper tiger’ arguments. Manipulation is not a proper strategy. The truth is that you don’t have a legitimate reason for why Patton should hurt himself further by sharing intimate details of his life with you, or why his housemates should betray his trust and share what little information—or theories—we have. Highly inappropriate.”

          “I know this might be a stretch for you,” Roman said, voice slow and bright like he was talking to a small child. “But maybe try having feelings. I’m gonna be worried when cops come to see my friend, and only figuring out what’s going on is going to make me less worried. Sue me.”

          “What a preposterous thing to file a lawsuit for.”

          “You people are literally insufferable.”

          “Are you okay?” came Verge’s hushed voice in Patton’s ear.

          And he could’ve mustered up the energy to respond. He really could’ve. But what was the point? Who cared? Because nothing was okay and if it was, it was only temporary. So, while Roman and Logan argued and while J attempted to hush Remus’s usual nonsensical but imaginative interjections in the background, Patton stared at the uneven wood grain in the bottom of step that lead to the second floor until he realized he wasn’t going to be able to muster the courage to look up. And then he walked away.

          And he kept walking.

          Out the backdoor, down the creaky steps, past the huge tree in the backyard with the swing that Logan had installed, down the hill, and he would’ve gone past the pond, too, if his legs hadn’t given out.

          His knees collided with the damp earth below him, tall reedy grasses scratching his palms when his hands landed limply from his lap to the ground as well. His back hunched and he could feel his spine arching and collapsing from his heaving breaths. His stomach began to rumble in a way that told him to be grateful he hadn’t eaten yet and he wasn’t surprised when he was joined by an amber puddle of bile in the grass.

          Patton looked across the pond, mind filling with even more memories. There wasn’t a single place he could look without seeing his brothers, hearing their voices, feeling their warmth at his side. Grief turned to resentment turned to guilt and that was when he heard the footsteps and shouts behind him.

          A body landed hard on the ground behind him and caught him into a warm embrace, hands gently tugged on his wrists in more of a question than a demand, and fingers stroked his hair back from his face. Voices began to babble over each other but hushed almost instantly when Patton peeked an eye open. He found the familiar angular face of Virgil in front of him, ducking his head down to meet Patton’s gaze.

          “Hey,” Verge said softly. Patton’s heart broke at how sweet his friends were when Verge scooted closer, kneeling with one leg on either side of Patton’s knees and effectively caging him in.

          “What’s happening with you, sugar glider?” Remus asked from behind Patton, voice a low and somber tone that Patton didn’t even know the guy was capable of.

          Patton shook his head and dropped it against Verge’s shoulder. “Every damn day,” he said. “It’s always something.”

          “You’re allowed to have problems, you know. You’re allowed to be upset or cry or whatever,” Verge said. “Hell, my first day here I had a breakdown and I’m pretty sure I punched you in the face. We’re all a bit fucked up.”

          “Language,” Patton muttered, unable to stop himself from smiling.

          Verge laughed quietly and firm hands hauled Patton carefully to his feet, urging him back toward the house. He was distantly aware of more conversation taking place around him, but it was muffled as if he was trying to eavesdrop on someone through a wall. He couldn’t quite place where he was or where any part of him was in relation to anything around him. It was like he was floating in the nothingness of sleep with his eyes open, his body moving on autopilot and responding automatically to gentle tugging on his arms and pressure on his shoulders as the world spun and tipped.

          A murmur mere inches from his ear tickled his brain while fingers combing at his hair made his scalp tingle and buzz. A layer of smooth warmth draped over his body like a shield and he didn’t bother trying to focus his vision, instead letting his eyes slip shut. He felt his chest expand to tight fullness and forced his breath still. Then he pushed it out and felt his stomach swoop at the sudden release. The voices speaking around him grew warmer so he did it again and the world became clear.

          Patton found himself squished on the couch with his housemates surrounding him.

          “Sorry,” he said lowly.

          “Don’t apologize,” Logan said firmly. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Remus, who looked like he was doing his best impression of a star fish spread out on the floor.

          “I owe you guys an explanation. This morning was probably . . . really weird for you guys,” Patton argued.

          “The police used to show up aaaall the time at mine and J’s old place!” Remus said, sounding proud.

          “It’s almost a comfort to see them darkening our doorstep once more,” J said, delicately tucking a strand of Patton’s hair behind his ear.

          “But—but Roman had questions and—”

          “I shouldn’t have demanded to know what was going on.” Patton turned to see Roman standing with his back to the room, staring out the window with his arms crossed. “I’m sorry, Pat, I’ve always had a bit of an impulse issue, I guess. And I don’t like feeling left out.”

          “What he means is that he’s a gossipy bitch who receives love in the form of drama and secrets,” Verge summarized, ducking when Roman turned and narrowly missed hitting Verge in the head with a pillow he snagged off the piano bench.

          “It’s just, my family situation’s kinda weird and they’ve been trying to locate me ever since I left. Now that they know where I am, they’re trying to get me to come home, which isn’t happening. I’m sorry you guys are getting stuck in this mess with me.” Patton stared down at his lap as he made his confession, guilt pressing heavy on his shoulders.

          “I’d rather weather a difficult storm at your side than be free of it and know you’re suffering alone,” Logan said, meeting Patton’s gaze.

          “Another one of your literature quotes, Teach?” Verge asked.

          “No. That’s just how I feel.”

          “A Logan original,” Patton said, fighting his smile to stay tearless. “I like it.”

          “Thank you. While I don’t quite understand the need of dramatic declarations of friendship and love, I do understand, emotionally, that they . . . help.”

          “They do,” Patton said, grinning when Logan did a happy shimmy in place.

          “I’m glad I helped.”

          “This is very sweet and all, but can we, like, put on a dumb show and not think for a while?” Verge asked, sounding exhausted.

          “On it!” Remus exclaimed, diving for the remote at the same time that Roman made a dash for it. The resulting battle over the remote and who would decide what to watch was a loud one.

          “Are you sure you’re okay being here?” Patton asked Verge quietly as the other occupants of the room argued.

          “Yeah. I mean, it’s a lot, but I’m here for you,” came Verge’s low voice.

          “But I . . . But you—” Patton cut himself off with a frustrated huff.

          “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Verge said, running a hand through Patton’s no doubt sweaty hair.

          “But you’re mad,” Patton whispered, as if saying it too loud would remind              Verge of how mad he was. “You can’t be nice to me if you’re mad at me. You can’t.” There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, but Patton couldn’t look away from Verge’s dark eyes and slightly smudged liner.

          “Aw, Pat,” Verge said with a sigh. “I’m upset, but I’m not mad. And I’m definitely not upset enough to leave you hanging when you’re hurting.”

          “Like I did to you? When you were upset about J and Remus being missing and I left you alone?” Patton asked tentatively, scrubbing a fist at his eye and allowing Verge to pull his head against Verge’s shoulder.

          “Kinda like that, I guess. But you have the rest of the guys, even if I left.”

          “Don’t leave,” Patton said, needy and selfish and demanding as he tugged on Verge’s sleeve. “I don’t want anyone to leave.”

          “Okay,” Verge said, pressing his face against the crown of Patton’s head.

Chapter Text

          Wakeful nights were no strange thing to Patton. As someone who identified as a full-time worrywart and part-time optimist, he was used to having to strongarm his thoughts into a hopeful direction with a focus on problem solving, but that required being conscious. Meaning, in sleep, his worst fears and daily stressors became equally looming monsters. So when he lurched awake to the sound of pleas for help, Patton was not at all surprised. He just gripped the striped sheets below him until his fists shook and he ducked his head so low his neck ached.

          The room was calm and dark, the only movement a soft breeze whispering through the open window and making the curtains sway. The silvery blue moonlight coming in through the chipped panes cast shapeless shadows across the floor and Patton instinctively pulled his legs out of the shadows that spilled across his bed, leaning into the dim light.

          When he continued to hear the raspy voice, this time requesting entrance to his room and cracking with emotion, he briefly clutched his blankets to his chest and stared wide-eyed at his closed bedroom door.

          “Patton?” Verge’s voice was unmistakable, as wobbly and hushed as it was. At the next words, which were unintelligible, Patton lurched out of bed. He stumbled from the tangled blankets and grabbed his long shawl from the back of his closet door. His bare feet slapped on the cold floor as he ran to the door, tossing the shawl over his shoulders and shivering under the cool fabric flowing over him.

          “Verge, what’s wrong?” Patton whispered as loudly as he dared, wrenching the door open and holding his shawl closed over his loose top.

          Verge, in dark sweatpants and a rumpled tank top, looked both cozy and freezing. Upon closer examination, Patton’s heart broke. Dark eyeliner was smudged over cheeks that shone with tears and red eyes were downcast. Verge’s arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his shoulders hunched up to his ears, and his chin was tucked down against his chest.

          “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. . . Well, I mean, I did mean to interrupt because I knocked but I was hoping you were awake, even though you definitely weren’t because it’s, you know, night—”

          “Verge,” Patton said firmly, reaching out to squeeze one of Verge’s arms. “What’s wrong?”

          Verge swayed into Patton’s hold like he was dizzy, buckling under the pressure or maybe the warmth, Patton wasn’t sure.

          “I, um, I just had a . . . You know.” Verge chewed on his lower lip, his gaze once again fleeting and landing everywhere but Patton’s face.

          “You had nightmare?” Patton guessed, rubbing his thumb against Verge’s arm and barely holding back a coo when Verge looked up at him through choppy bangs and a gray tear rolled down his cheek. Verge nodded sharply once, eyes briefly meeting Patton’s.

          “Sorry,” Verge mumbled. “Usually, I just find a small place to jam myself into or a high place to hide out, but under my bed and in the closet wasn’t working and my dresser isn’t really that high so I . . . I just thought that, uh—sorry.”

          “Oh, honey,” Patton said with a sad, fond laugh. He released Verge’s arm and slowly reached out to rest his hand on Verge’s cheek. His thumb swiped the eyeliner tear away. “Don’t ever apologize to me for something you can’t control or for something that’s not your fault.”

          Verge’s face crumpled, chin dimpling and face reddening as his dark eyes filled with tears again. Patton said nothing, just held out both of his arms and stumbled back when Verge launched himself at the shelter he was offered. Patton pushed the door shut when Verge crossed the threshold and then wrapped his arms around the trembling body that seemed to be trying to climb into his skin.

          Frantic fingers scrabbled at Patton’s back until he felt a fierce grip pulling his shirt tight and a sharp chin digging into his shoulder. Patton’s chest felt warm and tight when he realized Verge wasn’t shaking his head but was nuzzling his face into Patton’s lace knit shawl.

          “Wanna lay down?” Patton asked after a few minutes of prolonged shaking and silence.

          When Verge nodded, Patton tugged him toward the nest of blankets and pillows on the bed and applied the slightest pressure to push him down to sit. Verge collapsed, slumping forward and dropping his face into his hands as Patton knelt and tugged off Verge’s scruffy black converses. When Patton stood back up, he found himself caught in Verge’s shaking but firm grip, an iron clasp around his waist. Patton wrapped his arms around Verge’s shoulders on instinct, pressing his face against the top of Verge’s head and planting a kiss there while Verge hid his face in Patton’s stomach.

          “You wanna talk about it?” Patton asked, voice as soft and quiet as he could make it. Verge shook his head so hard he almost knocked them both over. “Okay, okay. Let’s lay down then.”

          Patton sat beside Verge without breaking their hold on each other, and then tipped them back to lay against the pillows. He fumbled with the blankets for a bit before managing to pull them over both himself and Verge. If his heart was already broken, it was near splintering now as Verge curled into a ball. Elbows, knees, and a forehead pressed against every soft part of Patton. Considering how little he worked out and how much he baked, there were many soft parts and they were all sensitive. But he kept his twinges of pain to himself and held on just as tightly as Verge clung to him.

          “I get nightmares, too,” Patton admitted.

          “Yeah?” came the quiet response after a few seconds.

          “There’s others here who get them, too. There’s no, you know, shame in it or whatever you’re thinking.”

          “I’m not ashamed,” Verge said. His normal speaking volume seemed loud compared to the hushed tones they’d been talking in.

          “Okay, okay, sorry,” Patton said, grimacing as he smoothed an apologetic hand through Verge’s hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

          “You didn’t upset me,” Verge said, voice now rock hard. He pulled away from Patton a little and glared down at his hands where they were worrying at the hem of Patton’s shawl.

          “I’m sorry for saying something you didn’t like?” Patton tried again. He relaxed when Verge huffed out a short laugh.

          “You don’t have to apologize every time someone doesn’t like something you said.”

          “Pretty sure we’re supposed to be focusing on you, right now,” Patton said, poking Verge in the side until he got a giggle.

          “I’ll allow it,” Verge said with a cheeky grin. It was still watery and the tear tracks were still clear on his face.

          Patton reached behind himself and grabbed a tissue out of the tissue box shaped like a Golden Doodle on his nightstand. He pulled away when Verge went to take it from him, and then began gently dabbing the tears and streaks of eyeliner away. Verge didn’t break eye contact for a second, eyes searching Patton’s for something. What specifically, Patton wasn’t sure.

          Tossing the tissue over his shoulder, Patton held his arms out again in a wordless invitation and grinned when Verge allowed himself to be pulled in close. Verge’s forehead pressed against Patton’s sternum and his arms were curled up between them, hands loosely grasping Patton’s shawl. Patton felt a warmth from head to toe that he hadn’t felt in a long time. That feeling of wrapping someone up in blankets and arms and knowing they’re safe now.

          And then Verge sniffled and Patton’s heart completely shattered.

          “Are you sure you don’t wanna—”

          “I don’t want to talk about it!” The tension that had flooded Verge’s body at that statement immediately left and then Verge sighed, closing his eyes. Patton felt a tightness in his chest and the flush of heat in his face that comes from doing something wrong. “I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry, I just—”

          “Don’t want to talk,” Patton repeated, running a hand over Verge’s bowed head again. “You don’t have to, sugar. I’m just worried, I guess.”

          “Worried?”

          “Because you’re upset. And I can’t help if you don’t talk to me,” Patton said as evenly as he could. Verge was silent for a moment before taking in a huge breath and letting it out slowly.

          “It’s fine, I just don’t like talking about it. They—the dreams—I get them sometimes and they’re usually the same and there’s nothing I can do to stop them, so there’s really no use in complaining.”

          “Well, you don’t have to tell me what they are, but you can always come to me,” Patton promised. “If you want.”

          “I don’t want to bother y—”

          “If you want to come to me, then come to me. Don’t worry about waking me up, okay? That doesn’t matter to me,” Patton whispered fiercely, tightening his grip. He winced and was about to loosen his embrace when Verge all but melted against him.

          “Okay,” Verge whispered, lashes fluttering as he fought to keep his eyes open when Patton carded his fingers through Verge’s hair. Verge pushed his head against Patton’s hand like a puppy.

          “You can wake me up at any time, and you can spend the night any time,” Patton promised, dropping a peck on Verge’s cheek and earning himself a sweet smile. “Just knock and I’ll answer.”

          Verge let out a shuddering breath and then his breathing slowed to a deep, even rhythm and Patton cradled him close until the sun rose, keeping guard.

Chapter Text

          Patton had long since given up on a peaceful life in the country. Sure, he had a home rich with history on a picturesque farm in a cute town that had all the charm of the romanticized south to offer, and he lived with lovely people he looked forward to seeing every new day. But damn if he didn’t miss waking to a still house, basking in the quiet, and enjoying the freedom brought by solitude. Or maybe he just wanted a home where people weren’t always fighting.

          “I’m home!” Patton sang as he flung open the front door and shuffled inside. He kicked off his daisy print rainboots, leaving them and his sunny umbrella by the colorful “y’all means all” welcome mat. Once he was inside with the door locked behind him, he was able to discern the roar of the pounding rain from the shouting coming from inside the house.

          With a sigh, Patton followed the noise to the living room and stood in the living room clad in a dripping raincoat and arms full of paper grocery bags whilst his roommates shouted over each other

          “What in God’s name is going on in here?” Patton asked of the room.

          As expected, about three or four voices all babbled over each other to be the first to explain. Patton sighed, and then shifted the groceries to one arm and pointed to J, the only one not talking.

          “Explain,” he demanded.

          “If I must,” J said with a sigh, hip cocked and his wrist bent like he was holding a champagne flute. “The little prince and our baby boy came to blows over something asinine, and it devolved into rehashing every little thing they hate about each other and every little perceived wrongdoing they’ve suffered at the hands of the other.”

          “Oh,” Patton said lightly, pulling a face. That was a lot of things to rehash and wrongdoings to list. Though that list spanned the gamut of shoes left on the floor to singing loudly in the shower. Misdemeanors, really. “Why don’t we talk about it without all the yelling?”

          “Maybe if the little prince could stop acting like he rules the fucking world—” Verge started.

          “Or if the baby boy could stop complaining every time something doesn’t go his way—” Roman interjected.

          “I don’t think it’s a lot to ask for you to turn down your music when it’s making the fucking windows rattle—”

          “Why do I have to change?” Roman demanded. “Why am I always the one in the wrong?”

          “Because you think everything’s always about you and you don’t think about anyone else. And that’s not how a house is supposed to be run!” Verge snapped.

          “How would you know?” Roman’s face was red as he whirled on a flinching Verge. “How would you possibly know how a house is supposed to be run? You haven’t had one in years!”

          It was incredible how words could suck the energy from a room of angry people, leaving cold discomfort in its wake.

          Verge staggered back, face white.

          “I, uh, I didn’t, um—” Roman babbled, momentarily looking stunned as he glanced around the room.

          “Why would you—” Verge’s voice cracked and Patton watched Roman’s surprise harden into something fierce.

          “What? I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”  

          “Okay, why don’t we take a—”

          “What? Take a break?” Roman guessed, turning toward Patton. Patton hugged his groceries closed, feeling his chin rise in defiance. “Take a breather? Sit down and talk about our fucking feelings? When not everyone’s feelings actually seem to matter?”

          With each word, Roman’s volume rose and he slowly advanced on Patton, who was backing toward the doorway of the living room. He stumbled over the rug in the foyer (dropping his poor groceries) and hit the ground with a thud.

          “What the hell?” Roman muttered, taking his own step back. Patton slowly stood, his eyes trained on Roman’s. Watching. Waiting.

          “I believe it best for us all to do as you suggest, Roman, and take a ‘breather,” Logan said. He was good at that low, soothing voice. He stepped toward the tense pair inserting himself between Roman and Patton without hesitation. “No one is being persecuted, here. Mistakes were made and should be addressed, but this is not a court room. No one need defend themselves because there will be no judgement or punishment.”

          Roman blinked rapidly as if only just now registering Logan’s presence. He stared up at Logan with comically wide eyes and Patton wasn’t sure if it was wonder or disbelief he was feeling from Roman.

          “Not everything is my fault,” Roman said firmly.

          “That is accurate.”

          “Other people are messing up, too, and I don’t have to shut up about what they’re doing just so you guys can yell at me for what I’m doing.”

          “This is true. Though, if I may, I’d like to add that no one is going to—or should—yell at you.”

          “Cool,” Roman said shoulders lowering. He backed away from Logan and plopped onto the sofa, then wrapped his arms around one of the round throw pillows he almost sat on. “Cool, cool.”

          Patton sighed and chased a few roll-away oranges down the hall, gathering the remaining groceries from the floor and slipping into the kitchen as Logan took over the conflict in the living room. It seemed to be going well until Patton was putting away the last colorful boxes of snack food, standing on a chair to reach the higher cabinets where they belonged.

          “Well, if I’m so impossible for you to live with, why don’t you just leave!” Roman was shouting from the living room. The quick thump of running feet pounded toward Patton and he barely processed who was speeding at him until Roman was there, wrapping his arms around Patton’s legs and burying his face in Patton’s stomach.

          “Darlin’, what happened?” Patton asked, breathless with shock and concern as he wobbled to maintain his balance on the chair. He stroked a hand through Roman’s now unruly hair, which was usually carefully constructed into a dramatic swoop. Roman shook his head, grinding his face into the soft, vulnerable organs hardly protected by Patton’s cuddly sweater.

          A glance through the doorway of the kitchen and into the foyer gave Patton a glimpse of a purple and black streak zipping down the hall with a much bigger blob of green hurdling after him. A resounding thud, the smack of an open palm against a clothed body, and a war cry echoed down the hall and then Remus was hauling a struggling Verge into the kitchen.

          “I say we tie them together and stick them in the closet until they can behave,” J drawled, appearing out of nowhere in the doorway as he often did.

          “I agree!” Remus said, not bothering to restrain Verge’s wildly flailing arms. Patton admired how the guy could take a smack to the nose without so much of a grimace.

          “Try locking me up with that prince of shit, I dare you! You better be fast cuz, after I fucking chew my way out, it’s your turn!”

          “Feral little thing, aren’t you?” J asked in a way that sounded not at all like an insult. “Remus, drop it.”

          And drop it, he did. Verge fell into a graceless heap on the ground and scrabbled to his feet. He scampered to Patton’s side, gripping the back of the chair Patton was standing on as if it would keep anyone from dragging him off.

          “No one is going to be tied up or stuffed in a closet,” Patton said firmly, unable to keep some frustration out of his voice.

          “Even if it’s safe, sane, and consensual?” Remus asked with big, pleading eyes. Patton didn’t bother to respond.

          “Could someone tell me what’s going on?” he asked instead.

          “Roman and Verge are still fighting like toddlers, what else is new?” J muttered, rolling his eyes and pretending to inspect his cuticles, despite still having his trademark gloves on.

          “Saints preserve,” Patton said with a sigh, hands on his hips and glaring down at Roman and Verge. “What will it take for you two to get along?”

          “Well, if Princey here can think about literally anyone other than himself for a few seconds—”

          “Maybe we wouldn’t fight if Verge didn’t have an entire tree branch up his—”

          “Stop!” Patton demanded. He huffed and clambered off of the chair, dislodging Roman’s embrace. Roman immediately latched onto Patton’s elbow when he stumbled. “Thanks. Um, sorry for yelling, but y’all are driving me absolutely crazy.”

          “Safe to say they’re driving us all crazy,” J said.

          “I concur,” Logan piped up, leaning back against the kitchen table with his arms crossed.

          “I love drama,” Remus said in a similarly serious tone. Patton gave him a fond smile and had to hold in a laugh when Remus made a goofy face at him.

          “Look, I get that you may not be best friends, but you’ve got to find a way to get along. If not for yourselves then for us. For your friends, your housemates,” Patton said, placing a gentle hand on Verge’s shoulder and another on Roman’s.

          “But—”

          “No,” Patton said firmly. “I won’t say we should never disagree, but we shouldn’t be fighting. Families shouldn’t fight like this. And, I don’t know how you guys feel, but I kind of think we’re at least a little like a family, right?”

          “The traditional concept of ‘family’ is a construct, your inner circle is just a support system centered on mutual giving and receiving with the common goal of survival,” J said. At Patton’s look, he sighed. “I mean, yeah, sure. We’re totally family.”

          “I would define ‘family’ as a group of people who care deeply about one another, who do their utmost to support each other, and with whom they share parts of themselves that they would not share with a casual friend,” Logan said, chin on his hand and eyes distant. “By that definition, we are family.”

          “I would totally donate, like, all my organs to you guys. And I used to only do that for J!” Remus said cheerfully.

          “I didn’t even end up needing that kidney,” J huffed.

          “But they thought you might and I wanted to know if we were compatible,” Remus whined before his demeanor brightened again and he threw his arms around J. “And we totally are, just like real family!”

          “Actually, genetic relation does not at all guarantee compatib—”

          “Hey, wise guy, don’t ruin this for me,” Remus said, bright grin not dimming at all. Instead of getting upset, Logan merely inclined his head.

          “So, we’re family?” Roman asked. His eyes flit briefly to Verge before settling back on Patton.

          “I don’t really, you know. . . how to do family,” Verge said, face blank.

          “It’s been a while since I’ve been. . . familial?” Roman turned to Logan. “Is that the word?”

          “I have no idea what you’re trying to say, you’re both barely coherent at any given occasion,” Logan said, left eye twitching.

          “I think they’re saying they don’t know how to function as a family,” J stage-whispered, leaning against Logan and holding his hand up to hide his mouth.

          “I heard that, you snake!”

          “You’re not very funny, for a guy dressed like a clown.”

          “Oh look, they’re bonding over insulting me. Time to leave.” J bowed gracefully and slipped out of the room followed closely by Remus, who was jigging backward after him until J reached out and started dragging Remus up the stairs by his collar.

          Patton dropped his face in his hands and then lifted his head, dragging his palms down his cheeks. His eyes were dry, his temples were sore, and there was a heaviness in his joints. The hazy, sleepy weather of a rainy day combined with the end of a verbal spat had him ready for bed.

          “So, are we all friends, now?” he asked hopefully.

          “Not a chance.”

          “No way would I be caught being friends with that emo nightmare!” Roman scoffed, crossing his arms.

          “Wait, you’re embarrassed to be friends with me?” Verge laughed, swiping a shiny red apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table as he walked past it.

          “Exactly what are you implying, Sour Ranger?” Roman asked, storming after Verge.

          “Sour Ranger?”

          “Yeah, like the Power Rangers.”

          “That’s terrible—”

          “Hey!” Roman chased Verge out of the kitchen, defending his creative nicknames and insults.

          “This is one of the many reasons I cannot imagine myself having children,” Logan said under his breath as he and Patton stared after their housemates.

          “You and me both,” he said with a sigh, leaning back against the counter.

Chapter Text

              Patton woke up crying. And he was once again proven to not be the unending wellspring of optimism and cheer he’d originally thought when he found himself hard pressed to slow the steady stream pouring from his aching eyes. He sat up and watched dispassionately when the drops fell onto his hands and ran between his fingers onto his bedspread, leaving dark marks in the fabric. He took a shuddering breath.

              “Charlie,” he whispered his oldest brother’s name for the first time in months. His other brothers’ names came tumbling after on instinct, too used to shouting them at the top of his lungs over a hot stove, or at the bottom of the stairs with a hamper of laundry in his arms, or from the floor where he’d landed after tripping over an action figure, a roller skate, a baseball bat, a backpack, a shoe.

              “Jasper.” His middle older brother.

              “Jackson.” His youngest older brother.

              Patton doubled over, forehead pressing into his knees, and wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and squeezed himself together. But it still felt like his ribs would crack open like a compound fracture and his heart would leap out of his chest cavity’s jaws. Which was silly because it was already out of his chest. His heart had ripped out and fled out the room, down the stairs, out the house, out of town, and straight to where he used to live, probably snuggling right up to the nearest big brother it could find.

              A guttural groan escaped his raw throat and he sniffled, silent sobs now calming into miserable shivers. Patton rolled, flopping onto his side and curling into the tightest ball he could. He was used to simulating hugs in an empty room, but it wasn’t usually this ineffective.

              Dreams about where he used to live still knocked the breath out of him. Dreams of his brothers shoving him around because they were older and had learned that shows of strength earn respect. Dreams of his brothers sitting with him on his bed, squeezing him between them when it got too loud. Dreams of his brothers teasing him with mean names that never really hurt. Dreams of his brothers chasing him, catching him, and sheltering him with a safe house of bony, scabby arms and allowing him to return the favor.

Then he sat up, dragged his palms across his eyes, and by the time his feet hit the floor, he was smiling.

              “Happy pappy Patton,” he sang as he got changed.

              He pulled on Jas’s long-sleeve tee advertising his high school baseball team, and then Charlie’s old med school sweatshirt, and the hand-me-down converse from Jack with the rainbow laces that had been gifted to make them feel new. And he looked down at the long sleeves that covered his knuckles and the worn shoes he wore two pairs of socks to fit into and he wasn’t sure he felt any better, but he sure felt less alone while wearing the armor of his brothers.

              He reached for his bedroom door, imagining three young gentlemen standing behind him. The tallest with bright green eyes and sandy hair coiffed all fancy, another with strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes, and another with curly blond locks and more freckles than the sky had stars.

              “They’re here,” he whispered. “They’re with me. It’s fine, I’m fi—”

              “Patton-cake!” Came Remus’s cheery voice from downstairs.

              “Coming!” Patton hollered instinctively. He pulled the door open and bounded down the stairs into the kitchen. A chorus of “good morning” greeted him as he began pulling ingredients out of the fridge for breakfast. “Morning, yall!”

              “Fed the animals this morning, I think one of our cows is pregnant,” Verge piped up from where he was shoveling spoonfuls of rainbow sugar cereal into his mouth.

              “Impossible, we don’t have any boy cows,” Roman said from the corner of the table where he was sleepily nursing a mug.

              “Oh, is that why there’s a mud trail from the front door to the kitchen?” Logan asked, topping off his and J’s coffees. “Maybe you should consider cleaning up your mess. And it is a possibility as we do have ‘boy cows,’ as Roman calls them. How else do you think we get milk?”

              “That doesn’t make any sense,” Roman scoffed. “Everyone knows you can’t milk a boy cow.”

              “This is literally too stupid for me to bother correcting,” J sneered without looking up from his newspaper.

              “Ugh, I don’t wanna clean, I got up at five in the morning on a Saturday to feed a bunch of livestock,” Verge groaned. Patton shook his head, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them into a golden froth as his buttered pans began to heat.

              “You ought to clean up your own messes,” J said disapprovingly.

              “Well, whose day is it to sweep and wash the floors?” Verge asked. Patton felt his stomach clench as he moved onto chopping bright orange carrots with frilly green tops, green bell peppers, and sweet purple onions.

              “It’s not fair to make someone clean up your mess when their chore is to clean communal messes that can’t be assigned to one person,” J said, lifting his coffee mug off of the table and looking down at it with confusion. “Who filled my coffee?”

              “You people sure make things complicated,” Remus interjected. “Just don’t clean anything! The sweet pigsty of anarchy for everyone! Now we just need pigs.”

              “Put pigs in the house and they won’t find your body,” Verge said, pointing at Remus with his spoon.

              “Ooh, promise?”

              “No one takes your suggestions seriously, Remus,” Roman muttered. “Just get Pat to clean it, if it’s so impossible to do it yourself, Verge.”

          “I’m not the only one capable of lifting a mop.” The words of Patton’s stepmother slipped out and his face immediately flamed hot, his throat drying up until it was unbearably scratchy.

          “I’ll do it, I’ll do it! I just don’t want to, so I’m gonna complain about it and threaten to push my responsibilities onto others, but I promise I won’t actually push them onto anyone,” Verge spluttered, gesturing wildly and already backing up toward the cleaning cupboard.

          “Need I remind everyone that, while Patton is incredibly talented and much appreciated in his work of the domestic variety, he is not a maid. Nor is he a private chef,” Logan said, voice highly disapproving. “Or any of your mothers.”

          “He makes you lunches for work,” Roman countered.

          “And he leaves notes in our lunches,” Remus said dreamily, a blissful expression on his face and his hands clasped together against one cheek. Patton snorted, ripping the stem off of a pepper.

          “And does your laundry,” J said with a raised brow, taking a slow and judgmental sip of his coffee.

          “He places my dirty laundry into the washer, I distribute my soaps and handle my own drying and folding,” Logan defended. “I don’t like touching dirty things.”

          “You literally spread the compost in the garden.”

          “I wear gloves!”

          “Maybe you should wear gloves when you do your laundry.”

          Logan blinked. “Don’t be ridiculous. My gloves are for gardening.”

          Patton felt an overwhelming bubble of affection well up tight in his chest and he couldn’t help but laugh with pure joy at his friend. He listened distractedly as he poured egg, sprinkled veggies, and flipped omelets.

          “Come get a plate!” he called over the ruckus, sliding plate after plate of omelets down the counter as hungry roommates lined up and claimed a plate.

          “Thanks, Pat, this is really fucking good,” Roman said around a mouthful of egg, already starting to feed himself before he made it back to his seat.

          “Yes, we appreciate you,” Logan said, cutting into his colorfully stuffed omelet with a fork and knife at the kitchen table like a reasonable person while Remus folded his omelet hamburger-style and tossed his head back to eat it.

          “Aw, thanks, guys,” Patton said, face heating as a warm pressure welled in his chest again. He turned off the stovetop and started tossing compostables like carrot tops into the nifty odor-controlled tin J had bought him.

          “Patton, are you well?” Longa asked, head snapping up. Patton startled at the sudden movement.

          “Um, yes? Hunky-dory, if I do say so myself!” Patton said with a laugh, immediately pouting when a handful of onion skins he was planning to save for bone broth fell onto the floor. “Aw, nuts.”

          “I’m glad to hear you are well,” Logan said slowly. “But I don’t understand why you aren’t eating, if you do, in fact, feel well.”

          Patton scooped up his dropped onion skins and tossed them into the compost bin. “Hm, I guess I’m just not hungry. I’ve got things to do, anyway.”

          “I would be more than happy to assist you in your tasks,” Logan said rolling his fork over and over in one hand, his left leg bouncing.

          “That’s really sweet of you, but I can take care of it myself,” Patton said with a smile.

          “I’m also able to take a chore or two,” J said, feeding a bite of his own omelet to the ever-hungry Remus sitting patiently at his side. “Remus has an open schedule, as well.”

          “Dibs on dusting! I like trying to catch the fly-aways,” Remus piped up, shimmying in his seat when he was awarded with another bite of egg. “I like the tickly feeling they give my throat.”

          “A scratchy or itchy throat brought on by the increased presence of airborne dust is often attributed to a dust allergy. Perhaps we should find another chore for you,” Logan said, brow furrowed in concern.

          “Oh, it’s not airborne if you’re swallowing it.”

          “If you’re what?”

          “I can also help!” Roman said, leaping from his chair with his hand raised like he was desperate to be called on by a teacher. “I like washing the floors because I feel like Cinderella when she sings the nightingale song. I’ll get started after Verge is done cleaning up his own mess.”

          “What you said about my mess isn’t wrong, but I take issue with your tone,” Verge said, popping his head into the kitchen before disappearing into the foyer again.

          “Guys, you don’t have to—”

          “But we will,” Logan said softly, voice all cozy warm baritone as he appeared at Patton’s side and took his stack of dirty pans. “Sit down and let J make you an omelet.”

          Patton almost got lost in kind eyes, silver like early morning mist, and allowed himself to be directed to the kitchen table. Warm hands pushed him into the chair next to Remus, who immediately wrapped his arms around Patton’s waist like a seatbelt keeping him pinned to his seat. Patton just laughed, running his hands through Remus’s tangled hair and gently freeing any knots he came across. It was just so comfortable to hold someone.

          “Thanks,” he said softly to J, who pecked him on the cheek on his way to the stove, and Logan, who was pushing a fresh glass of orange juice toward Patton.

          “Don’t thank me,” J said lowly, back to Patton as he whisked eggs. And Logan just inclined his head with a satisfied look on his face.

Chapter Text

          Patton was changing the sheets on his bed, awkwardly stretching himself across the mattress to fight the lemon-patterned fitted sheet around the top right corner of the mattress when he heard it. It was a quiet flapping almost drowned out by the high-pitched, flatly droning buzz that could only be one thing: a bug.

          Patton immediately hit the deck. He landed on the wrinkled pile of cold sheets he’d just stripped from his bed, their puppies-in-teacups print doing nothing to soothe his tension. A scream caught in his throat, and the desperate desire to be anywhere but here began to warp the safe space of his room into something dangerous, a place no one should be in, a room that trapped and squeezed and suffocated—

          It felt like he was stuck in a nightmare where no matter how much he tried to shout and yell and scream, only a quiet wheeze of air or a near silent whimper came from his dry and burning throat. That only made him try harder. He clenched the sheets under him into a tight fist, briefly grateful for the coolness that met his sweating palms.

          As his voice continued to fail him, Patton’s scrambled mind forced him onto the next solution: run. He tried to force himself up onto his bare feet, or even onto his hands and knees so he could at least scuttle out of the room. He could get up. He could do this. And he was going to in just a few seconds. He was going to get up and run out of the room and get someone to help because it was just a bug and eventually he was gonna have to grow up and stop being—

          He couldn’t get up.

          Patton let out a high whimper, shoulders shaking. He was completely paralyzed. Paralyzed by a bug.

          “Hey Patty-Cake, did you fall?” the gravelly voice of Patton’s most unsettling roommate was suddenly the life preserver filling him with relief and a fragile sense of security.

          Patton heaved a sigh, dropping his face into one hand as his shoulders trembled and his other hand still gripped the sheets below him.

          “Are you okay?” Remus asked when Patton didn’t respond or turn around, sounding more curious than concerned.

          Patton desperately tried to force words out of his throat, but it was still fruitless. Useless.

          “Remus, what are you—Patton?”

          And there was Logan. As if Patton’s little episode needed more of an audience.

          “I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Remus said. The nonchalance in Remus’s tone eased a tight ache in Patton’s chest that he didn’t even realize had slowly been constricting his lungs and his ribs and his frantically pounding heart.

          Footsteps thumped toward him in two separate gaits: one steady and cautious, the other rhythmic like a sashay. A warm hand squeezed against his shoulder, and he felt two presences behind his back. But instead of feeling like safe little walls that he could melt into and allow to shield him, they were two strong blockades between him and his only exit.

          “What’s happening, Patton?” Logan asked in such a gentle voice that Patton couldn’t help the wave of hot and bitter shame that washed over him. But he couldn’t string their kindness along any longer. Patton raised a shaky arm and pointed toward the curtains, where he’d last heard the bug.

          “Bug,” he whispered, wincing when his voice cracked.

          His admission was met with silence, and he could practically hear the exchange of glances behind him. He felt like a troubled kid whose parents gave each other frustrated, knowing looks every time he did something stupid.

          “You are. . . upset because of a bug?” Logan asked cautiously. His confusion and obviously forced neutral tone made Patton feel oddly exposed. He pulled his knees to his chest, forehead dropping to rest against them.

          “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being scared of bugs!” Remus announced almost cheerfully. “They can crawl into your ears and lay eggs in them and when those eggs hatch, they can explode your eardrum and the babies can crawl into your brain and—”

          Patton let out a high-pitched screech in the back of his throat, jaw tightly clenched as his imagination spiraled. He clapped his hands over his ears.

          “I don’t think that’s helping, Remus,” Logan said quickly, his voice clipped. “Irrational fears are a natural part of—"

          “Well, calling his fear irrational will certainly help,” came Verge’s voice. Patton looked over his shoulder to see Verge slouching against the door frame with Roman standing close behind him.

          “Well, it is just a bug,” Roman said, doubling over with a grunt when Verge grimaced and subtly elbowed him in the gut.

          “Let’s not belittle anyone’s fears,” Logan said, tugging at the collar of his navy polo. When he gave Patton a gentle pat on the head, Patton felt like crying. “We can’t control the things we fear, or to what level we fear them, though it is possible through various therapies to alleviate or at least better cope with those fears. Therefore, it’s impractical to judge—"

          “Look, specs, I’m not judging anyone’s fears,” Roman snapped, brow furrowed. “I’m just saying, you know, it’s not even a rat.”

          “I thought we said we weren’t going to judge—"

          “Until you’ve woken up to rats crawling on you then—"

          “Just because you’ve dealt with something you perceive to be a worse experience than this doesn’t mean—"

          “Hey, Patty?”

          The closeness of the voice—right by his ear, warm breath against his neck—and its tenderness dragged Patton away from the embarrassment that ached in his chest and the crushing pressure around his skull as he tried to decipher too many squabbling voices.

          “Hm?” he hummed shakily, turning to find himself nose to nose with Remus. Wide and curious eyes stared him down with a radioactive kind of green and Remus shifted into a position that mimicked Patton’s self-hug.

          “I’m gonna get that bug for you.” He said it with the fierce determination of a man heading into war.

          Patton took a deep, shuddery breath and nodded tersely. There was no other option but to trust that kind of confidence.

          Remus booked their noses together and then leaped over the bed, shaking the curtains to find the bug. The moment it was disturbed, the bug shot up toward the ceiling, buzzing angrily. Patton yelped and leapt back, colliding with a pair of khaki clad legs. A solid, warm hand came to rest on the crown of his head, tethering him to a solid and unmoving force like an anchor.

          Patton watched the scene before him with the sense that he was floating just outside of it. Verge and Roman were arguing behind him, Logan was still acting as a shield by allowing Patton to cling to him, and Remus was gleefully chasing the bug and smacking at it with his bare hands, his excited wiggling making the bright green ruffles on his shorts shake.

          “Got it!” a triumphant Remus crowed, proudly displaying his palm from where he stood on Patton’s bed. Sitting in his hand were the smashed remains of whatever the hell kind of demon mutant creature had infested Patton’s room. Patton gagged when one of the bug’s crooked legs twitched.

          “Well, don’t show him!” Verge hissed, storming into the room and placing himself between Remus and Patton.

          “But it’s dead,” Roman reasoned, following anyways and planting himself at Verge’s side. “It can’t hurt him now."

          “That doesn’t keep it from being scary,” Verge snapped before turning to Remus. “Get rid of it.”

          Remus made an aborted gesture that Patton thought might have been an attempt to pretend to eat the bug, and he was grateful that Remus’s shaky impulse control managed to override that choice.

          Verge ushered Remus out of the room and their thumping footsteps grew fainter into silence as they stormed down the stairs and out the front door. Patton shakily raised his head to peek over his bed and out the window to see the two dancing around each other outside. Actually, it looked like Remus was chasing Verge with a maniacal grin on his face and the bug pinched between two fingers while Verge ran away with his arms pumping at his sides, glancing over his shoulder with an irritated look on his face.

          Evidence of the bug no longer being in his room tugged the energy out of Patton. He slumped in on himself as exhaustion turned his limbs heavy.

          “Patton, would you like to lay down?” Logan asked, reminding Patton of the presence of his roommates.

          “Ah,” Patton said, whirling to face Logan and Roman with a well-practiced grin stretching uncomfortably on his face. His jaw was hurting again. “Yes, sorry about that. And thank you for your help!”

          “Patton, what was that?” Roman asked, his normally boisterous voice brought down to a somber tone as he knelt next to Patton on the pile of sheets. He took one of Patton’s tightly clenched hands and pried white-knuckled fingers loose, lacing their fingers together and clasping his free hand over the back of Patton’s.

          “Oh, I just really don’t like bugs,” Patton said thickly, scratching at a phantom skitter on the back of his neck.

          “Patton, I think that’s—”

          Patton had never been more grateful for his chicken-shaped egg timer than when it hollered shrilly from his nightstand at that very moment.

          “The cookies are ready!” he exclaimed, surging to his feet and dislodging the hand on his head and the ones holding his own hand. The unintentional slide of fingers through his hair and over the back of his hand sent a cozy shiver up his spine, but he shook off the odd feeling and snatched the timer off the nightstand. “Thanks for your help, yall; I’ll let you know when the cookies are done cooling!”

          Patton scuttled out of the room, his thumb automatically rubbing over the jagged face of the chicken shaped timer where the beak had chipped off years ago. He slammed right into Verge as he turned the corner at the stairs and bounced back.

          “I’m so sorry, darlin’, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Patton said with a weak laugh, clutching the timer to his chest while Verge gave him a poorly concealed once-over.

          “It’s cool, Pat, sorry for getting in the way,” Verge said in his familiar low mumble, both hands instantly going into the front pocket of his nondescript black hoodie.

          “You could never be in my way,” Patton promised probably a bit too sincerely as he edged down the stairs sideways and bumped into something else. “Jesus!”

          “You mistake me for my son,” Remus said with a cackle, reaching up to throw an arm around Patton’s waist and bumping his hip against Patton’s. Unfortunately for Patton, because he was standing a few steps higher than Remus, the friendly hip-bump ended up colliding into the side of his knee.

          The sound Patton made could only be described as shrill, too quick to even be a cry, but the reaction from his roommates was instantaneous. Verge reared back, Remus leaned in, and Logan and Roman were at the top of the stairs in seconds. Even Janus poked his head just barely out of the living room to see what was happening, as if he thought Patton couldn’t see him.

          “What the hell?” Remus asked, face only inches from Patton’s.

          “Woah, hey there, friend,” Patton said with a nervous laugh as he backed up a step, only to find himself backing into Verge.

          “What’s happening?” Roman’s voice boomed behind him.

          “I, uh, cookies!” Patton stammered, smiling weakly. “The cookies are ready and I should go get them before they burn because then we couldn’t eat them! Uh, though I did put some in the oven fifteen minutes early so there’d be some burnt ones for you, Remus.”

          Remus didn’t rise to the distraction of burnt cookies like Patton had hoped. Instead, he squinted and continued to lean close into Patton’s face even as Patton hedged around Remus. Patton jogged down the rest of the stairs, skipped the last two, and scuttled into the kitchen. He forced his back to stay up straight and his face to remain blank because even if the French doors of the kitchen were closed, glass was notoriously easy to see through. That, and Remus was kneeling on the fifth or sixth step of the staircase, gripping two of the handrailing posts and peering between them at Patton, unblinking.

Chapter Text

         When Patton waltzed into the narrow bathroom upstairs, arms laden with sage green towels and rolls of toilet paper, he wasn’t expecting to find Remus in the bathtub.

         “Good Lord!” he squeaked, turning around as quickly as he could and losing the rolls of toilet paper. He scowled and watched them roll out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of unraveled tissue behind as he clutched tighter to the fluffy towels in his arms.

         “Nope, just me!” Remus crowed, cackling loudly.

         “Why is there mud in my white porcelain tub, young man?” Patton demanded turning to look over his shoulder but keeping his gaze on the green tile floor. The tub was filled to the rim with thick, dark mud and a shirtless Remus, wearing a blue plastic bonnet, was happily scrubbing his arms and chest with the stuff. A little yellow duck, sporting its own mini bonnet, sat stuck in the mud with him.

         “Because I don’t fit in the sink, silly,” Remus said. He grabbed Roman’s bamboo and wheat bristle back scrubber off a row of hooks along the wall above the bathtub that held assigned loofahs and washcloths. Before Patton could protest, the man began scrubbing his mud covered back with the poor thing.

         “When you’re done, this room better be absolutely spotless—and I mean spotless—or you’re sleeping in the barn, God help me,” Patton said to the cracked grout in the wall.

         “Roger that, daddy!”

         “Don’t call me—you know what? One thing at a time, Pat,” Patton said under his breath, walking backward through the bathroom and feeling his way toward the narrow wooden shelving over the toilet. He placed the towels into the empty slots of the shelves and scuttled out of the room. “And close the door if you’re not decent!”

         Patton pulled the bathroom door firmly shut behind him, not missing the “but I’m never decent!” that Remus shouted back. Taking a deep breath, Patton lowered his shoulders and smiled.

         “Okay. Mud baths in the bathtub aren’t a big deal. Everyone has their. . . quirks,” he told himself, chasing a roll of toilet paper down the stairs.

         “Incoming!” called a voice from down the hall leading to the backdoor. The sound of claws scrabbling on hardwood and something heavy bounding down the hall downstairs made Patton’s stomach churn and photos of his ancestors rattle on the wall.

         “Not on my hardwood floors!” Patton shouted, taking the last few steps by two in his rush to see what was happening and hopefully defend his home from any serious damage.

         That was when he saw the wet dog. A fluffy curly golden-brown blob was racing up and down the hall between Roman and Verge, who were both scrambling after it with open arms. That was until the dog saw Patton.

         There was something about Patton that animals couldn’t resist. Whether it be a dog or a deer, things just sort of flocked to him. And now was no different. Once its eyes had locked on Patton, the dog changed course and barreled toward him, wet tongue flopping and claws doing irreparable damage to the floor.

         “Daisy, no!” Roman cried after the dog.

         “Oh my!” Patton yelped, arms flinging outward instinctively to catch the fluffy little thing. Once in his arms, the dog wiggled with uncontrollable excitement and his long tail thumped frantically against the wall. Happy whines and puppy kisses had Patton giggling as he knelt so the dog wouldn’t get hurt if it managed to wiggle its way free.

         “Daisy, bad dog!” Roman said, racing down the hall toward Patton with Verge hot on his heels.

         “No harm done, kiddos,” Patton said, holding the dog on his hip and away from his face to stop the puppy kisses. “But, uh, who’s dog is this?”

         “We found him in the garden eating all our tomatoes,” Verge said with a shrug, taking Daisy from Patton and hugging the dog to his chest like it was a stuffed animal.

         “That explains the mess,” Patton said with a weak laugh, using the hem of his flamingo patterned shirt to wipe cold dog slobber from his face and arms.

         “We washed him in the ducks’ kiddie pool and Verge, here, got him all riled up and running around. He said exercise was the easiest way to get him dry,” Roman said with a raised brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

         “What? You’re the one who said that!” Verge protested, shifting Daisy to one arm so he could punch Roman in the shoulder.

         “It’s okay, yall, but maybe we should keep him outside while he dries?” Patton suggested, gesturing to the droplets of water that had spattered on the walls and floor when Daisy charged him. The water would dry, but the striped wallpaper would definitely crinkle and shrink in some spots from having been wet.

         “On it,” Roman said, scooping Daisy from Verge’s arm and jogging down the hall and out the back door.

         “Sorry for the mess, Pat,” Verge said, scuffing one foot against the ground and digging his hands into his sweatshirt pockets. “We didn’t mean to, you know, cause you a headache or anything.”

         “The water will dry and, well, the floors need to be redone anyways,” Patton said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. His head was already forming lists of materials he’d need to fix the scratches, estimates of how long repairs would take, and ruminations on how to determine the best time to fix the main floor of a building that housed six people and now maybe a dog.

         Verge didn’t look convinced, but he offered a crooked half-smile with wary eyes and a lazy salute before following Roman outside. Patton took a deep breath and lowered his shoulders again.

         “This is a good thing,” he whispered to himself with his eyes closed. “I wanted roommates. Friends are good. Evicting everyone would be rude.”

         “Alright there?” came a low, smooth voice to his right.

         Patton jumped and glanced toward the kitchen where J was leaning against the doorway with two glossy black mugs in hand that Patton didn’t recognize.

         “Just fine, sugar,” Patton said, matching the quiet tone. J looked at him over the rim of one of the mugs as he took a sip of what was most likely hot tea.

         “J, I’m serious,” Patton said with a laugh, hands on his hips. “Maybe a bit miffed over the floors and the bathtub. But it’s okay, nothing that can’t be undone.”

         “Hm. And aren’t you going to tell the boys you’re allergic to dogs?” A judgmentally quirked eyebrow taunted Patton’s manicured calm.

         “Never.”

         “Alright, don’t tell two people who would dive headfirst from the roof for you that their unexpected guest will cause you asthmatic exacerbation and maybe even a little pulmonary distress. Doesn’t sound very smart, but then again, what do I know?” J drawled, sauntering through the foyer and into the living room. Then he popped his head back into the hall. “By the way, if it wasn’t clear, I think you’re being stupid. No offense, or whatever.”

         Patton spluttered, taking full offense, and made to follow but froze in the doorway.

         J was sitting down next to Logan on the couch, sides pressed close, and curling his knees to his chest as Logan read aloud from a book on his lap. J closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the couch, holding the mugs on his knees. When Logan paused his reading, J handed him a mug without missing a beat. Patton couldn’t really process what he was watching.

         Logan hadn’t even wanted to shake hands when he and Patton first met. He had picked the bedroom farthest from Patton when he moved in and didn’t let Patton help him move his things upstairs. Patton even had a bathroom schedule gathering dust somewhere that had been implemented by Logan so they never ran into each other in the halls. And now he was . . . cuddling? Kind of? And Patton was standing in the doorway like a creeper in a wet shirt featuring bright pink flamingos that were not at all stealthy.

         “Patton?” J called from the living room. Patton jerked his head up to find J looking at him curiously and Logan looking just past him with a flat expression.

         “Uh, yes?”

         “Did you need something?” J sounded expectant, yet patient, and Logan turned his attention back to his book as if deciding that Patton didn’t need anything. And he was right, of course.

         “Oh, no. Not at all,” Patton said with a weak smile, running a hand through his messy curls and looking away, his gaze not quite landing anywhere.

         “Alright, well, we can move to my room or Logan’s if you wanted the living room,” J offered in what was probably meant to be a kind and subtle way of asking Patton to leave them alone.

         Taking the queue Patton quickly backpedaled out of the living room, babbling excuses and apologies that he didn’t even hear with his hands raised as if in surrender. He practically ran up the stairs, just in case anyone else had witnessed that incredibly embarrassing moment of being caught people-watching his own roommates. Yikes.

         The bathroom door at the top of the stairs was closed, but Patton could hear Remus singing a much dirtier version of Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” with creative new lyrics he must’ve written himself. Patton nearly tripped over a stray roll of toilet paper he’d forgotten dropping just moments before, and left it abandoned as he slipped into his room. He closed the door behind himself and leaned back against the door, shaking his head at himself for being so knotted up inside about two of his friends getting along better together than they did with him.

         Even if no one else knew what he was thinking, his own immaturity was absolutely embarrassing. Most people stopped throwing fits over friendship dynamics in middle school, but Patton was equal parts disappointed and unsurprised to find himself defying that statistic.

         Opening his eyes, Patton found himself looking through his window at Verge laughing while Daisy and Roman wrestled in the yard. When Verge stumbled, weak from mirth, and landed on his bottom, Roman was quick to switch from play to protect. He jogged over to Verge and, while Patton couldn’t read his lips from this distance, it was clear that he was trying to get a still laughing Verge to say whether or not he was hurt. When he was ignored, Roman pushed Verge onto his back and Daisy pounced on the vulnerable man’s stomach.

         Patton wrapped his arms around himself as he watched two people who seemed to hate each other a few weeks ago roughhousing in the yard like childhood friends, listened to the joyful singing from the bathroom, and imagined the pair snuggled next to each other with tea and a book downstairs. Something in his stomach hurt.

Chapter Text

          Patton hummed the happy little working song from Disney’s “Snow White” as he swung the rickety old broom back and forth across the upstairs hallway. The scratchy sound of the dry broom fibers against the crooked wooden floorboards was rhythmic and he used it to maintain the jaunty energy of the song until he heard a pained grunt coming from behind a closed bedroom door.

          Immediately perking up at the sound, Patton studied the door long enough to realize it was J’s. It was the only one that wasn’t marked by its resident. Even Verge, who was careful to avoid leaving any trace of himself around the house, had wrapped his bedroom door top to bottom with band posters he’d recruited Roman’s help in finding (and making by hand, when personal finances got in the way).

          After a few minutes of warring over whether to potentially disturb J and be on the receiving end of his wrath or abandoning an injured friend to their own devices, Patton knocked softly on the door. He held his breath, almost hoping he hadn’t been heard. But the sudden silence from within the room and the subsequent shuffling told him he’d been noticed. Floorboards creaked from within the room and the door squeaked open.

          “Yes?” J said so low it was almost a whisper. He had cracked the door open, one bloodshot eye underlined with gray bags appearing in the doorjamb.

          “Uh, hi. Are you okay?” Patton asked, wincing at how high his voice was. He clutched the broom to his chest with both hands, gnawing on his lip as he waited for an answer.

          “Fine. Did you need something?”

          Straight and to the point as usual, but with an added sharpness. Not a good sign.

          “I, um, sorry. It sounded like you were kinda in pain? Maybe?” Patton’s face heated. Finding the right words for J was nearly the most difficult thing in the world.

          “You were mistaken. But I appreciate the concern. Please excuse me,” J said, moving to push the door closed. Patton, raised with invasive brutes who respected privacy even less than rules, stuck his foot in the door before it could close. The look on J’s face was clearly demanding an explanation.

          “Gosh, sorry. That was rude. But there’s definitely something wrong. I think.”

          J continued to give him a less than impressed look.

          “I can get Logan if you’d rather not talk about it with me,” Patton offered with a shrug that he hoped came off as casual and not deeply irreparably emotionally crushed. J looked like he was about to say something mean but cut himself off with a wince. “That was a wince.”

          “No, it wasn’t.” The weird thing about J was that he didn’t have any tells when he was lying. Which Patton was pretty sure meant that J either lied all the time or was some level of sociopath.

          Patton stared J in the eye, unflinching despite his racing heart.

          “Fine, it was. But I’m handling it.”

          “Are you?” Patton asked, not missing how J immediately stiffened and sent a nearly desperate glance somewhere off into his room. “If you really are, I’ll leave you alone. But. . . But, honestly, I’m worried you’re not okay.”

          “I know how to take care of myself.”

          “Never said you didn’t. But sometimes it’s easier if someone gives you a hand.”

          Patton hadn’t had such an intense stare down since he and Jasper called dibs at the same time on the last Pillsbury crescent roll at Thanksgiving.

          “If—and I mean if—I allow you to help, you must be sworn to secrecy.”

          “I swear to tell nothing to no one,” Patton said with a lazy solute, giddy with the trust he was about to be given.

          “Please take this seriously.”

          “I swear I will not reveal your super secret secrets.”

          “Better,” J said with his trademark smirk as he stepped to the side and pulled his door further open. Patton slipped into the room, distantly aware of J closing the door quietly behind him as he took in the room.

          He knew J had salvaged his own furniture and worked with Verge to refurbish it, but he didn’t realize they’d gotten it to such a handsome mahogany stain. The four-poster bed had thick cream bedcurtains pinned back to reveal his perfectly set bed full of little mismatched pillows, and each wall was lined with bookcases crammed with novels. The vanity had an oval mirror dotted with little photographs and notes, and a fancy glass decanter of amber liquid and an empty glass sat on an end table beside a plush armchair.

          “This is . . . This is embarrassing, but I need help reaching my back,” J said, eyes flitting around the room and his gloved hand plucking at a stray thread on the floral armchair. “My range of mobility has been substantially . . . restricted.”

          Patton snapped to attention and looked over his shoulder, finally noticing a bottle of cream with a prescription label sitting open on the vanity amongst tins of makeup and little glass bottles of colored liquid.

          “I can definitely help with that,” Patton said solemnly, carefully lifting the tube of skin cream off of the vanity and sitting on the edge of the armchair.

          J sighed, shifting his silky champagne robe off of his shoulders and revealing dry, scaly skin that was reddened and inflamed. There were a few scabs, which was the most worrying part.

          “Is it—”

          “It’s not contagious,” J bit out, shoulders so tense he was trembling just a little. “You can’t catch it.”

          “Honey, I was gonna ask if it’s painful,” Patton said softly. “Also, should I pat the cream on or rub it in? Oh, and do I use gloves or wash my hands?”

          “I—there’s sanitizer in the pink bottle on the vanity. The wounds are closed, so the sanitizer won’t hurt me, but let your hands dry after applying it. I find that gloves make it harder to apply the cream, and you can rub it in but . . . But be careful. Please.”

          “So, it does hurt?” Patton asked softly, carefully applying sanitizer to his hands, making sure he got between his fingers and down his wrists. Then he shook his hands as hard as he could to speed up the air-drying process.

          “It’s uncomfortable,” J admitted through clenched teeth as he knelt by the armchair, head bowed as if he was awaiting a prison sentence from a judge.

          Patton sighed, squeezing some of the cool cream onto his hands. It smelled herbal and soothing. He definitely couldn’t read whatever the label said, but he could make out the “use as needed” instructions and, while he wasn’t a doctor, he could tell that it was long past needed.

          “I’m not going to ask,” Patton said, barely touching the rough skin before him as he rubbed the cream in. J still startled at the contact and shivered. “I have a skin thing, too. So, I get it. Questions and staring and all that. I’m not gonna do that.”

          J was quiet and Patton wondered for a brief and highly panicked moment if he’d overstepped.

          “For a bumpkin, you’re very perceptive.”

          “Aw, thanks!” Patton said with a laugh, watching J’s dry skin soak up the medicated lotion like it was thirsty. It was comforting to see the flakey, scraggly white cracks in J’s skin disappear into shades that closer matched his healthy skin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

          “Thank you. For doing this.” The words were spoken low and soft.

          “It’s no big deal. Like I said—”

          “You need to learn to accept gratitude.”

          “What?” Patton asked, hands freezing where his fingertips had been smoothing the skin cream across J’s shoulder blades.

          “When someone thanks you, they’re usually trying to communicate appreciation for something you’ve done for them. You need to learn to accept that.”

          “Oh,” Patton said, resuming and distantly wondering if the warmth generated by his hands would hurt J’s inflamed wounds. “I do that.”

          “No, you don’t,” J scoffed, looking over his shoulder at Patton with one visible honey-gold eye. “You push away thanks and tell people that their gratitude is unwanted.”

          “I don’t do that!”

          “You just did.”

          “I wasn’t—” Patton sighed sharply, pouring more of the lotion onto his hands and setting the tube back on the carved end table. “I wasn’t doing that, I was just saying that you didn’t have to thank me.”

          “Which is to say you didn’t want me to thank you. Which is to say you didn’t want my gratitude.”

          Patton dropped his head back, staring up at the ceiling in a moment of weakness before refocusing on his task.

          “Okay, J,” he said as sincerely as he could manage. Apparently, it wasn’t convincing.

          “Don’t condescend to me, Patton,” J snapped, standing the moment Patton’s hands reached the last of the patchy skin on his lower back. He whipped his shimmery robe back on, tying the waist belt with more force than necessary. “Just tell me when you don’t want my advice, don’t pretend to take it when you’re just going to throw it out.”

          “I wasn’t trying to—ugh.” Patton dropped his face in his hands, forgetting the lotion that was coating them. “Ouch!”

          “Tell me you didn’t get it in your eyes,” J pleaded with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

          “Sorry,” Patton mumbled, pulling his hands from his face and blinking rapidly to flush his eyes.

          “It won’t hurt you, it’s just uncomfortable. You may leave.”

          “Ugh,” Patton said again, wiping his lotion-free forearms across his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to say I didn’t want your gratitude. I never mean to say that to anyone. I’ve just never really done anything worth being thanked for, so it’s weird when people thank me for stuff.”

          “This might just be a personal philosophy,” J said, sauntering over to his bed and collapsing gracefully onto his side. “But I believe the person receiving the favor or what-have-you is the one who determines whether the giver deserves thanks.”

          “J, I’m sorry, I’d love to debate gratitude and who does or doesn’t have a say in being thanked but I think my eyeballs are burning.”

          “That would be the medicinal aloe,” J said helpfully, lazily swinging the fringed end of his robe belt.

          “Great, great, I’m gonna go wash the insides of my eyelids, bye,” Patton mumbled, stumbling toward the door, his spotted sock snagging on a rough floorboard as he went.

          “You’re spending too much time with Remus,” J observed.

          “Now that he’s not being as creepy anymore, yes.”

          “Creepy?”

          “I guess ‘grabby’ is a better word? ‘Explicit’ is another good one.”

          “He does have a very. . . particular sense of humor. Do tell him if he upsets you. He will stop.”

          “Sure, sure. Ow, golly!” Patton yelped as he stubbed his toe on the foot of some kind of storage chest with a record player sitting on it. He pulled open the door, letting the bright light of the hallway filter into the dimly candle-lit bedroom.

          “Thank you for your help, Patton.”

          When Patton looked back, J was staring at him expectantly from where he lounged on the bed.

          “You’re welcome? Thanks for letting me help, J.”

          “You’re welcome, Patton,” J said with a satisfied, smug look on his face. He turned as if to blow out the candelabra on his nightstand, but paused and looked back at Patton. “And my name is Janus. But I’d appreciate it if you kept that between us.” Then J blew out the candle and rolled onto his side, pulling one of his bed curtains closed.

          Not trusting his voice or his brain to communicate anything remotely resembling a human language, Patton exited the room and slowly pushed the door closed behind himself to make it as quiet as possible.

Chapter Text

              When the bulb in Patton’s blue mosaic Tiffany lamp flickered out, his bedroom felt eerily still and silent. Before his eyes could adjust to the pitch black of an old farmhouse at night, a sharp crack—like the earth’s very core splitting—ripped through the air, followed closely by a booming growl that shook the building’s foundation. Patton gripped the metal railing of his trembling bed and waited for that stifling quiet to return before leaping off the mattress.

              He stuffed his feet into his slippers and slid his spare flashlight into the pocket of his peachy orange pajama pants, grabbing the battery powered lantern from under his bed. Then he flung open his door and wanted to cry.

              “A leak?” he complained, staring up at a thin stream of water dribbling through a hairline crack in the ceiling.

              “Two leaks.”

              Patton glanced down the hall to where Janus, dressed in a slinky black bathrobe, was pointing up at a damp patch in the ceiling near the bathroom. It was a good foot in diameter and practically screamed “mildew.”

Being a homeowner was a lot less fun than people made it sound on TV.

              “You grab the candles, I’ll grab the towels,” Patton said, tossing Janus the spare flashlight.

              “Sure, but someone’s going to have to get Remus,” Janus said with a knowing grin, tapping his flashlight on the side of Patton’s rusty green lantern.

              “What do you mean get Remus?” Patton called down the hall while Janus disappeared around the corner with a salute. Patton groaned, jetting into the bathroom and stacking his arms high with mismatched towels until he couldn’t see over them. Then he grabbed the tub of first-aid supplies, dumped it, and tripped his way through boxes of bandaids and tubes of Neosporin. He was halfway down the hall, making a beeline for that nasty leak, when he realized why someone needed to get Remus.

              “Oh God!” A quick glance down the stairs and Patton caught a look out the big windows around the front door. Remus was standing in the center of their recently shorn wheat field, arms raised and hair and clothes whipping in the wind. Patton ran the rest of the way down the hall, plopped the tub under the leak, and took the stairs two at a time. He bypassed Verge and L in the living room, and threw open the door.

              That was when he realized how hard it was raining. It slammed down from the sky hard enough to peel paint off the house, beating off the porch. The rocking chairs had turned over and one of the little potted saplings on the porch steps had tipped onto its side. Thank God they’d locked up the barn earlier, Patton definitely didn’t want to fight through this storm to secure that big heavy barn door.

              “Hey, Lord of Thunder!” he shouted, gripping the rain-slick doorframe. Remus whirled around, spotting Patton in an instant and grinning like a fool. His cheery wave to Patton was full body effort, like a golden retriever wagging his tail so hard that his whole body wiggled. “Instead of summoning the storm, get in here and summon us some dry floors!”

              Remus lopped back toward the house and stopped inches from Patton, water dipping steadily off of his sopping wet clothes. His hair stuck to his face and his cheeks and nose were bright red.

              “Aw come on, Pat,” Remus said, leering. “Everyone knows that wetter is better.”

              “Not on hundred-year-old hardwood,” Patton argued. “Pants and shirt off before you come in.”

              “You don’t have to—”

              “Keep it to yourself,” Patton said, scrubbing Remus’s hair with a burgundy towel. As he always did, Remus leaned into the touch, crouching so Patton could reach all of his hair. Once Remus’s hair was as dry as it could get without a blow dryer, Patton lowered the towel and used the thumb of his free hand to swipe a drop of warm water off of Remus’s chilled cheek. “You okay, sugar?”

              “Always,” Remus said with a devilish grin, dropping a quick kiss on Patton’s nose before ducking into the house and leaving his clothes in a pile on the porch. Patton squeaked in surprise before clasping his hands over his nose.

              “Wh—Remus, you left your—and he’s gone,” Patton muttered to himself, smiling as he knelt and gathered black fleece pants dotted with bright green octopuses and a bright red t-shirt depicting characters from Disney’s Beauty & the Beast.

              Patton locked the door behind himself as if that would stop the rain from getting in, and scuttled to the laundry room with the dripping clothes. He wrung them out carefully in the big sink in the laundry room and draped them over the edge of the basin, straightening pant legs and shirt sleeves so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

              When he got back to the living room, Janus was handing out mason jar candles made of little flowers and fruit rinds as Logan followed closely behind with a lighter.

              “God, I hope this isn’t a hurricane,” Patton muttered, dropping to the ground and scrubbing at a puddle Remus left behind.

              “If it’s a hurricane, I’m killing your God,” Janus said in an overly bright voice, gently tugging on a purple lock of Verge’s sporadically dyed hair. “Breathe, darling, blue looks good on you but not in the face."

              "I'm breathing," Verge snapped, gulping in a breath like he’d forgotten how. He cupped both of his hands around a candle that let off a flickering golden glow, casting eerie shadows over his sour face. “The hell do we even do in a hurricane?”

              “According to the American Red Cross, one should seek shelter in an interior, windowless room on the lowest floor that’s not likely to flood,” Logan said. “We should also locate our three-day and four-week preparedness kits, which I had taken the liberty of building myself at the start of storm season. They’re in the closet under the stairs, which is also our safest room for surviving a hurricane or a tornado.”

              The room was quiet for a moment.

              “Everyone in the closet,” Patton said springing to his feet and pointing to the closet.

              “This is very unlikely to be a hurricane,” Logan pointed out. Patton eyed him closely before sinking back to the floor to resume his drying.

              “We have to go back into the closet?” Remus called from upstairs where he was leaning against his forearms on the railing. He was in gray sweats that Patton recognized from his own closet. “I just got comfie being on the outside, but if you insist. . .”

              “No one’s getting in the closet—darling, please stop cleaning. Can’t it wait?” Janus asked, tugging the towel from Patton’s stubborn grasp. Patton was hauled upward from behind, and only barely avoided flinching, recognizing the smell of rosewater and sandalwood.

              “He’s right, Pat,” Roman said from behind him. “We’re in the middle of Tropical Storm Whatever. Why don’t we figure out how to make tea without electricity and hang out in the living room?”

              “Oh, yeah,” Patton said distractedly as he was herded into the living room. “There’s a camp stove under the stairs. Spare batteries too!”

              “Why do you have so much camping stuff?” Verge asked. He’d appeared out of nowhere by the closet and was pulling out the clunky metal stove and a pack of batteries, kicking the closet door closed. “No offense, but you don’t really strike as the outdoorsy type.”

              “Oh, we need the kettle, too,” Patton said, slipping between Roman’s arms and into the kitchen. “And mugs. And honey. I’m thinking lavender or chamomile, something soothing.”

              “I don’t believe that camping stoves are safe for indoor use,” Logan said slowly.

              “What? That’s crazy. How could a little stove hurt us? We use the big one all the time,” Roman scoffed, pointing toward the kitchen.

              “Indoor stoves are built to be safe for the indoors, outdoor stoves are not. The accumulation of carbon monoxide from camping stoves used in enclosed spaces can result in carbon monoxide poisoning and even death.”

              “Ah. I see.”

              “This one’s safe for indoor use, that’s why we have it,” Patton called over his shoulder as he pulled open the door of the tea cabinet. He was nearly bowled over by the burst of flowery and herbal aromas emitting from the cabinet. Countless little tin containers with handwritten labels were stacked high inside, and it took a few seconds to spot the one that was full of purplish-gray teabags. Popping the lid of the lavender tea tin, Patton felt tension around his eyes ease just by breathing in the soothing scent.

              “Who has an indoor/outdoor camping stove?” Patton heard someone ask from the living room as he filled his dented tea kettle at the sink.

              “People who go outside, V,” Roman said with a snicker as he knelt on the ground in front of the sofa and started fiddling with the stove while Logan and Verge flipped through manuals.

              “It’s specifically safe for indoor use. Not just outdoor,” Verge grumbled under his breath, swatting Roman on the head with his manual. Before the teasing devolved into fisticuffs, Patton wedged his way between the pair and plopped the kettle and tea bags onto the coffee table.

              “Okay, boys,” Patton said slowly. He pressed a few buttons and turned a few dials on the stove to get it to the right settings and sat the kettle on top, making sure nothing flammable or likely to melt was nearby. “It might be a while before the power comes back on, so let’s just try to get along in the meantime and get through this in one piece, okay?”

              “What are we even supposed to do?” Verge asked, folding his manual into an airplane.

              “I can suggest a few books,” Logan said, holding up a battered copy of Agatha Christie. “I think murder mysteries might be of interest to you.”

              “No offense, Lo, but reading’s not my thing. I prefer listening to music while contemplating my mistakes and regrets.”

              “Sounds maudlin.”

              “I don’t know what that means.”

              “If it’s emo music you’re looking for, then I’ve got just the thing!” Roman sprang up and leaped over the back of the couch. He slid onto the piano bench like the true performer he was and cracked his knuckles. “Funeral dirge, anyone?”

              The music that spilled forth from the old baby grand in the living room was hauntingly beautiful and deeply melancholic. It started hushed and rhythmic, a somber march building into what could only be described as overpowering grief touched with desperation and resolving into almost a lullaby.

              “This is my fucking jam, what is this? Beethoven or some shit?” Verge asked, lying on his stomach and army crawling toward the piano. He rolled onto his back under the instrument, looking up at its underbelly.

              “Chopin, you plebian.”

              Janus snorted as he breezed into the living room with mugs and spoons, Remus following closely behind with honey, a little bowl of sugar, and a pitcher of milk.

              “I’m not surprised he doesn’t know it. There’s a stark lack of obscene lyrics,” Janus said with a smile as he helped prepare mugs of tea.

              Another clap of thunder roared through the air and Verge sat up so suddenly that he banged his head on the underside of the piano. Patton was on his feet and moving before he even realized.

              “You okay?” he asked lowly, reaching out to feel Verge’s head for a bump. He slid his fingers through soft, inky black hair streaked artfully with purple and carefully untangled a few knots he came across.

              “Fine. Sorry.” Verge crossed his arms and looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I just don’t like thunderstorms.”

              “A phobia of thunderstorms is called ‘astraphobia.’ Approximately one in ten people of all ages suffer from astraphobia,” Logan said without looking up from his novel.

              “Oh great, so there’s more people as pathetic as me. Cool,” Verge huffed.

              “Bravery isn’t described as a lack of fear, V,” Roman said, beginning to play the piano again after the thunder died down. “It’s persisting through fear. Everyone knows that.”

              “Thanks, Pinterest,” Verge said with a little smile. Roman squawked wordlessly and kicked at Verge under the piano. Verge caught his foot like a viper snatching prey and laughed as Roman cursed, forced to use his other foot to operate the pedals on the piano.

              “You messed me up!”

              “You know we’ll still clap for you when you’re done, I didn’t even hear a mistake.”

              Patton joined Verge in lying back under the piano, listening to him and Roman bickering and Janus instructing Logan and Remus in making tea. For the first time in his life, thunder made him think of laughter and tea and piano music instead of heavy footsteps.