Work Text:
Oh, dear, I don't wanna be a burden
But could you please be a little more concerned with
The overactive mind of a believer
The toxic thoughts of an overachiever
i.
Logan's not even sure what starts him off this time. Something- there's something about the interplay between Roman and Dec- Janus and Thomas- and it just makes him feel like he's about to burst free of his skin suit. Everything is suddenly too much, and he can't take it. He can't take another day of being ignored, of being pushed aside, because Thomas refused to listen to reason. And he understands, or at least, he tries to, he tries to remember that Thomas is a much more fanciful person than Logan can even comprehend, that creativity and fantasy and the lofty ideals of 'self care' are important to him.
But self care is also doing things like a load of laundry. Or the dishes. Or vacuuming. It's eating a vegetable and a fruit or two. It's drinking water, even if you need to add a dash of flavoring in some way. It's going to bed at a reasonable time.
He would have thought De- Janus would have been on his side about this, but for some reason, the idea of Thomas going to a late night movie with Nico when he has done nothing all weekend has turned Janus's brain off, and he thinks it would be "good for Thomas's mental health."
And if someone could actually explain how that were possible, he would back down. He would understand. But he needs...something. Something more. Something than "why don't you ever think of Thomas, Logan" as if Logan can do anything else.
It doesn't help that Roman and Dece- Janus argue all the time, even when they agree, so Logan also has a pounding headache developing. He does not want to be here anymore. He does not want to stand here, trying not to clutch at his tie or his pockets too tightly, while he feels like his skin is buzzing and wants to be removed post haste, and like everything is too loud. He knows that it is objectively not loud enough to damage his eardrums. But it feels like it must be, and he doesn't like that. It makes him unsettled. Wrong.
Logan doesn't want to be wrong.
"Thomas, do what you like," he blurts out, the others' words coming to a jangling halt as everyone stops to peer at him, looks of confusion and/or annoyance stamped on everyone's faces. "I require- ehm- goodbye."
And with that, cheeks burning in shame, Logan sinks out, collapsing into a puddle on the neat blue covers of his bed.
That could have gone so much better, he berates himself. The sting of tears in the corners of his eyes is unacceptable. Disgusting. He's better than this. This is not logical. There is nothing to cry over!
But he can't seem to stem the steady, slow drip of tears down his cheeks, not even when he hugs a pillow to his chest, or tugs the covers loosely over his hips. It feels better (his skin is no longer vibrating, his ears are no longer overwhelmed), but he's still...wrong.
Logic is wrong.
He doesn't know how to fix it. This has- it's been coming up for a while, over and over, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's afraid he can't fix it. There's no way to fix it. And one day, Logan will just shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to glue himself back together.
Footsteps, in the hallway. Logan freezes. He can't bear it right now if someone opens the door. There's a light tap, a pause, and then another light tap. Virgil. It's Virgil outside Logan's door. Virgil was up there with him, but seemed even more anxious than Logan at the proposal on the table.
"Logan?" comes Virgil's voice, soft and hesitant. "Are you in there? Are you alright?"
This is a familiar dance. Logan stifles a sigh in his pillow.
"I'm fine," he calls back. He ruthlessly shoves down the desire that follows, the one that pleads silently for Virgil to not believe him, to open the door anyway, to hug him or maybe just sit quietly with him, to listen to him, to watch documentaries with him (he always enjoys Virgil's colorfully scathing commentary). To just be there, be a comforting presence, reassure him that he's not wrong for being frustrated, he's not wrong for feeling ignored...
But, as it usually goes-
"Okay, if you're sure," Virgil calls dutifully back. Logan listens to his footsteps retreat down the hallway. He sighs, pretending the ache in his throat is from earlier. Maybe it is. Maybe he just didn't notice until now. It is preposterous to think that Logic requires something as inane as a hug.
ii.
It's not even a video session with Thomas that upsets him this time. It is Remus, bursting dramatically into the kitchen and shoving past Logan, causing him to spill his coffee down his shirt. Thankfully, it is no longer piping hot, and he will not suffer any injury.
Unfortunately, it's still humiliating to be standing there, watching Remus try to wash his own backside through his pants with the kitchen sponge, as Roman tries to wrestle it away from him, and Patton and Janus exchange amused looks. He's certain at least one of those looks is directed at him. Because he must look absolutely ridiculous like this. How can anyone take him and what he has to say seriously, when he is damp and espresso-scented? His face flames.
He knows it was an accident and that logically, this should not affect anyone's opinion of him one bit. But this is the other sides he's talking about, and they operate on emotions all the time. Logan doesn't think he can bear it, if anyone laughs at him. He just can't. Call it a failure if you want, he certainly feels like one.
"Logan!" Patton exclaims, finally realizing what's happened. "Hey-"
Logan sinks out without a word, disappearing into his attached bathroom so that he can remove his coffee-drenched shirt and tie. It has even splattered over his pants, he realizes with dismay, shucking them off, too. It is uncomfortable, left in his underwear, but he will manage. He always does.
He has just finished dealing with his stained outfit and started to put on a clean one, when someone knocks on the door. It's a quick, enthusiastic rat-a-tat-tat, and he knows who it is even before they open their mouth.
"Oh, Logan, sweetie, are you okay? It wasn't hot, was it? Are you hurt? Should I come in?"
"I'm fine, Patton," Logan almost snaps back, as he adjusts his tie in the mirror. "It wasn't hot. I will be fine."
"Well..." Patton trails off. Longing suddenly swells in Logan, fierce and painful. He doesn't even know what he wants, not really, just not...this. He wants Patton to tell him that it's okay, to help him get a fresh cup of coffee, to provide that soft stream of chatter that Logan enjoys so much in the right headspace. To make jam thumbprint cookies with him later, perhaps, the ones with Crofters, where he's not laughed at or mocked for enjoying their jam. The room where 'infinitesimal' goes to die.
But the words die in his throat, unspoken, and Patton leaves. Logan lets his head fall against the wall, frustration building up in his head in a whole new way.
It's not fair. He can't articulate why, but it's just not.
Patton wouldn't do it anyway, probably. Logan is probably being ridiculous about a simple spill. It's fine.
iii.
It doesn't help the next day that Virgil gets a panic attack in the middle of the living room.
They're all piled in there, working on various activities. Logan is on his laptop, studiously attempting to rearrange Thomas's schedule to fit in all he needs to do (it's not going well), and Patton's curled up on the couch, scrolling through his phone and looking at cat and dog videos (the sound is on low, but Logan knows a meow when he hears it). Roman and Remus are bent over something in the corner, arguing in relatively quiet tones (for them, that is), and Janus is sipping a cup of tea, head slightly tilted and bobbing along to what appears to be music no one else can hear. He also keeps snickering into his glove when Remus makes a particularly scathing or witty reply.
And then there's Virgil. Virgil, slouched on the floor with his phone, but when Logan glances up for a moment, he notices that Virgil's hands are trembling, barely able to hold onto the device. The eye shadow under Virgil's eyes is darkening on its own, streaking down his cheeks.
"Virgil?" Logan speaks, concern spiking.
"I-" Virgil's phone drops, unheeded, to the carpet, as he wraps his arms around his bent knees, burying his face in them. He's still shaking, and Logan can hear a sob or two escape.
"Sweetheart," Patton exclaims, alarmed, as he hurries over. He doesn't touch Virgil, not yet, but he sits down near him. "Breathe, sweetie," Patton says, but Virgil seems too far gone to notice.
"Patton," Logan says. Patton looks up at him, wide-eyed behind his glasses. "Patton, tap the rhythm on his hand," Logan continues, demonstrating on his own wrist. "Four, seven, eight. There you go." Patton's shoulders straighten with determination as he begins firmly tapping it out, matching taps with his words.
When Logan looks back up, Janus is staring at him, a little pale around the mouth.
"Terrible suggestion indeed, Logan," De- Janus murmurs, but he can see the uncertainty in Janus's mismatched eyes, the way his gaze keeps tracking what's happening with the anxious side. Roman and Remus haven't noticed, but that might be because Remus has just poured an entire bucket of neon green slime over Roman's head.
"You scoundrel!" is all Logan hears Roman shout, before he turns his attention back to Virgil and Patton. Virgil's breathing has slowed down, though it is still a little shaky. He keeps apologizing for his tears in between breaths, and it hurts to hear that, just a little. Hurts to hear that Virgil still considers himself such a burden, for such things as crying. Of course Virgil can cry. He should cry. It only makes sense.
"Thanks, Pat," Virgil says, once he's finally calmed down and caught his breath. "I owe you one."
"Oh, of course you don't," Patton says, squeezing him against his own side. Virgil is pliant under Patton's grip. Clearly accepting of the moral side's hugs. Logan doesn't understand what that's like. He thinks he wants to.
"Logan reminded me to tap the breathing pattern, by the way!" Patton adds on. Virgil looks up, and Logan freezes, struck by the gratitude in Virgil's face.
"Thanks, Lo," Virgil says. His smile is soft. Logan's face goes red.
"Any time," he says stiffly.
iv.
Logan feels horrible.
He had been ignoring it all day, certain that he could persevere through the tasks required for this afternoon, but his migraine apparently had other plans, for it's knocked him flat. No pre-video meeting, no calendar adjustments, no going over anything, no editing.
No, it's time for Logan to lie in his dark room and try not to whimper too loudly in pain. Because that will only make it hurt more. Not to mention the nausea that surges up his throat every time he thinks of doing anything.
He's heard footsteps all day, people passing each other in the hallway, so he doesn't think of anything unusual with the next pair, until they tap on his door.
"Logan?" It's Patton again. "I haven't seen you all day...is everything okay? Are you in there?"
For a moment, Logan can't help but fantasize. Can't help but imagine Patton creaking open the door, hands already full of the perfect tray of migraine remedies. Patton would bustle around and fluff up his pillows and help him take some pain medicine. He would be quiet, calming, let Logan get some rest, while still being present. He wouldn't be alone anymore. Perhaps they could even nap together, could wrap themselves up in his comforter and cuddle until Patton is called away on other duties. Sleep always helps his migraines.
He wants to curl up and rest his head on Patton's shoulder and drift off to sleep. His eyes sting again as he realizes that he hasn't even answered the other side yet.
"I'm okay," Logan croaks back. "Just- bad headache. It will ease soon," he lies. He has no idea how long it will last. It could be hours, or days, or even weeks. He hopes it is not weeks. That would be near impossible, if he could not handle his duties anymore. What would Thomas think?
"Tell me if you need anything," Patton adds, and retreats back down the hall. Logan groans, wishing to be incinerated on the spot. Why is he being like this? He could have all of the comfort he desired if he could just make himself ask for it.
Maybe it isn't logical to have all of these feelings. Surely, logically, he can ignore the yearning for comfort, the desire for a soothing word. To be taken care of, the way he sees the others take care of each other. Maybe it's unreasonable to assume that anyone wants to hear how dismissal makes him feel.
But he is not just Logic. He is Logan.
And Logan wants a hug.
And maybe it is logical, instead, not to assume that the others will just know what he wants. Hasn't he demanded his boundaries be respected this whole time? Haven't they tried? Has he not seen the effort put forth to not just assume what he wants or needs, and instead rely on him to tell them?
Logan would have groaned if he wasn't in so much pain.
Is this all a problem of his own making?
v.
If it is, it's not as easy as just opening his mouth and asking for comfort. He discovers that quickly the next morning, when he comes down the stairs, still bleary-eyed and groggy from his migraine the previous day, to see Patton bustling around the kitchen, making breakfast. He's already started the coffee going, and the familiar smell makes Logan's eyes sting.
"Logan!" Patton exclaims when he spots him, setting the spatula down and coming forward, stopping just shy of him. It hits him that Patton has still made an effort to keep his voice quiet. "How's your head? Did the migraine go away?"
"It is adequate," Logan says, clearing his throat. "And it- it seems to have finished, yes." You could ask now, his heart suggests. He is not accustomed to trying to listen to it. Go on, ask for a hug.
Patton turns back to the eggs he is absolutely not burning (they're meant to look like that), and Logan clears his throat again. This cannot be that difficult. The others do it all the time. Virgil does it all the time, and he is the embodiment of anxiety.
"Patton, could I-" The words stick in his throat, clogging up his vocal cords. Patton looks back at him, inquisitive.
"Yes, Logan?"
"Get past you to the mugs," falls out of Logan's defeated mouth.
"Of course!" Patton chirps, squeezing himself closer to the stove. "There you go!" With nothing else to do but what he's said, Logan slips past Morality to snag a mug. His favorite is already washed and in the cupboard. The dark blue one with constellations.
"Thank you," Logan says. It is not just for the cleared path to the mugs.
As he sits at the table, watching Patton make breakfast (he would offer to help, but Patton has a system, apparently, and Logan isn't entirely sure what it is) and sipping his coffee, he ponders. All right. If simply blurting it out won't work, then what will? Does he need to practice in the mirror instead? He has achieved some success with practicing cue cards in the mirror before.
Is it too much to start with asking Patton? Perhaps he could ask someone else first? He has had several pleasant conversations with Virgil before. And Virgil doesn't feel the need to fill a room with noise, either. They have passed many days and evenings simply sitting quietly, doing their own things. Yet he knows that Virgil enjoys things like hugs, so he would not be demanding too much of someone touch averse, he thinks.
It is not much of a plan, especially not for him, but Logan isn't entirely sure what else to do. He could try to research it, how to communicate his wants and needs more effectively, but the simplest way to do that is to encourage Thomas to research those things, and while he would be delighted if Thomas did that, he thinks it would raise questions with the others.
Later, Logan finally determines, as the others fill the kitchen, noisy and jostling each other for space. Virgil slides into a chair next to him and gives him a tired nod. The shadows under his eyes are worse this morning, suggesting a sleepless night.
"Good morning," Logan tells him quietly. "You look like you could use some coffee."
"I'll get it in a sec," Virgil says, with a jaw-cracking yawn. "Migraine gone?" He adds, peering at Logan. Logan nods. Virgil smiles at him. "Wicked," he says, then faceplants into the table.
vi.
"I would appreciate it if we could exchange a hug," Logan carefully recites, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall. He looks like the robotic puppet he was turned into, he realizes with disgust.
"Could you hug me?" He tries again. "I would like one. If that is alright, of course. I would never want to pressure you or demand an expression of comfort if-"
No, that's terrible, too. He can practically see Patton's face scrunch up in confusion, or Roman laugh at him. The worst part is, he thinks Roman would still hug him. But how could he enjoy it then? After being mocked? Laughed at? It already feels sometimes like the others' continued dismissal of him and his purpose hurts far more than Remus's physical weaponry. Remus can chuck knives and explosives at Logan all he wants, they have no effect.
But words?
Logan swallows. His face is pale in the mirror. He has lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Faint shadows under his eyes. He looks tired. He grabs hold of his own elbows, shoulders slumping inward.
"Could I have a hug?" He asks his reflection. "I don't feel well."
He brightens. Could that- is that enough-
It has to be, right? It sounds similar enough to some of the things he has heard the others say. Roman is usually more melodramatic, at least if it comes to physical malady. Virgil usually just makes grabby hands at whoever's closest. He's not sure what Janus or Remus do. Remus has fallen on Roman's head from the ceiling before. Is that a call to physical comfort or physical violence? Or both? Patton's unbelievably cuddly, always wanting to hold hands or pat someone's back or brush their hair away from their face.
But that is not all Logan needs to practice.
"That...hurt my feelings," he tries to say, but the words are stiff, stilted. They don't come out properly. They hitch in his throat, make his chest ache. Like he's not allowed to say them. Like he's not allowed to have them.
Someone taps on his door.
"Video rehearsal!" Roman's exuberant tones carry through the wood. "Come on, Specs!"
"Coming," Logan calls back, striving to control his tone. He looks at his reflection and straightens his tie. He still looks tired, but that can't be helped. Hopefully the others will chalk it up to his migraine. Hopefully Thomas will chalk it up to that.
vii.
By thirty minutes in, Logan's head is pounding again. He feels physically ill. The arguments are the same he's always heard, and he's so tired of being ignored. Of being pushed aside. Like Thomas doesn't need his contributions. Like Thomas doesn't need logical thinking. He doesn't understand. They've been through all of this before. Do they not know that it's hurting him, or do they simply not care?
After a particularly scathing crack about his schedule writing skills from Creativity, Logan's simply had enough. He'd like to see Roman write them. Hasn't he been trying recently? To remember that Thomas needs space to create, as well? To let Roman have his moment, his "time in the spotlight," as it were? Has Logan not encouraged him to let his brother assist? To stop dismissing Remus's contributions as nothing but pointless, juvenile drivel? He doesn't see the point of creativity, not really, but he knows Thomas does. He wants what's best for Thomas.
Logan's tried so hard and it's all- it doesn't matter, it's pointless, and he-
He sinks out without a word. All of his practice attempts in front of the mirror mock him. As if anyone would hug him now. As if anyone would want to listen to his point of view now. He's behaving like a child throwing a temper tantrum, just leaving without even saying anything this time. Tears spill down reddened cheeks as he sits glumly on the edge of the bed.
And then Virgil knocks on the door.
"Lo?" He calls, and the sound is so gentle. "Are you okay? What happened?"
Logan opens his mouth, ready to say that he's fine, then pauses. Is this also not practice?
"No, I'm not," he says instead, forcing out the words. "I- I am tired of being mocked. I- I am frustrated, and I do not like it."
"Lo, can I come in?" Virgil asks. Logan nods, then remembers Virgil can't see him.
"Yes, you may," Logan says. Virgil gently turns the doorknob, opening the door and slipping inside. He closes the door behind him, something Logan appreciates. He doesn't want anybody to gawk at his possible emotional breakdown.
"Hey," Virgil says softly. "Can I sit next to you?" Now, Logan nods. Virgil sits down gingerly on the edge of his comforter and bumps his shoulder against Logan's.
"You know, I thought no one would ever listen to me if I wasn't an asshole," Virgil says, seemingly out of nowhere. "It's taken a really long time to figure out I don't have to do that. That maybe people will just...listen to me, if we can all actually, y'know, talk. Better said than done in this mind palace, I know, but yeah. You helped with that."
"I don't think I know how to do that," Logan says. His voice is hoarse. "I- I was practicing earlier." He reddens out to his ears at the admission.
"Yeah?" Virgil asks. He smiles at Logan. "What did you practice?"
"Can I have a hug?" Logan asks in a small voice. "I don't feel well."
"Of course you can," Virgil says, and wraps hoodie-clad arms around Logan. The position is slightly awkward, and Logan doesn't know what to do with himself, but it is warm and soft and he-
He really likes it.
"Do you think you'd like a movie night?" Virgil asks, not letting go. "We could watch one of your favorites."
"As long as Roman does not rig the vote in favor of Frozen again," Logan replies, his voice muffled. Virgil laughs. "I refuse to watch that movie again."
"Same, bestie," Virgil says. He shifts, and Logan is speaking before he realizes he is.
"Please don't let go yet."
"I won't," Virgil says, his voice soft. "I've got you, Logan."
"Thank you," Logan says. He is exhausted again. He knows this is only the beginning, that he will have to practice this like any other skill. He will have to work at it, because it does not come naturally. But maybe-
Maybe he can still succeed.