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Chapter Text

It was common knowledge that one’s writing wouldn’t appear on their soulmate until both persons were over age six. While many were lucky enough to greet their future partner at such a tender age, it was common enough for no marks to appear until age seven or eight. Logan’s best friend Patton got his marks right at six, but as he and his soulmate scrawled notes on their forearms it was revealed that Dee was two years older (and much more proficient at spelling). A good chunk of their elementary school classmates waited a year or two for their soulmate’s signs. One girl burst into tears when a wobbly heart appeared on the back of her hand at recess, relieved to discover at age nine that her life was not indeed without a partner. Logan had even been told he had a cousin who was ten when his soulmate’s drawings finally appeared, a full four years difference between the two future lovers. Surely any day now the lucky someone would come to the appointed age and send him a little note or doodle-- it couldn’t be long now. Kind assurances turned into worried, apologetic glances as Logan’s eleventh birthday passed without so much as a stray pen prick. Months later he overheard his parents whispering if their son might be an unfortunate Lonely Soul, a romantic term for one without a soulmate. By twelve his mother’s worrying had finally won out and Logan had monthly sessions with a therapist, ostensibly to help him cope with the teasing of his peers and his future alone. Unlike his parents and the myriad of concerned adults, Logan wasn’t particularly bothered by his situation. He told Dr. Picani at his very first session, “I figure if I don’t have anybody waiting to meet me I can go wherever I want, pursue my own goals. Even if I’m not someone’s soulmate, I am still myself.”

“What are some of these goals for yourself?” Dr. Picani asked.

Logan straightened his tie as he sat up. “I want to study astronomy, and travel to different observatories for work. My friends with soulmates are planning around meeting their person and settling down. It seems static compared to what I want for my future.”

“That’s an interesting way to look at it, Logan,” his therapist assured him. “You’re focusing on your needs and you’ve already discovered some positive up-sides headed your way.”

“So you can tell my parents I won’t need any more sessions?” Logan asked.

Picani smiled. “I know they seem a little over-protective right now, but they’re just trying to think ahead. Like Timmy Turner from the Fairly Odd Parents, you might find there are some consequences you haven’t thought about. Let’s say we give this a shot just through seventh grade? It’s a pretty big year after all!”

“It’s hardly advanced material,” Logan countered. “I read the textbooks over the summer.”

“Good for you, smarty pants!” the doctor offered him a candy. “If you can handle the transition to middle school you can handle anything, and having me around to validate that success for Mom and Dad will help them feel just as confident as you do. It couldn’t hurt to try just a few more appointments to ease their minds?”

Logan sighed, pushing the candy away. “I suppose. But I’m bringing my homework next time.”

And for three months Logan brought his notecards and math formulas, quickly assuring the doctor that he was just fine so they could transition from a therapy session to a study session. But Picani was crafty under all that cartoon foolishness and for all three he’d gotten Logan blathering about his feelings for the full time; Feelings about the bullying, feelings about watching Patton meet his soulmate in the cafeteria for the first time, feelings about being surrounded by young couples either holding hands in person or writing on them to close the distance however far it may be. Logan was really beginning to hate all these feelings.

It was thus that he met reflection with a feeling of confusion one Autumn morning when he woke to find marker all over his face. The dark green scribbles seemed to crudely resemble sea life with a large fish on one cheek and wobbly seaweed on his chin. An octopus graced his forehead and its tentacles swirled across his entire face. One even seemed to enter his nose. Logan blinked at the mirror for some time before he could even consider what to do. It was clear he was having some kind of mental break to leave himself in such a mess with no memory of having drawn it. In his haste to wash his face he almost missed the haphazard letters on his left hand.

Hi Sol Mate
Imm Remus

Logan was sure he had gone insane. Without ever taking his eyes off the note he stumbled back to his desk and grabbed a pen, uncapping it with his teeth with an undignified pop. He had definitely gone insane. He took a moment to slow his breathing before he carefully wrote his own message.

Hello Remus.
I am Logan.

This was madness, it had to be. Logan could almost see himself drawing away in the night- perhaps even in his sleep- and now he was standing there wasting his time waiting for a reply that would never-

Green lines started to appear on his hand, joining the little correspondence seemingly of their own accord. They were just as shaky and misshapen as their introduction, unmistakably the same youthful hand scrawling away in parts unknown.

You rite prity
Arre you a big kid?
Imm onnly 6 juss todah

Logan rushed to write out an answer before tears clouded his vision.

Happy Birthday, Remus.
I’m 12.

His mother, having come to the bedroom door asking why Logan wasn’t at breakfast yet, looked like she might cry too. And Logan was suddenly very thankful he had a session with Dr. Picani after school.

Chapter Text

The next few months were a blur of learning. Logan learned that the bullies who mocked him for not having a soulmate would still mock him for having a “baby” for a soulmate. He had already learned to ignore them, but it was disheartening to find out their taunts would evolve rather than desist. He also learned that while uncommon a six-year age difference was on the upper level of normal for Primary Attachments. In cases where one’s soulmate had died and the remaining partner was grieving in a healthy manner, it was possible to develop a Second Attachment and receive writing from a new soulmate. These relationships seemed more likely to include an age gap, and cases of more extreme variants. The highest reported age difference between soulmates was eleven years and eight months and was indeed a Second Attachment. Dr. Picani had seemed embarrassed to have so few resources regarding age differences in Primary Attachments, but Logan was fascinated reading all the statistics and information from the Second Attachment booklets just the same.

“I guess you could say there’s some personal bias showing,” Picani confessed. “Remy and I are each other’s Second Attachments after all.”

Logan skirted the more uncomfortable questions to ask, “Is there an age difference between you two?”

“Eight years,” the doctor nodded. “We didn’t connect until Remy was almost out of undergrad, but it still threw me for a loop to find out he was so young. The first writing that came from him was an entry stamp for a nightclub. It was a bit of a shock meeting someone so…” Picani struggled to find the words, an odd smile at his lips. “He’s like the Eugene Fitzherbert to my Rapunzel. I never even knew I’d built myself a tower until Remy made me want to climb down from it.”

It was beginning to dawn on Logan that his therapist’s animated behavior wasn’t a patronizing act, but a genuine and clear form of communication. Logan was learning to appreciate it. And he was also learning to appreciate Remus. The other boy loved to draw, littering their bodies with his murals of creation. Strange battles between French fries and broccoli florets, cats with spiked wings grooming their kittens, a tree chopping down a man, Inside Out’s Bing Bong kissing a stop sign with his trunk; each day Logan found new masterpieces forming on his arms and occasionally even his legs and stomach. Remus had promised not to draw on his face after he learned of Logan’s Picture Day fiasco, but Logan didn’t really mind. When the junior high yearbook came out that spring the entire school was in a collective riot to see Logan Berry, resident stick-in-the-mud, with two ninjas on his forehead and Bugs Bunny on his cheek. A perfectly cartoon-accurate Bugs Bunny, no less. Seeing the picture again Logan penned a delicate query on his left hand:

Remus, how did you do such a good job on that Bugs Bunny?

Green marker- Remus drew in every color, but Logan noticed that his soulmate always wrote in green- soon replied:

Roman and I hab Lunee Toons stickys on arrre mirrorr
I stood real still and I traced it from my reeflex reflectu

Logan chuckled lightly and wrote back:

From your reflection. Very clever, Remus.

A smiley face appeared first, followed by:

Thanks, Lolo!

Logan had never much cared for nicknames before, but he was learning to love them. He made a mental note to think of some for Remus as the green marker tapered up his forearm to ask:

What’s 7 – 4?

Logan drew seven quick tallies under the question, and then grabbed a purple marker and dashed four of them out. In his blue pen he asked:

How many are left?

It didn’t take long before Remus wrote back, sloppy and fast in his excitable way:

3!

It may have been a simple subtraction problem but to Logan his soulmate was an unequivocal genius. He proudly wrote back:

Good job, Remus.

If his foolish emotions were anything to go by Logan was also learning just how silly a person could become. “I just can’t wait to meet him one day,” he blurted out to Patton and Dee as the three of them admired Remus’s latest doodle across Logan’s arms.

“You do remember he’s six, right?” Dee asked, a curious tilt to his head. “Like, he probably still eats his boogers.”

Patton elbowed his soulmate in the ribs. “Dee that’s gross!”

“I’m just saying!” he held his hands up defensively. “What were you two like at six, huh? ‘Cause I was a little shit.”

“Language!” Patton admonished.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m well aware of the age gap. For sanitary reasons I hope you are wrong about the boogers, but I do acknowledge that Remus and I are at very different stages developmentally. There are many elements of a relationship which he is not yet prepared to discuss.”

Patton bit his lip. “Is it hard? Not getting to go on dates, or even watch the same movies?”

“You mean Poindexter here actually puts down his books long enough to--”

“Actually, Patton,” Logan replied, ignoring Dee, “I find this situation, while perhaps not ideal, to be a vast improvement. Need I remind you both that at the start of the year we all thought I was a Lonely Soul? I may not be able to share certain experiences with Remus right now, but knowing I have someone to share them with in the future is far more pleasant than believing I might never have those experiences at all.”

The other two boys were silent for a moment, which Logan rather expected. He did not expect Dee to be the one to speak first. “Sorry. I forget this is all new to you Logan. I was getting a little wierded out, to be honest. Watching you get all googly-eyed over a little kid.”

“I know Remus isn’t old enough to ‘get all googly-eyed’ yet,” Logan assured him. “Think of it like an egg in an incubator. One day when he’s ready to ‘hatch’ Remus and I can be ‘googly-eyed’ together.”

“Aw, remember when we had those cute little baby chicks hatch in class?” Patton interrupted, in his usual Patton way. He gasped and went on, “That was about second grade, right? Maybe Remus will get to watch baby chicks next year!”

Dee smiled thoughtfully, and if ever Logan wondered how such a pessimistic personality could be Patton’s soulmate those doubts would never overpower that smile. “You’re almost too damn sweet, you know that Patton-cake?”

“LANGUAGE!” Patton shrieked, but it was clear the bite of his scolding was gone even before he let himself start to giggle.

Logan looked back fondly at the scribbles on his arms. One day, when his little artist wasn’t quite so little, they would be just like that.

Chapter Text

Remus didn’t understand why all the grown-ups were so interested in his soulmate but he was happy to share. Even if they kept asking the same questions all year. “Lolo’s so cool!” was always his first assurance. “He knows all about the stars and he says he doesn’t draw but sometimes he’ll draw me little con- constellum- he’ll draw me little star maps and he says people back in the old days used to make up stories and pictures about them so I make up stories and pictures just for US and he says I’m clever which means smart but like in a fancy way and--”

“Virgil says I’m smart too!” Roman whined. Remus was starting to feel guilty for how often he stole his brother’s spotlight. “Doesn’t anybody want to hear about me and my soulmate?”

“Later sweetie, I promise,” Mommy cooed, only shifting her focus from one twin to the other long enough to placate Roman. She screwed up her face as she turned back to Remus. He didn’t know what she wanted to ask but he knew she’d been trying to find the words for a while now. Mommy had been screwing up her face like that for months. Remus thought he missed Mama most when he caught Mommy making a sad face like that. “Does Logan- does he ever ask you--”

“He asks me about my drawings all the time!” Remus nodded, bouncing a little. “Lolo says he reads more than he watches tv but he asks me about Dumpster Patrol and what other shows I like and he tells me what books he thinks I might like, too. And he asked me if I wore glasses, ‘cause he wears glasses and he said last time he got new ones they had bright green ones that reminded him of my markers! I told him about how Roman and I are i-tentacle and how you and Mama could tell us apart ‘cause you dressed him in red and me in green and Lolo said that was really smart- really CLEVER- of you, Mommy.”

His mother laughed at that, one of those soft chuckles she made when the landlord was happy or when Uncle Gray offered to babysit. Uncle Gray wasn’t really their uncle but he never let Mommy pay him for babysitting, not even in rides to the store like Lisa From Upstairs. Lisa wasn’t upstairs but instead on their couch, listening to Remus and squinting her eyes funny. “And you said he’s how old?” she asked again.

“Lolo’s twelve, but he turns thirteen on July ninth and that means I’ve got one whole month left to draw him the most stupendous birthday picture ever, me and Roman are practicing--”

“Remus,” Uncle Gray called from his spot in the easy chair. Remus never liked the way his name sounded when Uncle Gray said it, but he liked it better than Uncle Gray’s nicknames. “Logan’s a lot older than you.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t nod or bounce or let himself get excited this time.

Uncle Gray gave a cautious glance over to Mommy before he went on, “Older kids like different things than little kids do.”

“Yeah.”

“Does Logan ever ask you to keep big-kid secrets? Does he ever tell you things you don’t understand?”

Remus wanted to ask, “You mean like my new bedtime?”, but that was cheeky and cheeky made Uncle Gray mad. Instead he shook his head. “No. Logan says I can show Mommy anything he writes. He said a doctor told him it was a good idea, to is-stab-lish trust. And if he writes a big word I circle it and he helps me understand.”

“A doctor?” asked Lisa From Upstairs.

“Dr. Pick-ah-nee,” Remus sounded out the funny name. “Lolo says his mommy and daddy took him to Dr. Picani ‘cause they were afraid he was a Lonely Soul, and now Lolo sees him to help deal with bullies and stuff.”

Now Uncle Gray laughed, a little too loud and a little too mean. “Imagine if somebody’d dragged me to a shrink! This kid’s harmless Betty, he’s too soft to be anything else.”

Mommy and Lisa From Upstairs both faked a laugh and stared at different spots on the floor. It was their way of feeling sorry for poor Lonely Uncle Gray. “I guess that settles it,” said Mommy. “If you trust him Gray, I’ll trust you. I just wish we could have set this up sooner, but with--”

“You’ve been doing the best you can,” Lisa assured her. “There was nothing to worry about anyway.”

Roman looked to Remus, that little tilt to his head asking without words if Remus understood what the grown-ups were talking about.

Remus shrugged at him. Grown-ups were weird sometimes, that was all.

His brother took that as his cue. “Can we talk about Virgil now?!” Roman demanded, flailing his purple and pink arm for anyone who cared to look. “He drew me a little bat, see? See?”

Mommy and Lisa From Upstairs laughed, really laughed, to see him so excited. Roman kept talking and showing off his drawings while Remus made quick use of the distraction and headed for the hallway. Ms. Nichols from school had given them new markers and he really wanted to—

He tried not to flinch when Uncle Gray grabbed his arm.

“Baby,” he called him, barely above a whisper. Mommy and Lisa didn’t hear over Roman’s jabbering. “Could you get me some water, baby?”

Remus nodded and turned for the kitchen. He really didn’t like Uncle Gray.

Chapter Text

When Logan turned thirteen, he found a rainbow birthday cake drawn on his hand. He was never as confident an artist as Remus, but he did his best to return the favor when October rolled around. Seven candles were easier to draw than thirteen, he supposed. He had to try. Green marker scattered furiously beneath the cake that morning:

Lolo you drawed for me!
This is the best geft evar!

Logan beamed. In his usual blue pen he sketched the dotted outline of a constellation and explained:

That’s Libra, your star sign.

A flurry of marker quickly turned the design into some sort of humanoid milk carton with large eyes and a mustache. Remus drew an arrow and then delightedly wrote back:

It looks like the Spoilsport from Dumster Patrol!
What’s your star sign?

With his usual flair for penmanship Logan sketched the constellation and replied:

My sign is called Cancer.

More quick marker attacks stretched over the outline of the stars and morphed into the nozzle of a gas pump, once again with exceedingly large eyes. Another arrow and the
character’s catchphrase appeared beside it:

Guzzler’s good to go!

By the time Remus turned eight, Logan was sure they both had the entire episode library memorized. After he’d mentioned seeing Dumpster Patrol comics in the waiting room at Dr. Picani’s new office, Remus became obsessed with the medium and began drawing whole stories across his arms and legs. Occasionally, always with some measure of apology, Remus would run out of space and squeeze in one last panel on their foreheads. Sometimes he would recreate episodes from memory, and other times that wilder imagination would come out and ninja kittens or wer-iguanas or even a stray Disney character would join the Dumpster Patrol. Super heroics enacted by a small band of sentient garbage were not what Logan would have deemed “high art”, but it was different when Remus drew it. There was so much excitement in everything he shared that Logan would never disparage the younger boy’s interests. He found the idea almost cruel. But those principles didn’t make it any easier to enter high school covered in such juvenile scribbles when compared to his peers.

At the start of Logan’s sophomore year an upperclassman moved to the area. Brent hadn’t been in classes for more than a month before he’d decided “the freak with the baby for a soulmate” was a prime target. Logan supposed that Brent had yet to meet Dee, or else none of it would have happened. Though not especially popular himself, Dee’s scathing silver tongue and his spearheading of the afterschool tutoring program had caused many bullies to think twice. Surely if Brent had known Dee, he wouldn’t have scaled the mascot statue near the flagpole one morning as the buses arrived. He wouldn’t have positioned himself over Logan’s quiet reading spot at the base and cried out, “Hey, you! Kid with the Dumpster Patrol shit all over!”

Logan had sighed so deeply that day. He foolishly didn’t bother to look up as he sat reading, barely deigning to answer “Yes?”

Then something hit the back of his head. Something wet, which began to ooze down his hair and bristle against his neck. A rotting apple core thumped from his book to the ground, the crumpled wrappers too light to follow. The strings of a banana peel hung over his glasses. All these and more sickening sensations were observed too late, too late to anticipate the rush of cold milk that was then poured on top.

“Now you can join the Dumpster Patrol!” Brent laughed, still perched on the statue.

Logan sat very still and listened to the sound of laughter. More fellow students had arrived to gawk and laugh by the time he got up. Careful to hold his ruined book at length from his sodden schoolbag, Logan trudged to the nurse’s office. He arrived late to home room in a borrowed tee shirt and still smelling heavily of milk and garbage, but he refused to be sent home.

Patton caught him in the hallway after first period. “Logan, are you okay? Somebody said they saw you get--”

“I’m fine, Patton,” Logan interrupted. “It was nothing.”

“Logan, we both know it wasn’t.” Patton could be very stubborn when he felt the need, tailing behind him like a fearsome guard dog rather than his usual puppy-dog persona. “That kind of bullying is not okay--”

“If I say I’m fine, then I’m fine.”

“But--”

“I’m FINE!” Logan finally bothered to turn around to see Patton’s eyes shift from fiercely protective to slightly hurt, which stung more than realizing that his own lack of volume control has attracted an audience among some of their peers. “I…” He stumbled through the words for a moment. “Pat, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. But really, I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Dee said with a light smirk. He loved to surprise them in the hall like this, suddenly entering the conversation when they least expected it. “But don’t worry.”

“About what?” Logan asked him warily.

Slipping an arm around Patton’s shoulders as he spoke, Dee assured them, “I’ve made all the arrangements to ‘defend your honor’ Logan. The idiot who did this to you had signed up for tutoring last week. In all his core classes. One more D and the administration will have to keep him off the football field, poor thing.”

Patton gasped. “Dee, you wouldn’t purposefully do a bad job tutoring someone just to get back at them, would you?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re suggesting, Patton-cake,” he deflected, “but hypothetically speaking, if someone were to behave so badly as to warrant getting back at--”

“Don’t you ‘Patton-cake’ me, Mister!” Patton jabbed a warning finger at Dee’s chest. “Two wrongs don’t make a right, and as much as I’d--”

“Please, both of you,” Logan stopped them in the hallway. “I am in no need of defenders. What happened today was- painful- yes, but I’m fine. Or I will be fine.” He looked down at the blur of scenes and speech bubbles on his arms with a smile. “I’d face a hundred mornings like today if I get to see Remus’s art.”

Dee sucked in a breath. “Just because life’s going to get better doesn’t mean that you have accept it as shitty now.”

“Language!” Patton reminded him, a little more playful that before. He turned to Logan and went on, “As much as I don’t agree with his methods or his language, I do think Dee’s right, Logan. You deserve better.”

“How others treat me is their choice,” Logan replied, and unfortunately for Dee and Patton the bell rang before any more thoughts could be given on the matter.

Brent did indeed fail his way off the football team, but Dee never tutored him and insisted that he had nothing to do with it. Until after he graduated that June, at which point he not only confessed but begged Patton for forgiveness. Patton was almost too proud to feign moral indignation. As had become their tradition, Logan rose on the morning of his birthday to find an intricate rainbow cake on the back of his left hand. He penned a thoughtful reply:

Thank you, Remus.
Your art improves every year.
I know you’ve made firm plans to join the Dumpster Patrol, but have you ever thought of pursuing art as a career?

Remus’s writing had grown steadier over their brief years communicating in this way, but Logan found that in moments of excitement some of that fumbling sloppiness returned. The hectic green letters certainly suggested an emotional quality as they spelled out:

Do you mean it?
You think I’m that good?
I could be an artist or a comic book drawer or an anna annimat animmatore?

Logan chuckled lightly before he wrote back:

An animator, yes.
I think you are an incredibly creative person, Remus.
Some days it seems as if you literally NEED to draw or express some idea to me.
If you apply that drive, that need, you could succeed in whatever you choose to do.

His little artist seemed to like that reply, if the ornate frame of flowers and wer-iguanas that began to circle Logan’s writing were anything to go by. Eventually green marker returned:

Thanks, Lolo!
I think you’ll do a good job as a grown-up too!
Maybe you’ll get to meet the aliens while you study their stars

Logan shook his head, but he couldn’t be too annoyed with Remus’s misunderstanding. Instead he wrote back:
Maybe.
Thank you, Remus.

Chapter Text

Remus hated a lot of things about school. He hated the bus rides, he hated the boring field trips and health videos, and he especially hated the smarmy ways teachers talked about him on his report cards or in parent-teacher conferences. “Remus has a lot of energy but trouble focusing” was teacher-speak for “Can you please get this brat to shut up?!” Same as “It is a struggle to keep Remus on task, and he often forgets to raise his hand.” “Remus can become easily upset” really meant “Remus is a whiny little pain in my keister” and “It would be nice to see Remus apply himself outside of art class” meant “PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF HECK STOP DOODLING ALL OVER THE ASSIGNMENT!!!” Mrs. Grespie had even confiscated half his markers that year and only gave them back when Roman told her they shared supplies. “Roman and Remus are both very creative, but Remus refuses to apply his gifts to classwork” was the closest any of them had gotten to admitting that Roman was the favorite twin, as if not saying it out loud meant it wasn’t true.

Not that Remus could really blame them for picking favorites. Roman loved school, loved showing off, loved winning. If you could get a sticker or an “A+” or a ticket to the Honor Roll Pizza Party, Roman was all over it. He didn’t care how many rules he had to follow or hoops he had to jump through if it meant getting showered with praise at the end. And then when Virgil moved to their school at the start of the year and Roman put on a big show of showing him around and introducing him as his soulmate everyone just about lost their minds over how cute it was. Of course he was the favorite.

The meanest parts of Remus sometimes wished Roman was Uncle Gray’s favorite, too.

But he pushed those thoughts away quickly. No, Remus wouldn’t want anyone to be Uncle Gray’s favorite. Especially not stupidly perfect Roman who was off at stupidly perfect play rehearsal with his stupidly perfect soulmate while Remus was stuck in detention. Remus actually liked detention, or at least he liked it better than indoor recess or spending his lunch with the counselor asking him stupid questions. Sixth graders just got afterschool detention. They were supposed to do their homework, but as long as they were quiet most teachers didn’t care. There were only three other “regulars” in detention and half the time those kids didn’t show up, sneaking onto a school bus or just walking home. Remus almost felt left out that they never asked him along. But those thoughts were pushed down too and all Remus had to do was draw.

The margins of a notebook could be a whole world if he wanted it to be. Quick, swirling little jabs of his pencil could squish against each other, turning into a pirate ship on a roaring sea. Or a zombie playing bass guitar. Or a Krampus eating that stupid jerkwad Jeremy from math class who called him “Creep-us” and laughed. Or a tiger surfing on a dolphin. Remus finally, finally had some control when he drew. He could make his own rules and find his own friends and—

“Remus?” Mr. S tried to get his attention. He wasn’t behind his desk, instead standing next to Remus’s like some doofus. “I said you could go almost ten minutes ago but I don’t think you heard me. I wouldn’t want you to be late to your ride.”

“It’s fine,” Remus scoffed, shuffling his pencils back into his bag. “Rehearsal doesn’t end until four-thirty and my mom doesn’t get here until after she can pick us both up.”

Mr. S tentatively reached for the notebook. “Did you draw all this?”

Remus looked at the paper, realizing that in his excitement he’d left the margins and doodled all over his history notes. History being his one class with Mr. S. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Sorry?” his teacher parroted, and Remus looked up to see him smiling. “Remus, your art is amazing. Has Mrs. Yang told you about the district art competition?”

“Art competition?”

“It happens every year with categories divided by grade level,” Mr. S explained. “The top three for each grade have their work displayed at the district headquarters, and first place wins some scholarship money.”

Remus blinked. “Scholarship money? Like for college?” Logan had written to him briefly about how stressful it was waiting for his financial aid package. Scholarships were something even the nerdiest of the nerds had to worry about, apparently.

“Yes,” Mr. S nodded. “The deadline is in the fall. I think you could make a great show for next year. If you’re interested Remus, I’ll let Mrs. Yang know and make sure you get the forms.”

Forms. Of course there was a catch. “I can’t pay to enter some dumb art contest.” He reached for his notebook but Mr. S stopped him. Remus inwardly groaned, waiting to be given another detention.

“There’s no entry fee,” the teacher assured him. “You just need the recommendation of one of your teachers.” Remus must have looked really stupid, because Mr. S quirked him a funny smile and asked, “Still think it’s a ‘dumb’ contest?”

Before the embarrassment could stop him Remus found himself talking, stumbling over questions. “You and Mrs. Yang, you’d recommend me? After I’ve been such a little shit all year?”

Mr. S sighed. “I’d ask you not to swear, Remus, but more importantly I don’t agree with that description of you. Have you struggled this year? Yes. Has it been a struggle to get through to you? I won’t tell you that it hasn’t felt that way sometimes. But I wouldn’t be a teacher if I didn’t want the best for every student that comes through my classroom. You’re not any less worthy just because you’ve been in detention, or whatever else makes you think people shouldn’t respect you. Of course I’ll help you enter the contest.”

Instead of the words escaping him before he could stop himself, Remus simply couldn’t find anything to say after all that. He took his notebook slowly and looked from his drawings to his teacher. “Thanks,” was all he could manage, all he could squeak out as he zipped his bag closed and shuffled to the door. “Thanks.”

“And Remus?” Mr. S called. He looked like he had a question on his mind but it never quite found its way to his voice. Instead he just added, “Have a nice weekend, alright? I’ll have those forms for you on Monday.”

Remus was a shaky sort of quiet as he walked away. No one had ever told him he was worthy before. He wasn’t totally sure he knew what “worthy” meant, when Mr. S said it like that. Logan told him a lot of nice things, but Logan didn’t know Remus got detention or lowballed his tests on purpose or picked fights with the jerks who picked on him. Mr. S saw all of the crap he pulled and still said… that. He shook his head and shook that confusing contest out with it as he headed towards the school gym.

Roman would have loathed to have his precious “theatre” called a gym, but it really was a gym so there wasn’t much he could do about it. Last year either someone goofed or just couldn’t be bothered and there was a basketball hoop down above the choir concert during their performance. Remus couldn’t help but chuckle every time he thought of it. He didn’t have long to reminisce before Roman came hurtling out of the gym like a monkey shot from a circus cannon.

“REMUS!” he shouted, grabbing his brother and dragging him towards the parking lot. Roman scanned for their mother’s old car, and when he couldn’t find it he pulled Remus close and stage-whispered surreptitiously, “I have the most amazing news of all time, but you can’t tell ANYONE okay?” Remus was pretty sure anyone within a five-mile radius had already heard the shouting, but he didn’t get a word in before Roman went on, “So I was at rehearsal and Virgil was there ‘cause this was the first time with stage crew and the mermaid ballet kept screwing up so I got to hang out backstage with him, and he wrote me a new poem at lunch see? So I was telling him how much I liked it and he was all modest like usual but then he said it was about ME! See the bit about the sun? I’M THE SUN! And I was just so impressed and I kept telling him so and he said, ‘Geez, what does it take to get you to shut up?’ and I said, ‘I dunno, William Shakes-punk, why don’t you think of something?’ and he called me insufferable and I got so offended but then- this is so amazing, really - then he KISSED ME! It was really fast and he got really embarrassed afterwards but it was on the lips and everything, I swear! Right there in the wings! Virgil Walters, poet extraordinaire and my one and only soulmate, KISSED ME!”

He looked at his brother like he was expecting him to gasp, to shout with excitement, to do something. But for a few strange moments Remus couldn’t do anything. Finally he asked, “You’re happy?”

Roman tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t I be? I just got my first kiss from my soulmate, duh I’m happy about it. Are you sick or something?”

“No, no,” Remus assured him. He shook his brother’s hands off and joked, “Just wanted to know if I had to beat up Nightmare on Emo Street for you or whatever.”

“Aw, you were gonna be my protector, make sure he treats me right?” Roman cooed.

“Shut up, Roman!” He’d meant it to sound more forceful but of course it didn’t. Roman just laughed at him, that sweet laugh he made when he was too happy for words to do it justice.

Their “secret” discussion stopped short when their mother arrived, frazzled and a bit late as always. She’d rushed them back to the apartment and changed into scrubs, shoving a pizza in the oven with her usual orders to be good for Uncle Gray and to call in an emergency. “And Remus, please do your homework!” she’d reminded him as she plopped a kiss on his forehead before turning to fret over the pizza and the time and the car keys. Those were the sort of kisses Remus didn’t mind, not the mushy kind Roman suddenly enjoyed. His brother had gotten him thinking, so he grabbed his marker and hid away in the bathroom. As he settled into the empty tub he found himself thankful he’d stopped drawing full comics, since it left more space for these “correspondences” as Logan called them. Carefully he wrote:

Hey Lolo?

Blue pen fluttered in not quite cursive along his forearm:

Yes, Remus?

With a deep breath and as much courage as he could screw together Remus asked:

Do you want to kiss me?
Because we’re soulmates and stuff?

He’d never seen Logan write back so quickly, and yet somehow his soulmate’s penmanship remained perfectly steady as it spelled out:

Remus, I have no intention of pursuing anything romantic with you until you are over 18.
Please don’t misconstrue this as a rejection but we are simply at very different points developmentally.
It is only appropriate to wait until we are both adults and have leveled that figurative playing field.

Remus let out a long, deep breath. It was moments like these that made him wonder if Lolo really was from outer space. The idea of somebody caring this damn much about him was surely proof of alien life. Somewhere out in the galaxy that dork was happily waiting for him, letting Remus make the rules. He was about to write a reply when he realized that the blue pen went on:

We are soulmates, and I have a great appreciation for your art and for getting to know you in this way, but it would be wrong of me to expect you to behave like someone my own age.
Physical acts of affection are perhaps something your peers are exploring, but it is different for us because our ages are different.

It looked like he could go on, little blue pen pricks starting and stopping a new sentence, but Remus rushed in with a dash of his marker:

Lolo stop the lecture!
It’s okay.
I was just asking.
What are you reading right now?

He could’ve punched himself over how stupid a transition it was, but that was all he could think to ask. Logan didn’t seem to mind the awkwardness as the blue pen came back:

Lately I’ve been reading a lot of philosophy.
Derrida has been interesting, but I’ve yet to finish it as Patton has enlisted my help preparing for prom.

Remus cut him off again:

Prom?
You’re going too, right?
I wanted to draw you a kore corezu corezag that thing with the flowers from the movies!
What kind of flowers do you like?

Lolo’s blue pen seemed so gentle as the little swirls replied:

A corsage.
I would love that, Remus.
Could you draw me a blue orchid?

“Uncle Gray’s here!” he heard Roman shout as he quickly doodled a smiley face for Logan and pulled his sleeve down. Remus took another moment to steel himself against the tub before he finally left the bathroom.

His mother was already halfway out the door, thanking Uncle Gray and reminding Roman, “You get one ice cream bar, just one! I’ll be back in the morning, Gray thanks so much--”

“It’s my pleasure, Betty,” Uncle Gray assured her. “You just get to work, and the boys and I can have a Guys Night.”

“We’re gonna watch Legally Blonde!” Roman crowed, and Remus couldn’t help but snort a stifled laugh from the hallway. He had a vague guess that most “Guys Nights” had a lot less musicals and peak 2000s rom-coms involved.

Their mother made that soft, safe sound that wasn’t quite as sigh and wasn’t quite a laugh. She looked from one twin to the other and reminded them one last time, “Behave, boys. Love you.” And with that, she was gone. The door locked behind her just as the oven began to beep.

“Roman, why don’t you set up the movies while Remus and I take care of the pizza?” Uncle Gray was already heading for the kitchen as he spoke, not that Roman would’ve noticed as he readied the DVD player.

Remus took another deep breath before he entered the kitchen and started grabbing plates and napkins. He heard the timer stop beeping but didn’t look up. He didn’t look up when he felt a hand settle on his shoulder either. Uncle Gray had to put his other hand under Remus’s chin and turn his head for him before Remus could look up at that man.

Uncle Gray smiled down just like always. “Missed you, Baby,” he said softly. “How ‘bout a kiss?”

Chapter Text

Logan had never asked Remus what kind of art supplies he used, and the young man was beginning to regret this oversight. At the very least it was clear his soulmate had used much more powerful inks than his usual markers on that prom corsage. It had been beautiful, was still beautiful in the numerous pictures from the evening. A clear shot of the blue flowers along his wrist may or may not have become the lock screen on Logan’s new phone, a graduation present from his parents. Both the phone and the corsage were now a month old, and while the phone was still pristine the same could not be said for the inky mess that had once been a corsage. The harshest of the dark outlines had washed off with ease and left behind odd clumps of color that vaguely resembled a bruise, or rather a series of small bruises. Logan could never truly begrudge the left-overs of Remus’s masterpieces, perhaps even mourning that he had not thought to photograph more of the comics before Dumpster Patrol fell out of fashion in his shrewd little artist’s eyes. It was however a tad troublesome trying to cover up the deep blues and purples, if only to avoid misguided concern. Remus had taken to drawing limbs and heads onto the slowly shrinking blobs of color, turning them into a menagerie of creatures whenever he had a spare moment. Such was not often the case this summer, and even so he had switched back to his regular markers that would wash off within a day’s wear. All this is to say that Logan had to disguise the wilted drawing on his own more often than not.

His solo endeavor was not going well. Even the lightest of his jackets felt too hot in the summer heat, no doubt helped along by the fact that Dr. Picani’s latest office had yet to establish decent air conditioning. Despite his best efforts to distract himself the waiting rooms never offered much that could keep Logan occupied. Old TV guides and badly mangled picture books did not make for good reading material. The little old lady sitting opposite didn’t seem to think so either, and had brought a large bag of knitting to compensate. Logan tried very hard to puzzle out how someone- anyone- could stand to knit a wool sweater whilst already wearing one in this insufferable heat. He was just beginning to wonder if the old woman was conspiring to make the room hotter with all that thick yarn when the door to the office burst open.

The man in the leather jacket must have kicked it open to make his entrance, arms laden with iced coffees and a box of donuts. With aviators and smile askew he marched up to the receptionist and slid her a coffee through the open panel. “Hey bish, where’s Em?”

“He’s finishing up a session,” she replied, rolling her eyes but gladly accepting the coffee. “Did you warn him this time?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” the man replied. The old woman chuckled into her knitting and Logan tried not to smile as the man turned around. Taking stock of his audience the man asked, “Guessing you two aren’t one of his couples’ sessions huh?”

Logan shook his head, definitely not developing a blush as the old lady cackled outright. To avoid further embarrassment he quickly asked, “Are you Dr. Picani’s soulmate?”

“Call me Remy,” the stranger nodded, setting down the other coffees and donuts to pull up a chair to sit across from him. “What’s with the hoodie, kid? You look miserable.”

“That seems like an odd question when you are also wearing a jacket,” Logan countered.

“It’s my aesthetic,” Remy insisted. “Also I was raised in Florida where a nice breezy day like today would have everyone reaching for hats and scarves. But this isn’t about me, boo.”

He shifted awkwardly under the man’s gaze, but ultimately Logan relented. “My soulmate drew on my wrist and the ink had yet to wash off. The appearance is--”

“And your first move was to add layers?” Remy scoffed. He rummaged through an inner pocket of his own jacket, muttering hypocritically about the stupidity of it all. At last he pulled out a small bottle of make-up and tossed it to Logan. “Here. It’s called Dermablend, kid. It’s what I use to cover tattoos when I’m onstage. You let it dry a bit and then top it off with setting powder, that shizz won’t come off until you tell it to. Don’t you hand it back! I’ve got plenty, trust me. Take it and take off that hoodie before you keel over.”

With much gratitude and a sliver of embarrassment, Logan acquiesced. “Thank you, Remy.” He wriggled quickly out of his jacket and offered his hand to shake. “I’m Logan, by the way.”

His new acquaintance didn’t seem to notice the gesture, instead tilting his head and brushing his aviators down to peek at Logan’s other wrist. Following his gaze Logan watched as frenzied marker lines joined the blue speckling together. It was always such fun watching Remus draw in real-time. The boy’s skill was such that a few amorphous shapes and squiggles could transform near effortlessly into whatever fancy struck. As the two men watched the drawing revealed itself as a Chinese dragon with a long winding blue body and a monstrous toothy face. A little side-long note crept next to the creature as if out of a speech bubble:

Hey Lolo!
Sorry I haven’t been drawing so much lately.
This summer camp sucks BUTT.
Send me a constellation after your session?

“Summer camp?” Remy puzzled out, pulling Logan’s attention away from the new art on his arm and back to the near stranger who was sitting half sideways trying to read the writing.

“Remus and I have a bit of an age difference,” Logan explained as he shifted once again in his chair. “Similar to you and Dr. Picani, correct?”

The mention of the good doctor won him a smile from Remy, who straightened up to reply, “Yeah, but me and Em never had such a flair for drawing. You too meet yet?”

Logan shook his head, “I don’t plan to do so until after Remus is 18.” He missed the approving shrug from Remy as he pondered back to that curious conversation before the prom. Tentatively, he asked, “May I ask- is there any advice you would give to an older soulmate, having experienced being the younger?”

“General advice first, kid: never try the hard stuff,” Remy told him sternly. “You can drink and smoke whatever crap you want from the gas station or the liquor store, but if you have to buy it on the street you don’t want it in your system.” He spoke a little more gently as he went on, “I’ve lost some really good people to crap like that,” and Logan was suddenly very aware that Dr. Picani was this man’s Second Attachment. “As for specific advice…” Remy clicked his tongue once or twice before he decided what to say. “I guess just don’t try to be some wannabe parent all the time. That was the biggest hurdle for me and Em to get over first, him feeling like he had to be in charge and be perfect since he was supposed to ‘have his life together’ by then or whatever. We didn’t connect until we were both adults, but it would’ve driven me crazy if Em had been pestering me like that since we were kids.”

“Thank you. Again,” Logan nodded.

Remy’s eyes took on a mischievous tint behind his aviators as he peeked down the hallway behind Logan. “And don’t ever forget where you put the key to the handcuffs,” he added. Before Logan could quite process that curious statement-

“REMY!” Doctor Picani spat as he ran into the waiting room, his face pinker than his hair. “What- how- don’t you--”

With a roll of his eyes Remy effortlessly rose from his chair and presented a coffee to his soulmate. “Nice to see you, Em.”

Picani sighed. “You know I don’t like it when you show up and pester my patients--”

“Ugh, you’re so jealous,” Remy mock pouted. “I brought donuts and everything.”

“Well you could’ve told me you were coming.”

“Um excuse you, I did!” To prove his point, Remy lifted up his tee shirt to reveal well-toned abs, an impressive chest tattoo of Marshal Lee and Prince Gumball from Adventure Time, and a scribbled note in sharpie right along his hip bone. Logan thought he could make out “see you @ 2:48 xo” as the receptionist let out a wolf whistle. The old lady craned away from her knitting to also enjoy the chaos.

Picani let out another, deeper sigh. “And they say I’m the childish one around here.”

“Shut up, it’s funny,” his soulmate replied, letting his shirt fall as he took a sip of his coffee. “You’re a sucker for me, anyway.”

“Don’t I know it,” the doctor agreed, a soft glint in his eyes.

Logan shot a nervous look to the receptionist. It was troubling enough being a figurative third wheel to Patton and Dee, but being cast as such for his therapist was a new variant of awkward. Luckily the receptionist took pity on him, and laughing she asked, “Doc I think your next session is wondering if he should give you guys a moment alone?”

“Next sesh-sesh-session,” Picani stumbled over the phrase, rather like Porky Pig. “Right next session is Logan- oh, Logan! You’re here, let’s head--”

“Em, I don’t even get five minutes with you?” Remy whined. “Ugh, next time I’ll just make an appointment.”

Doctor Picani sputtered at that, but Logan helpfully interjected, “Perhaps I could step back to the office while you and Remy partake in the baked goods he purchased?”

Now it was Remy’s turn to laugh. “I knew I liked you, kid.”

“Good idea, Logan,” the doctor nodded appreciatively.

“Sure thing,” Logan said with a smile, cheekily tacking on “Em” as he turned down the hall.

As he reached the door the young man heard Remy half-shout, “Omigod I’m like a role model!”

Chapter Text

It was cool having a soulmate in college, most days. Remus liked doodling around Logan’s due date reminders and potential sources to look up. He’d even snooped around the public library and found a few of the books himself, so he and Logan had something to talk about in the rare moments Logan wasn’t studying. The librarians were shocked that a ruffian with dyed green hair and enough paint on his jeans to mask their original color could ask so politely for their help. Remus liked surprising people sometimes. Other times he got bored. If the east side of the local gas station was never the same again, that was just the price of boredom. According to the city the price of boredom was worth six weeks of community service collecting trash along the turnpike. They didn’t expect Remus to apply his bored creative talents onto this trash, or for the resulting eight-foot “statue” of Lady Justice to arrive unannounced at the courthouse one smelly morning. But she did. She was eventually moved inside the arts council building, or so he’d been told. Remus had gotten banned from the arts council building.

He knew his mother wasn’t proud, not even of the things she could’ve been proud of. He’d won that stupid art contest two years in a row now. If it weren’t for Mrs. Yang and Mr. S smiling at him in the hallways or chatting up his good points with less impressed teachers, the whole world might have ignored it. Ignored Remus.

Hence the green hair. It was harder to ignore.

Logan didn’t mind having green hands for a week after Remus forgot to use the stupid gloves from the dye box, or at least he didn’t say so. He’d scribbled a note in blue pen that tinted purple against the greenish flesh, asking if Remus had been drawing with new ink. When he found out about the hair dye, he’d applauded Remus for his creative expression but suggested to follow the directions next time.

His mother was pretty adamant there wouldn’t be a next time. She’d lost her mind when she came home to Remus’s make over, but she was way angrier about the stupid sink and stupid dye getting into the stupid cracks. At least their stupid dirtbag landlord never found out. That would’ve been its own hell, his mother assured him. Ever since the gas station she had made sure to let him know how disappointed she was and how poorly the world would think of him if he kept this shit up.
Remus sometimes wondered what his mamma would think of him, from wherever she was. Theirs was not a religious household but she had in her last moments promised to be there for her boys and their mother. “Always be with you” or something. It didn’t make sense at six and it still didn’t make sense at thirteen. If anything, it made less sense in the face of her blatant absence. Still, in his shittiest moments when his mother or his teacher or whoever else made their feelings abundantly clear, Remus would ask himself, “What would Mamma think?” That mattered just a teeny bit more.

“What would your soulmate think?” had been weaponized by the stupid, straight-laced grown-ups to the point of losing all meaning. Especially when Lolo never seemed to live up to their nightmarish standards. Remus had told him all about the gas station and the community service in wobbly marker, taking wobblier breaths as he wrote. And that weirdo alien nerd had written him back none of the judgement or the anger everyone predicted. Instead he was all concern for Remus’s safety near the turnpike, asking if he had a reflector vest or an adult with him. Apparently, Logan had a buddy taking psych classes and they’d all come to believe that “punitive” punishments were dumb or something. College sounded so cool.

Logan had also gently suggested that Remus seek out ways to use his talents more constructively, or at least with permission from the property owners. He wasn’t totally okay with Remus ending up in juvie or some shit later down the line. But it still wasn’t in the angry way like everybody else’s “How could you do this to me?!” Lolo had scribbled on and on about how Remus shouldn’t penalize himself now and take away choices later. A criminal record could affect his college acceptance, believe it or not. Everything Logan sent seemed more like a “How could you do this to yourself?” kind of question, urging Remus to think about his own goals and happiness. It was weird, but in a good, Lolo-y sort of way. They didn’t have long, sprawling “correspondences” as much when Logan’s semesters were going, but he still sent a little constellation every couple of days when the old one washed off. Remus loved that game.

Meanwhile his idiot brother and less-of-an-idiot soulmate had developed the game “How Long Can We Go Breaking the Rules Before We Get Caught?” The clock was still running at school for their lunchtime make-out sessions, and the poor drama teacher would never call out her star performer even if she did know what kind of shit Roman was pulling backstage. Remus could admit he was a little excited when their mother started working the occasional nightshift again and golden-boy Roman decided to test the new “No sleepovers when I’m not here” rule. The first month or so Virgil was still anxious about getting in trouble and the three of them just watched movies. Usually around ten Virgil would get especially anxious and have his cousin pick him up. A bit of a delinquent himself, he was happy to cover for them all for a pinch of gas money. Virgil’s parents thought he spent the whole night at his cousin’s and never said no to family bonding. As the months stretched on and Roman had more “movie nights” to host, Virgil started to stay longer and longer before texting his cousin. Eventually he got comfortable, Roman got a bad idea, and Remus got sexiled to the couch.

“It’s not sexile if we’re just talking, so shut up you jerk!” Roman had insisted.

“Whatever,” Remus had laughed. “If you don’t get caught you’re taking dishwashing duty for a month.”

They got caught.

Whatever it was they were doing, Roman and Virgil fell asleep in the bedroom before Virgil could text his cousin and get picked up. So the twins’ mother staggered in at 6:30am to find Remus on the couch and the other two spooning in Roman’s bunk. She was not pleased. Virgil had to tell his parents where he had really been going and got grounded for a week. Remus had his laptop privileges revoked the rest of the month for not ratting them out. And Roman had been grounded for two whole months. Two months during which their mother still had to work a few nightshifts before she could rearrange the schedule. Nights where she had decided her boys would once again need a babysitter.

“Mom, you don’t need to find a babysitter,” Roman whined. Their mother’s first nightshift since “the incident” was fast approaching, and somehow in Roman’s world having a babysitter at thirteen was more embarrassing than having your mother find you and your soulmate spooning.

Their mother huffed from the driver’s seat, glaring at Roman through the rearview mirror. “Apparently I do, since I can’t trust EITHER of you boys to behave yourselves.”

When Remus was excited that everyone’s favorite twin was going to break the rules, he didn’t realize he’d be sharing the blame.

“Mom, I said I was sorry.” Now Roman switched to pouting. “I know it was wrong to lie to you, and it wasn’t safe and stuff, but why won’t you let me make it up to you? If you’d just give me a chance to--”

“I gave you boys a chance when you asked not to have a babysitter the first time!” their mother snapped. “And look where that got us, huh? How many chances do you want, Roman?”

“Why does one mistake have to be the end of the world?!”

“A mistake is an accident, Roman, you CHOSE to--”

“To spend time with my fricking soulmate!”

“To go behind my back! Do you really think that makes you more mature, Roman? To lie to me? Is that the kind of man you want to become?”

“Mom--”

“Save it, Roman!” With the car parked, their mother could finally turn around to glare at him properly. Glancing out the rear window her gaze softened and she scurried out of the car to shout, “Gray!”

The boys could vaguely hear the adults exchange pleasantries across the parking lot, but neither made a move to leave the car. Roman sat slumped and dejected against the window. It was only natural that he should be so upset. His brother was unused to failure, Remus supposed. He reached out for Roman’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Wordless sympathy was the easiest to express. Roman squeezed back and nodded, the first real smile in days playing across his face. “At least we’re in this together,” he joked. As they let go of one another they finally found the strength to leave the car and face the world.

“Roman, you help me with our groceries and Remus, you help Uncle Gray with his,” their mother directed. “And ask him about Friday, would you?”

Remus could only nod and shuffle along to Uncle Gray’s car. The last thing he wanted to do was make more trouble. Gray didn’t seem to be in that mood anyway, greeting him with a “Hey, kid. Think you can manage this?” The bag was heavy, but not too heavy. Taking the other bag for himself Uncle Gray asked, “What’s this about Friday?”

“Mom wants to know if you can babysit,” Remus mumbled. He wanted to believe it was embarrassment that made this hard.

Gray gave him a look as they headed inside the apartments. “Aren’t you two a little old for babysitters these days?”

Remus tried to shrug but couldn’t quite finish the gesture with the stupid bag in his arms. “Roman’s s’posed to be grounded, so Mom doesn’t want to leave us alone.”

“Ah,” Gray nodded. “Makes sense. Too bad I can’t help out this time.”

The weight of the bag, of the whole stupid shit world, seemed to lift away from Remus when he heard that.

“Mark and Lisa from upstairs have family in town,” the man went on, “and they asked me to look after their nieces and nephew that night.” He smiled back at Remus as he unlocked his door. “The little fella’s about five, maybe six, and well, do you remember how cute you were at that age? Damn near irresistible.”

All that weight from before crashed back down into Remus’s stomach. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping on his way inside Uncle Gray’s apartment. The bag was pulled out of his hands but the weight stayed with him, swirling around like the shitshow in his mind. Too many thoughts, too many memories, too much to say all smashed against each other into one screaming panic. But it didn’t- couldn’t- make its way out.

“Wait, no,” was all he sputtered at first. “Wait, no, no, what if- What if you brought them to our place for the night? We’ve got movies and pizza and maybe some old toys- and then they could have my bunk instead and- and you and I could--”

The words didn’t quite make it out but the suggestion did. Uncle Gray looked at him with that glint in his eyes that only came out when the mood shifted just so. “Have you missed me, Baby?” he asked with a mocking smirk. “Or are you jealous, is that it? What makes you wanna stay up past your bedtime with good ol’ Uncle Gray?”

Remus couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. “Just, just don’t wanna see somebody else have to do that.”

Uncle Gray laughed. “That’s the thing about being Lonely. I don’t have any one and only waiting for me, so I can’t help but find somebody new every once in a while. Eventually they get too old to stick around. Thought you’d be all about your soulmate by now, Baby.”

“What?” Remus was backed up against the hall closet, puzzling out how Logan could have anything to do with this while Uncle Gray just looked down like a stupid cat that got the cream. Damn him for being so tall.

“Won’t he be surprised to find out you know so many tricks,” said Uncle Gray. “You think he’ll forgive a Lonely Soul for ‘borrowing’ his soulmate for so long? You think he’ll forgive you, Baby, for letting me?”

Oh. Shit. Remus hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t thought of Lolo ever knowing about all the crap before, either. This was different than a criminal record or a crappy dye job, wasn’t it? Poor Lolo. What would he think?

“But then you asked so nice, huh?” Gray mused, “I guess what that punk doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No!” Remus wouldn’t stand by and let some new kid get pulled into this, no matter what Logan would think of him. “No, I’ll- we can have them over at our place. Promise.”

Uncle Gray laughed again, a rough hand coming up under Remus’s chin. “Guess we’ve got a date, huh Baby?” Remus steeled himself like always. But he tensed even further as he felt a few spare dollars thrust in his hand instead. Gray had to curl his fingers around the cash for him, explaining, “Thanks for helping with the groceries, Baby.” Then suddenly the man pulled back and jerked a nod to the door. “See you Friday.”

And just as suddenly Remus was out in the hall, his back to Uncle Gray’s door. With tight, strained breaths he started walking towards his mother’s apartment. He didn’t get far before it all became too much and he dashed into the communal laundry room to hide. There wasn’t anywhere to cry at home, but wedged between the washing machines wasn’t too bad a spot. Remus tried to stay quiet as he sobbed, and suddenly he wished Logan wasn’t off at college, wasn’t somewhere far off in the universe, but was right here in this stupid shitty laundry room. Right beside him, telling him how he wasn’t mad and Remus wasn’t a screw-up and the world didn’t really suck ass.

A stupidly curious part of him wanted to pull out a marker and write it all down, find out what Logan would really say. But that would require finding the words in the first place, never mind the unthinkable consequences if Logan was angry with him. It was better to dream, Remus decided, better to imagine Lolo really was some kind, benevolent alien who had no concept of rage or jealousy. Some pure being who could never judge him the way everyone else did. Some sort of angel, maybe, who would look at this stupid snotty mess of green hair and wanna-be graffiti with all the love he was able to give, whether Remus deserved it or not. An imaginary soulmate who would always want him.

When the weight left his lungs and his throat no longer felt like it was on fire he squeezed back out, leaving the money on top of the washer for someone lucky to find. Remus didn’t need it anyway. He had those stupid scholarship prizes waiting in the bank. All he had to do was wait a few years, get accepted somewhere, and not end up in jail first. Friday was just a day, after all. Just another stupid, shitty day.

Chapter Text

Logan enjoyed the rigors of his physics major for the most part. His social life was nigh existent in the first place, so he didn’t notice the lack of free time. Patton made a habit of pulling him away from his studying at least once a week to patronize the local sushi restaurant just off campus. Dee would turn up to join them once or twice a month, no longer at the same university for his law degree. It certainly wasn’t Logan’s goal to pry but he could tell the absence affected Patton. His friend sent more notes when Dee was away, his arms covered in little hearts and affirmations copied from Kindergarten reward stickers. Patton’s smile seemed tighter the days after Dee would leave. Early education courses and his work as a student teacher had taught Patton how to mask any unease in the face of an ornery classroom, but Logan was surprised all the psychology classes hadn’t taught him how unhealthy it was to smother his true feelings in this way. Logan supposed that the issue would be resolved at the end of the year when Patton graduated and could perhaps find a teaching position nearer to Dee. That didn’t make the current situation any less painful to witness, however.

Though he couldn’t force Patton to address his pain, Logan could certainly try to spare Remus from similar feelings. He had kept up their tradition of scribbling little constellations every few days, always admiring the beautiful drawings Remus would create over top. It was difficult with his schedule but Logan eventually managed to sort out one or two Saturday afternoons where he and Remus could write back and force across their arms uninterrupted. Remus had mentioned just texting or emailing one another, which would have been sensible were it not for the age gap. Soulmates or not, Logan was certain it would be inappropriate to have private correspondences with a fifteen-year-old.

Which is why it was all the more distressing when Remus drew a very buff, very naked caricature one Friday night. Logan had found the image imprinted on his left forearm the following morning, and with all the subtly he could muster he grabbed a sharpie and bowdlerized the figure’s lower half. When his addition of swim trunks (or perhaps underwear?) was complete Logan fished his usual blue pen out of a pocket to explain himself:

I see you’re practicing anatomy, Remus.
The musculature is very accurate.
Perhaps you could save certain elements of the figure for your sketchbook?

Remus wrote back in his customary green marker:

But Lolo, don’t you like it?
I wanted to share with you.

Logan sighed as he formulated his reply:

You know how deeply I admire your artistry, Remus.
You are also smart enough to know why this kind of image is—

He hadn’t expected Remus to cut him off:

Bad?
It’s just a drawing, Lolo.

His crafty little artist was dancing around the issue. Of course. Logan replied:

I am aware.
Are you aware that as a minor, you are not the intended audience for such images?
Let alone legally allowed to create them?

He could almost hear Remus’s laughter as his soulmate jotted down a smiley face and a single word:

Oops!

There were many more “Oops” drawings to come. As the week went on Remus became a smidge bolder, adding other figures and poses to his repertoire. The image of one naked man kissing another man, clad only in spectacles, on his neck was the most innocent theme of the bunch, usually accompanied by the phrase:

This could be us but you playin

Logan invested in a sizeable supply of Dermablend over the next month.

No amount of gentle reproach, warnings about the legality, even simply ignoring the drawings had any effect on their creator. Remus was never a shy child and seemed to lack all shame as he asked for Logan’s number, when could they meet, didn’t Lolo love him, what fantasy did he want to try? Logan wasn’t sure if he was losing more sleep sitting up at night wondering why his young soulmate was suddenly so precocious or waking up earlier and earlier to mask the latest masterpiece in Dermablend. If the image was especially risqué Remus would decorate their torsos instead of their forearms, but Logan still used the make-up just in case the dark ink would stand out under his shirts. There was always an accompanying remark on his arm that would need covered as well.

It was during this strange artistic phase that Patton’s twenty-first birthday happened to fall, and Dee made the four hour drive to partake in the festivities. Though it was meant to be a social gathering, said festivities mostly involved getting Patton very, very drunk. This quickly led to a weepy and cuddly Patton smothering Dee with the past two years’ worth of pent-up loss. “I just miss you so muuuch!” he whined into Dee’s ear. Again. “I miss your snarky comments and your jokes and the way you boop my nose when I’m mad.”

With the last of the guest shooed away Dee was trying very hard to get Patton off his arm and into bed, murmuring gently, “I know Pattoncake, I know.”

“And I miss when you call me Pattoncake!” Patton burst out, only clinging to his soulmate tighter. “I love you so flipping much, Dee-Dee, and I know you’re so far away but I just want to flipping hold you all the time and love you and bake you cookies. I wanna bake cookies right now, Dee, let’s bake cookies.”

Logan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He held open Patton’s door as Dee tried to steer them both inside. “We can bake cookies in the morning, bud,” he promised his old friend.

Patton caught Logan by the wrist and tugged him inside as well. “We ARE buds!” He sniffled back into Dee’s shoulder as he said, “I just want to go back to when we were kiddos and it was just you and me and all our friends and we were happy. Now we’re all busy and far away and we never TALK anymore!”

“Shh, Sweetie, it’s okay,” Dee assured him. “We can talk all you want in the morning, Pattoncake, I promise.”

“But I wanna talk nooow!” Patton insisted even as he curled up into his pillows.

Dee used the distraction of the pillows to finally extricate both himself and Logan from Patton’s grip. “You’re sleepy, Pattoncake. It’ll be better if we wait until morning.”

Patton smiled up at him deliriously. “Okay, Dee-Dee,” he slurred. Then he reached up and tapped Dee’s nose. “Boop!” Dee barely had time to get his soulmate’s glasses off before Patton rolled over into his pillows and began to snore.

“Well.” Logan spoke just above a whisper for fear Patton would rouse. “Now we know what he’s like when he imbibes alcohol.”

Dee stifled a laugh as he agreed, “Now we know. And now we need to clean up the mess. Would you mind getting started while I tuck him in?”

Logan nodded and returned to the living room. The remnants of Patton’s party were scatter all over, and the flimsy card table that had so dutifully served as their dining room table was haphazardly crunching in on itself. The sofa appeared equally out of commission. With no firm guess as to how to repair or dispose of either, Logan set about collecting the myriad plastic cups and similar food waste that littered the room. Just how one particularly dented solo cup had found a figurative home on one of the prongs of the ceiling fan was a mystery Logan didn’t want to solve. Unfortunately for him, the cup still held liquid, and in his attempts to retrieve it Logan upset the cup’s precarious balance. He was subsequently doused with its contents.

It was another unfortunate turn that Logan happened to be washing the sticky mess from his face and arms when Dee joined him in the kitchen. The other man made an odd sound of surprise as he watched the water reveal the latest of Remus’s masterpieces along Logan’s arm. “He’s going through a phase or something,” Logan rushed out. “He keeps drawing these, ah, these sorts of images, and I’ve tried to discourage him, really- I usually use a better product for cover-up but he’s been drawing so much lately and I ran out--”

Dee held up a hand in a silent call for Logan to stop. “You know,” he said, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, “most states have ‘Romeo and Juliet’ laws for couples who can prove they’re soulmates.”

Logan furrowed his brow. “What does Shakespeare have to do with state law?”

“It’s an expression, nerd,” Dee rolled his eyes as he spoke. “On account of the age difference between the two characters. Granted that Juliet is thirteen and most state limits are higher--”

“I’m sorry, how exactly is this relevant?” Logan demanded. “We were discussing Remus’s drawings, were we not?”

“I’m just saying, if you want to get your teenage dream on--”

“Absolutely not!” he snapped. “For God’s sake, Dee, this a child we’re talking about!” For a moment Logan worried that he might have woken up Patton with how loud he just shouted. He could faintly hear snoring, but the silence in the kitchen was much more overwhelming. Whether it was seconds or hours, Logan would never know.

At last Dee smiled. “Good. Because as soon as I pass the bar I’ll be fighting to shrink the age gap those creepy laws cover.” He turned back to the living room and resumed cleaning.

Logan would never get used to these tricks, these “Devil’s advocate” ploys. There was a tight sting to his voice as he fought back, “I’m beginning to regret not giving you a harder time about you and Patton’s age difference. Especially considering you two were dating when he was still a minor and you were legally an adult.”

Dee barely deigned to look over his shoulder as he scooped up some rubble off the floor. “What, like I could corrupt that puffball?”

“For lack of a better word,” Logan replied stiffly. Clarity was a bit too uncomfortable in this conversation.

“Patton made it easy,” Dee said with a shrug. “He still calls a dick a peepee, even during--”

“TMI,” Logan insisted. “Too much information.”

“Look, I’m just saying it was a little different, okay?” Dee stood up before he went on, dropping any façade to explain, “Remus is clearly working through some stuff, and he thinks sex is the only solution that matters.”

“And I don’t know how to convince him otherwise!” Logan muttered. “I’ve tried telling him it’s wrong, I’ve tried to suggest more appropriate ways he could show affection if that’s what this is, I’ve even just ignored him for a few days as painful as that was. He’s just maddeningly set on drawing every sexually explicit thought that pops into his head, and he won’t tell me why.”

Dee placed a hand on his shoulder, comforting and sincere. “It’s okay, Logan,” he said gently. “You’re doing the best you can.”

“I just wish my best could be better,” Logan sighed. He turned to Dee for a response only to find his friend staring at his forehead.

Dee let out a low whistle as his gaze shifted back. “You’ve got a hard row to hoe, ‘Lolo.’”

“I told him not the face!” Logan winced, slapping a hand over his forehead.

It took over an hour to restore the living room to any former dignity, leaving Logan and Dee little time to rest before the demands of the new day would be upon them. But Logan couldn’t sleep without addressing the latest gift from his little artist. He knew it was foolish to expect a reply at this hour as he wrote:

Remus?
Can we talk?

With little delay green marker scribbled back:

Yeah Lolo?

Pushing away the concern that Remus was (still?) awake when they so obviously shared the same time zone, Logan went on:

Remus, what’s going on?
I realized last night that I’ve never asked you directly, so I thought I might try.

He couldn’t be sure if Remus was acting coy or genuinely confused when he asked:

What’s going on with what?

Logan took a breath, having already decided on the most straightforward approach:

Why are you drawing these images?

Green marker scribbled furiously up his arm:

Does there have to be a reason?
Maybe I don’t have one?
Maybe I just like drawing them?
Maybe it’s just funny?
Maybe I don’t care?
Maybe--

Logan cut him off before they both ran out of space:

Remus, I care about you and I’m worried.
After all the reasons I’ve told you to stop, why are you still drawing them?

He was surprised to watch the green marker circle the word “worried”, their old code for helping Remus understand a more sophisticated vocabulary than his own:

Are you like missing-the-bus worried or like I-love-you worried?
Because I’m worried you don’t love me.

That last sentence appeared in clumsier handwriting than the rest, a “tell” of sorts that had developed over their years of writing and drawing to each other. Logan always wondered if his little artist was crying when his writing took on this messy shape. It was with that tender thought that he found the honesty to write back:

Of course I love you.
I love your excitement, your energy.
I love getting to watch you draw.
I’ve always told you that I wouldn’t pursue anything outwardly romantic until you are an adult, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you right now.

Remus’s writing seemed more structured, more confident as he replied:

You really don’t mind waiting?
For me to grow up?

Logan still didn’t quite understand what had brought all this fear into Remus’s thoughts, but he knew his response:

I love you, Remus.

His favorite green marker wrote back:

I love you too, Lolo.

And that was the end of the great deluge of smut. Logan could never manage to discover any more answers as to what started it in the first place, but with Remus’s insecurities quelled the artwork shared upon both their bodies went in a decidedly less naked direction. There was a surge of zombie art when Remus turned sixteen, as the twins’ birthday that year happened to be the release date for a much-anticipated horror sequel. Logan was so intrigued by all of the artwork to free up a night of studying for his master’s program to rent the movie and watch it himself. He didn’t enjoy the gore, but the stylized lighting and colorful costumes were all interesting creative choices. It was clear why Remus was so inspired.

The next major inspiration was some punk band that Logan had never heard of, but the lyrics were pleasantly moving if read separately from the singer’s screaming. If he had to guess Logan supposed the band made use of some occult symbols, based on how frequently a man with the face of a goat graced his forearm. It certainly earned some weird looks around campus. The baristas at the on-campus coffee shop were all big fans, and Logan later thanked Remus for helping him get so many free coffees. Patton was less enthused, if only because the newly hired Kindergarten teacher was wary of some PTA mom becoming offended that he had a life outside of the ABCs. Logan made sure to have a light jacker or longer sleeves on the days they were together. After the whole debauchery debacle, he couldn’t bring himself to use the Dermablend anymore. It was such a blessing that he didn’t have to do so.

When Remus turned seventeen, he became consumed by twin obsessions: getting accepted into art school, and meeting Logan in a year. There was no pressure to move the figurative goal post any closer, none of the cajoling from when he was fifteen. Instead Remus held firm the date and entertained himself imagining the details. He was constantly changing his mind, writing one day:

I wanna take you to this Mexican place, we can have a romantic dinner and shit

And then the next:

We can walk at this rec park
They have a pond there!

Only to change his mind again:

Zombie Slasher 4 is coming out then!
We can go see it together!

Logan always agreed to the ever-shifting plan. He couldn’t deny some measure of excitement, too. Still, he often redirected Remus back to his portfolio and his application. There may or may not have been some excessively excited phone calls to Patton and Dee when he got the news that Remus had been accepted. Logan reiterated many times over how proud he was, to anyone who would listen. The barristas on campus were starting to get sick of him.
And then Spring came, and Remus seemed to relish in his last hurrah at high school. He even turned one of Logan’s constellation into the bulldog mascot of his local team. Spirit Days and pep rallies and all sorts of events that had never been mentioned before were doodled and described all over Logan’s arms. Occasionally a stray stripe of school colors also careened onto his cheek, though Remus had gotten much better about asking first. It wasn’t horribly shocking then, when the green marker looped along one Saturday afternoon:

Lolo, can I ask you for a really big favor?

Logan wrote back with as much tact as he could gather:

That will depend on the favor, Remus.
Care to elaborate?

The writing came sloppy and fast as it engulfed his skin:

Can I please, please, please Facetime you?
I know you don’t want me to have your number til I’m 18 but I have something special
REALLY special
To ask you and I can’t do it in writing
Please just this once?

Despite his doubts that the question couldn’t be conveyed in writing, Logan humored his little artist and spelled out his phone number. He had only just put down his pen when the first rings sprang from his phone. Remus must have been dialing the number as Logan wrote, he realized. With a brief correcting of his posture and a quick hand through his hair Logan answered the call from his soulmate. “Hello, Remus.”

The face staring back was so youthful, a stray pimple still marking his features. His brown hair was shaggy and just a tad greasy, while the wayward beginnings of a mustache curled above an anxious smile. “Hi Lolo. Logan. I, um, hi.”

Neither spoke for a moment, just taking in the other’s appearance for the first time. Logan broke the silence at last to say, “It’s nice to finally see you.”
“Oh, yeah!” Remus nodded, the phone jostling in his grip. “Yeah, it’s, um--”

“Remus quit hogging the bathroom!” a female voice chided. “We have guests!”

“Okay Mom, I’ll be right out!” Remus shouted back, turning towards what must be the door just out of view. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s quite alright,” Logan assured him, “but to avoid any conflict I suggest you ask me your important question sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, yeah, shit- sorry,” Remus agreed. He took a deep breath. “This is so not how I planned this, but, um, we’re soulmates or whatever and I’m almost eighteen in like six months and I know it breaks all your rules but like I was sort of thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be totally stupid if you went to prom with me?”

Logan blinked. “Prom?”

“We don’t even have to dance or anything!” Remus promised, and despite the limitations of the camera Logan could tell he had his arms raised as if he were approaching a frightened animal. “Seriously, it’s like whatever, but there’s gonna be pictures and the theme is A Night Under the Stars and Roman said the gym’s gonna be covered in constellations and I just thought that was so us that maybe we could like make an exception? And then you could meet all my friends and my idiot brother and my mom or whatever before I’m off at school, so like it’ll be easier I guess?”

“That is a very good point,” Logan conceded.

“And I could get you a real corsage!” Remus was smiling so confidently as he spoke. “Blue orchids, right?”

That lingering detail, the awkward shyness, the whole picture of innocence bundled within this one request tugged at Logan’s feelings too tightly to ignore. If it had been anyone else- but this was Remus, whose art he had so cherished, whose ideas were such welcomed distractions when Logan most needed one. Remus who just wanted to know he was loved. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if--

“Psst!” sounded another voice beyond the door. “Did you ask if he’d buy us booze yet?”

“Shut up, Roman!” and as he shouted Remus jerked himself away from the door, his phone swaying just enough to catch a glimpse of the mirror behind him. The outlined images of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck stared out from opposite corners along the reflection.

Logan let a soft chuckle escape him. Remus was still a child. A child prone to bad decisions and poor judgement. To indulge one of his zanier whims in this way would be to invade his space, his time as a child. “Remus,” Logan began, “I’m sorry but--”

“No, no, wait!” Remus pleaded. “Don’t listen to him, I wasn’t gonna ask you for drinks or drugs or shit. We could totally just take pictures and dance, or, not dance and just talk, or, I mean--”

“Remus, it’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

“Remus, you’re a child--”

“No, I’m not! And even if I was, I’m not gonna be for much longer. Do you really want to leave me alone just because of a stupid calendar?”

Logan kept his voice as even as he could manage, “You only get to be a child once--”

“And I only get to go to senior prom once too!” Remus’s jaw was set tight in anger, and it brought out the sharper, grown-up angles of his face.

Perhaps honesty would be welcomed once again. “How do you think I felt at my senior prom?” Logan asked, and that did seem to shake the boy’s anger from his expression. With another deep breath Logan went on, “The theme was something like Jungle Masquerade, with all these inflatable palm trees and Venetian masks. I spent the whole night thinking how much you would have loved it, but you weren’t ready--”

“That’s exactly my point!” Remus’s anger returned. “ I AM ready now!”

“And I’m not ready anymore!” Logan shot back. He tried to regain his composure before he spoke once more. “I’m too old for prom, don’t you see? We’ve been missing moments like this for years, but it’ll get easier when you’re an adult--”

Remus scoffed, “What, is some magic wand gonna come down from the sky and make it okay for you to fuck me?"

“Remus! Sex is far from the only aspect of an adult relationship, and it is certainly not the aspect I most look forward to.” Logan barely process his shock before--

“God, do you even want me at all?” Remus’s face was so pained, his eyes so wounded that Logan almost changed his mind if only to remove that festering doubt from the boy’s mind. “Do you actually love me or are you just gonna freaking babysit me for the rest of our fucking lives?”

“Of course I love you,” Logan reminded him, but Remus only huffed. It was moments such as this that made Logan regret never coming up with a satisfactory pet name. Still he tried to utilize some of the more generic suggestions, though the words felt uncomfortable against his tongue as he forced himself to say, “Remus, baby--”

“Shut the fuck up!” Remus’s eyes were wide and his posture tense, but the anger was gone.

“I’m sorry!” Now it was Logan’s turn to calm his soulmate with raised, open hands that couldn’t be seen through the camera. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to- I was trying to show you, I—"

“This was a bad idea,” Remus realized. “This was a stupid fucking idea. I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand. You’ve never wanted to understand.”

Logan was at a loss as he stammered, “Remus.”

Remus shook his head, all that earlier anger rising up again. “You’re so obsessed with letting me be a kid and not taking away my childhood, you just didn’t plan on me ever growing up, huh? You were just gonna coast along keeping me at arm’s length as long as you could huh? All of the stupid compliments, the whole ‘focus on you’ deal, so I wouldn’t realize you don’t fricking want me?”

“Remus—”

“Did you EVER want me?”

“Remus, I told you not to hog the bathroom!” the female voice shouted again.

“I’ll be right out Mom, jeez!” Remus shouted back.

Logan could see his soulmate’s thumb moving to end the call and cried out, “Wait, Remus—”

“Don’t talk to me again,” was the last thing he said before he hung up. Logan frantically pressed to call him back, and again when the first call was rejected. After another try the phone produced an error message saying the number could not be contacted from this device. Remus had blocked him already. Tossing the phone on his bed Logan grabbed a pen and scribbled on his arm:

Remus, wait, please!

Black sharpie crossed out his message before writing its own:

Stop writing on me asshole

Then it began to black out their earlier correspondence as well, diving back to stop Logan’s hand every time he tried to explain himself. Hot tears began to fall against his glasses as he stared down at the mess of ink. Logan guiltily wasn’t sure if he was more upset because Remus hated him so, or because he had hurt the poor boy enough to deserve such hate. He sat there, perched on the edge of the bed with his blacked arms in his lap, for a long, long time.

Chapter Text

If the next few months were difficult without Logan, Remus never cooled down enough to feel it. His stupid jerk soulmate had taken the hint after a few more black-outs but still doodled the occasional constellation. The asshole even sent one on his own birthday, as if he had to remind Remus that he still existed just for the hell of it. Remus didn’t care. He didn’t care about a lot of shit.

Roman and Virgil were headed to the same liberal arts school, albeit not in the visual arts department, and it was on their insistence that Remus didn’t blow off graduation entirely. If his mother cried watching the boys pack up into Virgil’s car, Remus hadn’t noticed. He could only focus on his shoes and his bags and his art supplies- anything to keep from looking at the small crowd of well-wishers gathered to see them off. Old friends from all over the apartment had shown up. Uncle Gray was chief among them, but he said nothing. He only gave Remus a pat on the back like it was a goddamn “Leave It to Beaver” episode. Not that Remus cared of course.

Rage and apathy were odd copilots in his head, like the squabbling cliched couple asking and not asking for directions. If Remus found some passion for an assignment that could rile him out of his own mind, so be it. If he found it instead in a game of beer pong at the nearest frat house, just as well. Anything to quiet his anger, his disappointment, his self-hatred. Anything to forget.

Which is how he ended up with a cheap fake ID, in line for a cheaper club, with a broke seventh-year-senior as escort. A bleak November wind tore through the crowd and thinned the line as it passed. Remus was beginning to wish he’d brought a jacket.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be warm inside,” Whym promised. Their nose looked redder than their lipstick in the chill.

“As long as there’s booze,” said Remus. He could see his breath as he spoke.

Whym laughed but it didn’t sound right. It rarely sounded like an honest, genuinely happy laugh with Whym. “There’s plenty, trust me. But the really fun stuff’s in the back.”

Remus tried to smile, he really did. “Think I’ll stick to booze tonight. Maybe try that stuff next time.”

“You’re so vanilla,” Whym teased. “But it’s whatever, babe—”

“I said don’t call me that!” Remus couldn’t stop himself before the words came tumbling out.

Whym looked at him like he’d just mauled a kitten in front of them, not quite scared but definitely disgusted. “Jesus, haven’t you heard of a chill pill?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. He didn’t say another word until they both were IDed, stamped, and herded inside, announcing, “I’m heading to the bar,” and leaving Whym to wander the dance floor.

The bartender eyed him for a moment but eventually shrugged. Remus figured the man must not care either. He happened to look down at the stamp as he nursed his second rum and coke, finally noticing the tiny blue scrawl:

Remus?

What kind of art student would Remus be if he didn’t carry around a pen? He crossed out Logan’s writing and then scribbled under the blur:

Don’t fuck this up for me

He let it sit for a minute or two, and when no response arrived he blacked out his writing as well and turned the whole mess into the darker half of a yin-yang. It was cheesy but it did the job of hiding the stupid writing. Remus didn’t bother to think of it again for the rest of the night.

And it was a very long night.

Remus wasn’t entirely sure what time he made it back to his room, but it was dark enough outside that he had to turn a light on as he traipsed his way to the bathroom. Whym had ditched him sometime during the adventure- or had Remus ditched them?- and without a ride Remus had had to walk all the way from the club to the apartment. The exercise did not agree with him, and it wasn’t long before the evening’s drinks began to resurface. Remus was practically fused to the toilet, retching up his guts with gusto. Gutsto, one might say.

He didn’t hear the knock or the opening of the door, so his first hint that Roman was even there was the gentle hand on his shoulder. “Rough night?” his brother asked.

“Just peachy,” Remus replied. He ran his tongue over his upper lip and realized there were flecks of vomit in his mustache. “Tastes like peach schnapps.”

“Ugh!” Roman whined, giving him a little shove. “Don’t be gross or I’ll hide the tums again!”

Remus just laughed as he turned to face his brother. “Then I’ll hide your hairspray again.”

But Roman didn’t launch into his usual offended scoffing. He only smiled an awkward half-smile and said, “I just got off the phone with Mom.” There was more to tell, clearly, but Roman just looked away and fiddled with his hands.

“Yeah?” Remus prompted when his brother didn’t go on. If Roman was still in his sweats that meant the call had woken him up, which meant it was too damn early to not be something serious.

Roman sighed a deep sigh before he looked back up. “Unc-,” he stopped and tried again, “Gray got arrested.”

If Remus could bottle and sell the stone-cold dread that ran through him, he’d have a billion-dollar hangover cure on his hands. But as it was he could only stare, tight lipped and scared as hell.

“The whole thing started about a week ago. A new family moved in, Gray babysat the little girl, they called the cops accusing him of, of molestation I guess,” Roman explained. “Mom didn’t want to believe it at first, nobody did. Mom didn’t even bother to call when it happened ‘cause she thought it would blow over. Figured it was some misunderstanding or overreaction. I mean, Uncle Gray’s always been a hugger, right?”

Remus really, really wanted to vomit, but his stomach had decided it was empty.

“But then, um, some other people started coming forward.” If Remus were stupid he might’ve thought his brother was ready to cry as he kept talking, “Remember Vicki from the other building? We went to her graduation party when we were what, eight? She drove up from the city to say she’d testify if needed, that Gray had, had hurt her too. And Calvin, who rode the bus with us? He said the same thing. The family’s lawyers say there’s three more that have asked to remain anonymous, and one more minor whose name has to be kept secret.”

Damn. Remus never would’ve guessed there were so many.

Roman started to fiddle with his hands again, but the whole rotten story kept spilling out of him this time. “So Mom starts panicking, right, I mean that number covers every other kid in our building, plus Vicki lived in the other building so, so she calls me and fills me in on all this and asks if anything happened to us, ‘cause I mean Gray was practically living at our place after Momma passed, and I spent an hour trying to calm her down saying no, nothing happened to me, but then…” He looked back at Remus with wide, guilty eyes. “But then I started to remember all of the weird things that would happen when Gray babysat us. He, he’d tell me to stay out of the kitchen while you two got dinner ready or find other ways to get you alone. He’d pull you into these long hugs when he thought I wasn’t looking. He started sending me to bed earlier than you, saying that you’d been cheeky and needed a talking to.”

If he weren’t so damn nauseas Remus would’ve quipped something like “I had to be somebody’s favorite twin” or “There wasn’t much talking going on” or “Surprise! I really am a walking piece of garbage!”

“Once,” Roman said with a shaky voice, “once I woke up as he was finally sending you into bed. It was after midnight. Later I thought I’d dreamt it, but I, I could’ve sworn I heard, heard him call you baby.”

The bile came up so fast that Remus barely had time to aim it into the toilet. He silently cursed as he coughed, squeezing his eye tight at the pain in his throat. Of course his stomach could deign to vomit now.

Roman’s hand tentatively patted his shoulder again. “He, he hurt you, didn’t he?”

Remus nodded, still gazing into the alcohol-infused mess swirling in the toilet bowl.

“Oh God, Remus—”

“Don’t tell Mom,” Remus begged, finally turning back to look at his brother again. “Don’t, please, promise?”

But Roman didn’t hear, his other hand caught in his hair. “Oh God, I- I’m sorry, I should’ve realized, I should’ve done something, I just thought it was all normal, Remus, I’m so, so fricking sorry—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Remus had to pull his brother into a hug to get him to stop panicking. He spoke softer than he had in years as he assured him, “This has never been your fault, Roman. It was normal for me, too. If I’d known better I would’ve said something myself, but I didn’t so here we are. I guess I’m just glad you don’t hate me.”

“I’d never hate you, I’m so sorr—”

“I know, I know, you don’t have to be sorry—”

“You should never have been alone, you were a kid—”

“So were you,” Remus told him. “We were both just stupid, scared little kids.” That finally, finally calmed his brother down. He didn’t burst into renewed apologies but instead let Remus hold him and held Remus right back. They both stayed just like that, squished against the wall as Roman sorted out his breathing. Remus was never one for quiet, so he broke the silence to add, “It wasn’t your job to rescue me, you big doofus.”

Roman laughed as he hugged him a little tighter. “You’ve got such a way with words, little brother.”

Remus groaned. “By six lousy minutes!”

“Still makes you the little brother,” Roman replied. He pulled away from their hug with that sad half-smile again. “So what now?”

“I dunno,” Remus looked away again. “Is that little girl alright? And Vicki and Calvin and the rest?”

“Yeah. I mean, as far as the court case,” his brother explained. “Mark and Lisa from upstairs told Mom they saw the cops seize Gray’s computer, and the family’s lawyers are pretty confident from what Mom said. They’re moving though, the little girl and her family. Guess they wigged out when so many people couldn’t believe it at first.”

Remus made a silent prayer to whatever gods existed, but all he asked out loud was, “So I don’t have to tell then, do I?”

“I mean, I guess not?” Roman gave him a quizzical look. “But shouldn’t you go to therapy or something?”

“I don’t need therapy,” Remus scoffed.

“Dude, I want therapy for this and I wasn’t even the victim,” said his brother. That word “victim” was a funny thing for Remus to wrap his head around, but he didn’t have time before Roman went on, “Seriously, if Gray wasn’t already going to jail I’d be sending him to his grave. It’s all kinds of messed up what he did to you, and you’re gonna want some help dealing with it. At least, I want that for you.”

Remus sighed. “If I get therapy then we don’t tell Mom?”

“This isn’t mine to tell,” Roman assured him. “If and when you tell anybody else besides a therapist is your decision. But you’re not scared to tell her, right? Remus, she’ll believe you—”

“I know she’ll believe me.”

“I mean she didn’t even know for sure and she was sobbing on the phone with me.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t wanna tell her!” Remus shouted. “I’m not scared, but you know damn well that she’s gonna feel guiltier than you did. She’s finally happy, really happy, since Momma died and you want to take that away from her?” When he saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes Remus softened again. He snorted back a booger before he could admit, “I was kinda hoping she’d form a Second Attachment, is all.”

Roman failed to hold back a snicker, and in answer to the glare he received said, “It’s just a little funny talking about Second Attachments with the guy who won’t even talk to his soulmate.”

“That’s different,” Remus huffed.

“It looks like he’s worried about you,” his brother told him, gesturing to Remus’s wrist. Sure enough, more blue writing was unfolding as they watched, as tiny as could be:

I’ve never wanted to control you, Remus
I’ll never interfere with your evening plans again.
But if you could please tell me when you return home for the night, it would be much appreciated.
Please?

Remus didn’t realize how much he’d missed that nerd’s loopy handwriting until he saw it again. A part of him wanted to drop all pretenses and beg to be covered in that blue ink, to feel as close as he could manage to his soulmate, his Lolo. Another part of him was still frightened Logan would say no. That part won, but he did grab the pen from his pocket and write back:

I’m alive, Brainiac
Chill

Roman snickered again. “You and your way with words.”

“Beat it doofus, before I vomit on you!” Remus teased.

“Yeesh!” Roman scooted away from him, but he stopped before the door. “So we’ll check out the counselling center on Monday?”

That part of Remus that missed Logan’s writing, that could speak softly, that felt so whole taking in the sight of a finished work of art, wanted to say yes. If Roman thought it was a good idea the best parts of Remus would follow his lead. The other part, the part that was scared of rejection and sure only of his own brokenness, wanted very much for Remus to flush himself down the toilet with the rest of the night’s bad decisions. But that being impossible and Roman still waiting, not even standing yet in the doorway was just enough to tip the scales. Remus took in a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll go on Monday.”

They discovered on Monday morning that the university’s counselling center was small and understaffed, to Roman’s disappointment. There was a very nice nurse practitioner however, and she arranged for both boys to have proper appointments with local therapists within the week. She was also taking care of the “mandatory reporting”, whatever that meant. Remus was more concerned that he ended up with a different therapist in a completely different office than Roman’s. The nurse practitioner said that she thought it’d be best for them to process their feelings separately, or some similar gobbily-gook that made damn good sense in the abstract but was infuriatingly scary to deal with in real life. Not that Remus was going to admit that out loud as he sat across from his new therapist. He just picked at his nail polish.

“So have you ever tried therapy before?” asked the doctor.

“No,” Remus shook his head. “Logan, my soulmate, used to though. He said it was just, like, having a conversation.”

“That sounds like talk therapy, which is actually my specialty,” the doctor explained. He might’ve said something else too, but Remus was suddenly aware that he’d forgotten something.

“The doc had some funny name,” he said aloud, censoring a few curses what with all the cartoon and Disney trinkets all over the room. There was a slippery memory Remus had of giggling as Lolo tried to write the name phonetically. Dr. Piccolo? Pistachio? Pin-cushion? “Dr. Peanut Butter or something.”

“Dr. Peanut Butter!” his therapist laughed. “That sounds like a baddie for the Dumpster Patrol to tackle.”

“I used to love that show,” Remus brightened as he spoke, finally looking the doctor in the eye.

Dr. Picani smiled. “I thought you might.”

Chapter Text

Emile couldn’t help but be excited when he read the name at the top of the paper. Remus LeRoi was not a common name. It was a wild guess to think that it could be Logan’s Remus, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. The doctor hadn’t had a session with Logan Berry in years, not since Logan had left for university. Supposing this really was Logan’s soulmate, Emile would get to find out how that determined little genius was doing and finally see Remus’s side of the relationship.

But then he scanned a little further into the paperwork and read the notes from the counselor that had referred him this Remus. One of the unfortunate realities of life outside a cartoon was the extent of true evil that humanity could both lash out and be subjected to. No one should have to experience the kind of things detailed in that paperwork, absolutely no one. Emile couldn’t help but guiltily wish that Logan’s Remus had been especially spared, that the progenitor of so many drawings and such sweet little notes could never even dream of that level of cruelty. Perhaps it wasn’t such a small world after all, and this new patient really did just happen to have the same name and it really was just a coincidence.

This Remus was also an artist and had shyly stowed away his sketch book as he sat down for their first session. This Remus also had a soulmate named Logan. A soulmate named Logan who had been in therapy as a child. Emile planned to marvel at the coincidences upon coincidences later, until this Remus blurted out, “The doc had some funny name. Dr. Peanut Butter or something.”

Peanut butter was a far stretch from Picani, but just to be sure Emile laughed as he said, “Dr. Peanut Butter! That sounds like a baddie for the Dumpster Patrol to tackle.”

His new patient finally looked up, a little jolt of happiness visibly working its way through his features. “I used to love that show,” he told the doctor.

Emile smiled to hide his recognition. “I thought you might.”

This Remus- Logan’s Remus- Remus sighed a nostalgic little sigh. “I was obsessed with it really. I started hoarding trash to make my own little figures before my mom finally cracked and bought me the toys.”

“Wow, what a creative idea!” Emile complimented.

Remus scrunched up his eye brows as he asked, “Really? Nobody else thought so.”

“Nobody?”

“Well, Lol-Logan did, I guess.” Remus was suddenly a lot more interested in his nails again, and for a moment Emile thought he’d lost the session before it began. “It’s awkward talking /about/ him when I’m not really talking /to/ him.”

“Are you guys fighting?”

“No,” he sighed again. “We only had one fight and then I decided to give him the silent treatment. Real mature, I know.”

“Does this have anything to do why you decided to seek therapy?”

Remus shook his head adamantly but changed his mind as he tried to explain, “No, no. Well, kinda. Ugh, it’s like everything’s all mangled together in my mind, like a massive car crash and you can’t tell what remains are from which body.”

“Would you like to try un-mangling it? Pressing rewind and trying to see where the crash started rather than where it ended?”

Remus took a deep breath before he spoke again. “It started with Uncle Gray.”

And from there Remus explained the whole sordid history. In Emile’s cartoonification, it became the saga of a young hero whose kingdom was invaded by a Prince Hans bait-and-switch style villain, offering support in a time of mourning while really extracting a bitter tax on Remus’s autonomy. There was a bit of a Judge Frollo vibe as well, a “look what you made me do” sort of gaslighting.

“I didn’t even know to think of it as abuse until Roman said that’s what it was called,” Remus confessed, digging his nails further into the couch. “I just figured if I had been a better kid it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Do you still feel that way now?”

“Sometimes. It’s like, I can understand that Gray was the adult and he made the decision, but then for so long I wondered why he picked me and not Roman. I don’t know, it just feels like it has to be my fault somehow.”

The conversation was heavy, but Emile hoped the solution could lighten the mood and the weight on Remus. He asked the young man, “Was it Simba’s fault that Mufasa died in The Lion King?”

Remus startled for a moment at the shift in conversation, blinking away from his own memories. There was a cut of anger in his voice as he said, “Of course not, it was Scar’s fault.”

“Why?”

“Well first of all Scar was the one who threw Mufasa down into the stampede.”

“But Mufasa was only there because he was trying to save Simba.”

“Yeah and Simba was only there because Scar put him there as bait, and it was Scar who told the hyenas to herd the wildebeests into the gorge.”

“Then why did Scar tell Simba that it was his—”

“Because he’s dicking with him, dude have you even seen the movie?! He tells Simba it’s his fault and to run away so that no one ever finds out what really happened!”

“Would Scar’s plan have still worked if he’d told Nala to wait in the gorge?”

Remus blinked again. “Yeah, actually,” he said slowly. “He’d need a different reason to get her down there, and he’d probably still have done something to get rid of Simba, but yeah I think it still works.”

“So it’s not even Simba’s fault that he was used by Scar, just as much as it’s not his fault that Mufasa died?”

“Yeah. I mean, Scar was working to kill Mufasa anyway.”

“So it’s not any victim’s fault that they were targeted by an abuser, because that abuser had already chosen to abuse.” It’s not a question so Emile didn’t say it like one, but he was still unsure if Remus was ready to hear it just yet. First sessions weren’t usually this intense.

“You’re saying that Gray was gonna hurt somebody anyway, so it’s not my fault that he picked me?” Remus asked.

“Yep, yep, yep,” Emile replied. “It may not be easy to believe that just yet, but it’s important to remember that what happened to you was not and is not your fault. Not one bit.”

Remus left that session with a smile on his face, and he left the next several sessions just the same. It wasn’t until after Christmas and New Years that any of the nervousness from that first time in therapy came back. Emile noticed right away how little Remus looked him in the eye.

“Is something on your mind today?” he asked gently.

Remus finally looked up. “Remember how I said Logan and I weren’t talking?”

Emile bit back the “Still?” that he wanted to ask and instead nodded, “Yes?”

“This is a really stupid question,” Remus chastised himself, “but like as much as we’ve talked about how it’s not my fault or whatever I’m still kinda worried that Logan’s gonna hate me.”

“Remus—”

“No, see there was this one time when Gray pretty much told me that what we were doing was cheating and that Logan wouldn’t want me when he found out and no matter how much I try to call it abuse or whatever I can’t help but feel like Logan’s gonna hate me and not want me as his soulmate.”

“Okay—”

“And like I know that ‘nobody gets to choose’ and ‘the universe doesn’t make mistakes’ or whatever, but Lolo is amazing and he deserves way better and if he’s stuck with me then that’s unfair because am I even worth wanting?”

“Remus, would you like to try a deep breathing exercise with me?” Emile squeaked out, trying to prevent another avalanche of worry.

“No, you don’t understand,” Remus half-gasped as he went on, “because I did some really stupid shit trying to make him want me when I was a teenager, and Logan just took it all in stride like some frickin’ saint or something, and he keeps trying to send me little constellations so we can talk again but I just, I just can’t fucking ruin him, Doc, I can’t!”

“Remus, look at me.” Emile kept his voice low and steady as he waited for Remus to comply, and when that panicked gaze finally focused, he continued just as calmly as he was able, “Name five things that you can see.”

His patient was still breathing fast as he rattled off, “Finding Dory poster. CatDog funko pop. Pen. Note pad. Steven Universe poster.”

“Very good,” Emile assured him. “Now name four things you can touch.”

“Leather sofa. My jeans. The krabby patty throw pillow. My jacket.”

“And now three things you can hear.”

“Your voice. My voice. My breathing.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“I could huff the leather of the sofa if I got my face right in it. And the free coffee from the lobby.”

“And lastly, name one thing you can taste.”

“Roman’s crappy toothpaste. It’s too minty but I still borrow it to piss him off.” Remus smiled as he added, “Thanks, Doc.”

Emile nodded. “It’s important to remember where you are in the here and now, especially when your anxiety is lost in the past or worrying about the future. Why don’t we review together what you actually know to be true, and then predict how Logan might react?”

Remus hesitated, but eventually agreed. “Okay. I know Gray was manipulating me when he called his abuse cheating.”

“That’s true,” Emile confirmed. “We’ve already discussed how you are not responsible for what was done to you.”

“So if it’s not cheating then Logan can’t be mad?”

“Would Raven be mad at Beast Boy for something Trigon did to Jump City?”

“That wouldn’t make any sense. It’s not fair to blame him for shit somebody else did,” Remus scoffed. His expression softened and he smacked his forehead as he realized, “Oh! You’re saying that Logan would be mad at Gray, not me.”

“Booyah!” Emile cried. It was a rare and happy occurrence when he got to pull out his Beast Boy impression.

Remus laughed as he shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re talking about cartoons.”

“Believe it!” Emile’s Naruto was a much more utilized skillset.

“Okay, back to Logan,” Remus insisted. “So if it’s not my fault and Logan won’t feel cheated on, does that mean he won’t hate me?”

“I don’t think Logan could ever hate you,” said Emile. When he saw the curious look in Remus’s eyes he backtracked, “I mean all soulmates have their difficulties from time to time, but I’ve never met any that truly hated each other. Whether you two are more Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head or Ruby and Sapphire, there’s still a deep bond between all soulmates.”

The young man shrugged, but he’d looked down at the word soulmates. “I guess you’re right.”

“Why don’t we try an assignment this week? Emile asked. “Try to send Logan just one note. It could be a drawing or even just the word hi, and you don’t have to keep up a conversation if it’s too overwhelming. All you have to do is give yourself permission to reach out. Do you think you can do that?”

Remus chewed at his fingernails for a moment before he decided, “I’ll try.”

As Remus left that afternoon and Emile set about preparing for his next patient, his receptionist knocked at his door. “Emile?”

“Come on in, Becky,” he told her cheerily.

Becky looked equally cheery as she popped inside. “Guess how just called asking to make an appointment as soon as possible?”

This was not usually such a cheery question. “Who?”

“Logan Berry!” Becky exclaimed. “Remus’s Logan, who saw you as a teenager? He was such a sweetheart and last week Remus let it slip that they still haven’t met, we could schedule him right after Remus and tell him to come an hour early to fill out new paperwork. They’d finally meet right here!”

Dun, dun, DUN!

Were it not for doctor-patient confidentiality, he might have explained to her how vulnerable Remus felt and how much having a sense of control about when and how to communicate with Logan was important to his care at this time. Since that would breach not only Remus’s privacy but also the law, Emile tried to let her down gently. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, from a therapist’s perspective. You said Logan asked to be seen as soon as possible?”

Becky huffed. “Yeah.”

“Squeeze him in tomorrow, please. It’s what my snack hour’s for.”

“Alright Em. Doctor knows best.”

She may have been a little put out to have her matchmaking scheme shot down, but Becky and Remy were both shocked to see Logan walk in the following afternoon. Before Emile could stop him, Remy marched over and announced, “You look like shit, kid.”

And Logan really did. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were surrounded with sleepless circles, even his tie was crooked. There was a hoarse, croaky sound in his voice when he replied, “It’s good to see you too, Remy.”

“Hey there, hi there, ho there!” Emile shouted. “Let’s get back into my office and leave the nosy naysayers at the door, okay?”

“Take a croissant with you,” said Remy, still speaking only to Logan. “You need to eat, kid.”

Emile knew Remy cared, but he cared in such a funny way that was hard to translate sometimes. Luckily Logan seemed fluent in Remy-ese, nodding in thanks and swiping a baked good from the reception desk before looking back to Emile. “Lead the way. Please.”

As he watched Logan flop down on the couch, Emile couldn’t help but think of Aang’s hundred-year nap at the start of Avatar the Last Air Bender. What Fire Nation had attacked Logan to leave him so bereft of focus, of energy, of himself?

“Remus hates me,” Logan explained. “Remus hates me. And I’m doomed.”

“Whoa there,” Emile stopped him. “I think I missed a few seasons here? When you left for college everything was fine between you two, wasn’t it?” Doctor-patient confidentiality also prevented Emile from admitting he knew anything about the problems since, let alone the months of radio silence between the two patients.

Logan sighed. “Yes that was correct, or so I thought. I even managed to weather some minor conflicts with Remus whilst in undergrad. And then last year I ruined everything and now Remus hates me. And won’t talk to me. And in the months since he cut off contact I have come to discover that he was right. Therefore, I am doomed.”

“Can we break this down a little further?” Emile asked.

“Remus and I had agreed not to organize our first meeting until he turned eighteen. However, last spring he changed his mind and invited me to attend his senior prom. I tried to explain that I felt this would be an invasion of Remus’s time as a child, to which he responded that it was also a denial of his inevitable entry into adulthood. Remus may have also expressed a belief that I did not ‘want’ him because I did not look forward to engaging with him sexually. After I rejected his ‘promposal’, Remus refused any and all communication from me. It has now been over eight months and two days since we last communicated regularly.”

“That’s got be hard to deal with.”

Logan squirmed in his seat. Emile had to stifle a sigh that all that character development getting Logan comfortable talking about his feelings had been undone like a pearl reboot. “I was and still am much more concerned about Remus’s feelings,” Logan insisted. “As I said that length of time describes the gap between our former pattern of normal communication. Back in November I saw a club entry stamp and was able to receive confirmation from Remus that he arrived home safely after his underaged night out. While curt and brief, I misjudged the very act of his replying as a metaphorical olive branch and tried to send him a few more constellations. Now instead of blackening them out Remus is simply ignoring them. I sent him one on both Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve, the closest gap between attempts since before last June, and on both occasions they were left untouched.”

So that was why Remus was so stressed about talking to Logan.

“I don’t know of any other way to interpret this situation than to conclude that Remus is still very hurt over my rejection last year,” Logan went on, “or in plainer terms, that he hates me.”

“Jinkies! The key word there is ‘interpret’, isn’t it?” Emile asked. “You have no way of knowing what all could be going on in Remus’s life right now and can only interpret the clues that you are given, which isn’t a lot if Remus isn’t sharing any more information with you.”

“But isn’t his reluctance to share evidence enough?”

“You’re still reading an emotion into the act of not drawing or writing to you, an emotion that you don’t know if Remus is really feeling. How do you know that not sharing isn’t another self-destructive behavior like the underage drinking?”

There was finally some of his old passion back in Logan’s eyes as he puzzled over Emile’s words. “Are you suggesting that rather than harboring anger and hurt feelings Remus may in fact be isolating himself from me?”

“I’m suggesting that there are other options you might be ignoring,” Emile deflected. It wasn’t a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality if it was all in hypotheticals, but a little hint of the truth seemed to be just what Logan needed.

He finally straightened up, finally looked alive as he furtively asked, “But what if Remus would have a right to be angry with me? What if I am incapable of wanting him the way he wants to be wanted?”

“Are you talking about ‘wanting’ in a sexual sense?”

Logan only nodded, and if his eyes were a little watery Emile knew better than to bring it up. It would be too far a breach of Remus’s trust to explain what that “wanting” had really meant, but that didn’t mean he could leave Logan hanging.

“Hang on just a second,” Emile told him as he darted to the bookshelf. He continued to explain as he searched, “You’ve always enjoyed learning through reading Logan, and I think I have a book that’ll help. Since most people are closer in age to their soulmates, they can develop feelings of physical attraction simultaneously as they develop an emotional bond with their soulmate. Because you were older than Remus, those feelings weren’t really encouraged. You also haven’t gotten to meet Remus in person yet and that could factor into whether you develop a sexual attraction later, after you’ve met him. But it’s also perfectly normal for some soulmates to never develop sexual desire for one another and to instead feel totally enriched and fulfilled through their emotional connection. Ah, here it is!” He pulled a thick, heavy book down from the shelf, a properly exaggerated-looking book for both a cartoon lover and a bibliophile. “This is the Soul Institute’s Compendium on the Various Scales of Attraction, with psychological research on everything from soulmate bonding over a lifetime to the spectrum of romantic and sexual orientations that can occur in any soulmate relationship.”

Logan looked so relieved to accept the weight of the heavy book in his arms. “Am I to understand then that what I am experiencing does not inherently hinder my ability to love Remus?”

“Love and sex aren’t the same thing,” Emile assured him, “and for some people they’re not even connected. I already know how much you care about Remus because I got to watch that bond grow when you were a teenager. Whether you do or do not identify as asexual, there’s no denying that you Care-a-Lot about Remus.”

“At least I’ve gotten better at bearing your puns,” Logan said with a weary smile. “Thank you, Dr. Picani.”

And so it went for another year, seeing Remus on Tuesdays at two and Logan on every other Wednesday at three. It took another month and a half of doodling before Remus was comfortable to start writing again, and Emile was so proud when he finally took that step. Logan had been so excited when he came in the next day covered in the remnants of last night’s correspondence. Both were making excellent progress independent of the other, and as much as Emile wanted to bring them together, he couldn’t just come out and say so. Besides, Remus still had a lot of triggers and post-traumatic stress to process.

“It’s going to take time,” Emile tried to assure his very disappointed patient.

Remus shook his head. “Every time somebody says the word I freak. It’s getting stupid, Doc.”

“It’s not stupid,” Emile insisted. “Your reaction is trying to protect you. The old patterns of abuse are so closely associated with that word—”

“Baby,” Remus said through gritted teeth. His nails dug into their usual grooves on the sofa.

“—that your brain tells your body to panic, as if the abuse were going to happen again. You don’t need to push yourself just to prove you can.”

“But this sucks!” Remus cried. “It feels like Gray still gets to push my buttons, like I’m always gonna be some scared little kid!”

“Okay,” Emile said softly, trying to bring a little calm back into the room. “I don’t want you to push yourself too hard, but if you’re that desperate for a sense of control we can try some light exposure therapy. The idea is to re-contextualize the word so that your brain recognizes when you are safe, developing different associations that don’t draw back to the abuse.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“We’re going to watch cartoons, of course!” Emile nabbed a portable dvd player off the shelves behind him and fished around for the right disk. “Have you ever watched Rugrats before?”

Remus shrugged. “Ages ago, I think. Is this the one with the fairy goldfish?”

Emile tried to suppress the urge to correct him, instead saying, “That’s okay, if you don’t know the plot that could give your brain something to focus on. We’re just going to watch five minutes together, alright?”

“Alrighty.”

And it really was. Remus flinched violently each time one of the characters said the word “baby”, but he chuckled softly at the antics onscreen and seemed genuinely entertained. When the timer went off and Emile took the player back, Remus remarked, “Angelica’s a real bitch, huh?”

“She’s certainly a tad spoiled,” Emile agreed. “Did focusing on the story help?”

“Kinda.”

“Okay. If you like we can try this again at your next session, but I don’t want you to try this at home just yet.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Remus nodded along. “Thanks, Doc."

“Of course.”

“Oh, and Doc? Does your office get any junk mail you’d be willing to recycle? I’m remaking Michelangelo’s David out of mail for my 3D design class.”

“Sure thing, ask Becky before you leave,” Emile said as he led Remus back out of the office. “Speaking of art, have you made it over to the Jauntaling Museum—"

“Em!” Remy shouted, rushing his soulmate a coffee and a hug. “Why do your sessions always run long when I plan a visit?”

“Sorry,” Remus mumbled.

“Oh sweetie, it’s not your fault my soulmate can’t tell time,” Remy assured him. “You’re the art student, right? The one who made that landscape out of plastic bags?”

“Sure did,” Remus said brightly. “Hey Becky, the doc said I could swipe the office junk mail for my next project.”

Becky smiled as she scurried further into the reception office. “Let me get it all together for you Remus.”

“Remus?” Remy was finally putting it together. “Logan’s Remus?”

“How did you know his name?” Remus tried to ask.

“OMIGOD HAVE—”

“Let’s chat in my office, huh Remy?” Emile cut him off, already dragging him away. “See you next week, Remus, okay?”

“Okay?”

It was not okay at the Picani-Slumbre household later that night. “I can’t believe you’ve known them this whole time and haven’t set them up!” Remy raged, pacing the living room yet again.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from sharing information about the other—”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality my ass! You don’t have to break confidentiality to rearrange the schedule. They’re soulmates, Em!”

“I know that!”

“Then why are you keeping them apart?”

Emile pinched the bridge of his nose for the fifth time during this conversation. “Would you feel any different knowing I’ve been chatting up the Jauntaling Museum to both of them?”

Remy huffed but he did stop pacing. “What’s the fricking museum got to do with anything?”

“Well, the musuem’s free to explore,” Emile explained, “and you really can’t see everything in one day. ‘More to see than can ever be seen, more to do than can ever be done’ kind of place.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hoping that if either of them went once, they’re bound to go again. And if they both started making trips to the museum, they’re bound to start making trips on the same day.”

Remy gasped like a fangirl.

“I may not feel comfortable forcing them to meet in my office, but I don’t mind meddling with fate to see if they just happen to bump into each other outside the office.”

Remy smiled back at him. “Okay, that’s cute.”

“So am I forgiven?”

The lap-full of Remy and the tirade of kisses seemed to suggest as much.

Chapter Text

Logan didn’t like to think of himself as an emotional person. He was only a child when he realized that too much expression could be a weakness. If one cried when taunted, the taunting only grew worse. If however one simply didn’t respond, didn’t sob with loneliness or flinch with fear or foolishly retaliate with anger, if one gave no attention at all the taunting may cease into nothingness. Then again, this nothingness had never been painful as a child. As a “young professional” with a master’s degree and a righteously furious soulmate, it was the most unbearable pain he could imagine. At twelve he had been prepared to feel alone. Now that he’d had a taste of life with a soulmate Logan couldn’t bear going back. His parents had so graciously let him move back home after graduation, chattering excitedly about the upcoming internship and a new restaurant that had opened and trying so very hard to keep Logan’s mind occupied far away from his bare arms. But the internship wasn’t until January and the new restaurant only had so many menu options to try and there were only so many long-sleeve shirts to wear in the summer.

There were no rainbow candles on his birthday. Remus hated him enough to ignore his birthday. Logan may or may not have cried. He may or may not have continued silently weeping through most of July. Patton and Dee may or may not have had to forcibly drag him from his room to get him out of the house. His mother may or may not have helped him set up an online studying account, murmuring gentle suggestions about getting such and such certifications. These were all flimsy, emotional conjectures. Logan much preferred facts.

In August he learned that American Sign Language began in 1817.

In September he learned that blue whales have three hundred fifty-six bones compared to a human’s two hundred and six.

In October he learned that Leonardo Da Vinci trained as an apprentice for at least seven years. Logan’s little artist clearly had him beat, as the youths might say, with his lifetime of practice. He couldn’t know for sure what the youths were saying when the only “youth” he knew still wasn’t corresponding with him. Remus had even blacked out his birthday well-wishes.

Not that Logan could blame him. Someone as talented, as clever, as wonderful as Remus deserved a far better soulmate than an overly studious nerd who had to be literally torn away from his work. Someone who could cherish him and respect him and could actually feel love-

In November Logan learned that Remus had a fake ID. It was the most logical explanation as to how the club entry stamp had formed on both their hands. The next logical step was to wonder if this was the first time Remus was using it or simply the first time using it somewhere with an entry stamp. Puzzling that one out brought back memories of his own undergrad misadventures, sparse as they were, and though Logan had never indulged whilst under the legal drinking age he knew many of his fellow students had. Was Remus drinking regularly before he got the fake ID? Had he been drinking last spring, when so many things had gone awry? Was this merely one step further in a tragic cycle of alcoholism and lost genius that Logan had been too self-absorbed to stop?

Somewhere in his own cycle of panic Logan had pulled out a pen, and before he could stop himself, he’d written again.

But Remus wrote back! It was bitter and terse but they were words! And a few moments later they all became a drawing, his words and Remus’s locked in a yin-yang together on their wrists. Tears of joy may or may not have been shed. Hours may or may not have been spent curled up under his childhood desk, using a clip-on book light to illuminate the most treasured artifact of the twenty-first century. Pictures may or may not have been taken.

And then reality came rushing back, a figurative flood threatening to drown Logan’s very real happiness. He recalled Remy’s old warning, how “some really good people” could be lost to drug use. Remy had been referring to illicit substances but considering that Remus was under the legal drinking age alcohol technically qualified as such. The thought of losing Remus completely after so many months without him tore at Logan, catching in his throat and fogging up his eyes. He had only just been admonished by his soulmate for writing out of turn, but he shyly had to request:

I’ve never wanted to control you, Remus
I’ll never interfere with your evening plans again.
But if you could please tell me when you return home for the night, it would be much appreciated.
Please?

Logan was not a fearful individual, but if his heart beat a little faster who could blame him? He did not have arrythmia to his knowledge but the old expression about skipping a beat fit well his temperament as he watched scratchy letters spell out:

I’m alive, Brainiac
Chill

And as the weather grew chilly, so did Logan. He steadily pulled himself out of the figurative hole he had dug, apologizing to his parents for his foolish behavior. He sent more constellations to Remus, almost happy to discover his little artist no longer deigned to black them out. He reached out to Patton and Dee, even suggesting they all meet up for coffee somewhere outside his parents’ kitchen. Patton lured him out a little further with promises of homemade gingerbread and warm eggnog.

Which is how he ended up in his bulkiest sweater, standing alone by the Christmas tree as he nursed a mug of said eggnog, surrounded by people he didn’t know. They were all friends of Dee’s or friends of Patton’s or friends of both, a few work colleagues here and a smattering of childhood friends there. Logan thought he recognized a few faces from high school but he couldn’t be sure. He stayed in his corner, a figurative fixture along with the tree and the menorah and the myriad of dancing Santas.

“Logan!” Patton called from somewhere in the crowd. He popped out a moment later, a plate of cookies raised high over his head as he navigated through the masses. “Have you gotten any cookies yet? I haven’t seen you in the kitchen so I swiped a few before they were frosted, just how you like ‘em.”

“Thank you, Patton,” Logan replied, helping himself to a cookie.

“And thank you for coming out of hibernation,” Dee teased, suddenly appearing beside them both. “I was beginning to think it would take a court summons to force you out.”

Patton shook his head, beaming up at his soulmate. “Not everything has to happen in a courtroom, Dee.”

“So it would seem,” Dee agreed, “though I may have some paperwork to shred when I get back to the office.”

Logan was about to thank Dee for his concern when a voice sounded from the crowd. “I can’t believe you!”

“Gabe, please!” another voice shouted, probably to the young man stomping towards the door. “I was five!”

Patton groaned. “Who brought out Like-like at my good old-fashioned all-inclusive holiday party?”

“Like-like?” Logan asked, still watching the drama unfold as a weepy young woman tried to stop the angry young man from leaving.

“You know, ‘I like-like you’ ‘Like-like who?’ ‘Like-like so and so’,” Dee explained, half performing a nonsensical conversation. “People bring up their old crushes and everyone gets pissed off.”

“Crushes?” Logan asked, his full attention back to Dee now that the young couple was fully out the door.

“Yeah,” Patton shifted awkwardly as he spoke, “like who you hoped might be your soulmate before you knew them.”

“We’ve all had one,” Dee assuaged, wrapping an arm around Patton’s waist. “I even had a crush on a girl, in first grade. I thought she had pretty hair and that if she was my soulmate she might let me braid it.”

“Aww,” Patton cooed. “See that’s one of the fun things about working with kids before they can write to their soulmate, hearing all the sweet things they’d like from their imaginary perfect partner.”

“No partner’s as perfect as you, Pattoncake,” said Dee, pecking a kiss on Patton’s cheek to seal his statement.

“A crush is a feeling of attraction to someone other than one’s soulmate?” Logan puzzled out.

“No duh Sherlock, and keep your voice down,” Dee admonished, glancing back at the rest of the party. “That’s why it’s such a messy topic for people. Some simpletons even consider it a form of cheating.”

“It’s not really, not intentionally,” said Patton. “Kids are too little when they’re having crushes to think about the consequences, about their real future soulmate’s feelings.”

“At least usually,” Dee added in a hushed voice, that look of mischief flickering in his eyes. “What about you, Logan? Did you have any crushes when you thought you might be Lonely?”

Logan wracked through his memory, determined to find an answer. There were bullies he’d despised and teachers he’d respected and friends he’d cherished, but never was there a wish some special someone could be his soulmate. Never had he thought to wonder if the universe could be so kind. Even at the tender ages of five and six, such presumptions seemed absent from his psyche. “No,” he confessed.

“Come on, Logan, you can be honest with us,” Dee goaded.

“It’s okay, really,” Patton assured him more gently. “I know you and Remus are in a rough spot right now, but it doesn’t hurt him if you felt something for someone else before you met him.” With a light chuckle he added, “I actually had a crush on you, Logan. Back in Kindergarten. I was so scared anytime a spider got into the classroom and you knew all the Latin names and could explain how ‘poisonous spiders are not native to this region’ and I thought you were so brave, I wanted you to protect me forever.”

“Now it’s my job,” Dee said proudly, pulling Patton closer and causing a flurry of giggles in doing so.

“It sure is,” Patton sputtered through his laughter.

“I- I really never felt that way.” If it was hard to find the words, Logan blamed the eggnog and not the shifting worry inside. “I never thought to have a crush, before Remus.”

“Soulmates don’t count, silly!” Patton insisted, trying and failing to contain his volume as his usual excitement took over. “That’s the whole point of a crush.”

“I see,” Logan nodded, though he really didn’t.

“You really never had one, did you?” Dee realized. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

Before the situation could become any more awkward Patton, bless his heart, shouted back into the crowd, “Janey! Did you bring the hot cocoa?!” He slipped out of Dee’s arms and pushed the plate of cookies into Logan’s as he explained, “Sorry Logan, I’ve got to play host for a bit. Dee, will you help set up—”

“Of course, Pattoncake,” his soulmate acquiesced before the request could even be made, following after Patton as the two were both sucked up into the crowd. Logan was left with his eggnog, his cookies, and his thoughts.

He had never wanted a soulmate. Well, he had never wanted to choose his soulmate and he had gotten used to the idea of not having one. But then Remus started drawing and Logan loved him with all his heart. At least, he thought he loved him. Logan scribbled another constellation again on New Years Eve, hoping against hope that Remus would draw again or write back. He may not have been ready to accept Remus as an adult, but Logan still loved Remus. Didn’t he? Was he capable of loving Remus?

His little artist never wrote back.

His little artist still hated him.

He probably didn’t even want to be Logan’s little artist anymore.

And he’d hate him even more when he found out that Logan didn’t know how to want someone. Experiment after failed experiment of paging through “Sexiest Star Alive” magazines and scrolling through men in swimsuits, art and poses like Remus used to draw, all proved that Logan wasn’t just incapable of attraction as a tween, he was incapable as an adult. He knew the images were supposed to be sexually charged if not downright erotic, but none of them had the desired effect.

Logan was doomed.

He was so prepared for that first session back with Dr. Picani to be all about how Logan was broken and how to suggest to Remus they seek a Divested Bond, a soul divorce of sorts. Rare as it was a Divest Bond could free Remus to form a Second Attachment, and Logan too if he were capable of attachment in the first place. He’d spent many sleepless nights trying to mentally prepare himself for a life without Remus, without his art, that the world had gone fuzzy at the edges. And then Picani, the sly bastard, had turned the whole thing around. Suddenly Remus didn’t hate him and Logan wasn’t broken and there were whole spectrums of attraction with which to contend. There may have also been a discussion about better self-care, but that wasn’t nearly as important as the discoveries waiting inside that Compendium.

Logan read the whole volume twice before his internship at the local community college even started. It was with some trepidation that he started identifying with the term “demisexual”, supposing that his physical attraction could develop after meeting Remus just as his emotional bonds didn’t develop until Remus had begun to draw. He was fretting over the probability of such a conjecture as he wheeled a cart of books back to the research library when it happened.

Remus drew on his skin, Logan’s skin, their skin, once again.

Ursa Major became a zombie unicorn upon his left wrist, accompanied by a little note:

Missed you

Logan scooted the cart to one side of the hall as he fumbled for a pen and finally, finally wrote back:

I’ve missed you too, Remus.

He half expected it to be blacked out, but it stayed and stayed for three whole days before washing away. Remus wouldn’t reply to questions or apologies, but he would draw beautiful, exotic pictures. Mutated sea life, cyborgs smoking cigars, something called “candy gore” where figures oozed pastel blood. Closer to Valentine’s Day a whole army of rabid baby cupids covered their knuckles and palms, tiny teeth biting into both their flesh. Logan was thankfully off the figurative clock, able to calmly reach for his pen to applaud this latest masterpiece:

Very well done, Remus.
I especially like the little one at the base of the thumb.
I’m sorry about—

A thin green (green!) pen cut him off:

No, I’m sorry.
You set a boundary and I was a dick about it.
We always talked about how you wanted to do what’s best for me and it’s time I started doing what’s best for you.
That starts with taking some responsibility for my shittiness

Logan circled the word so that his soulmate might stop, stepping in to write:

You’re not “shitty” Remus.
That boundary was set when you were very young, and you had a right to renegotiate it.
We both could have handled the situation better.

Remus wrote back in sloppy letters:

Yeah, okay.
We can share the mess.
You’re really not mad at me?

If Logan could have held his little artist close, he would have. That being impossible at the moment, he simply wrote:

No Remus, I’m not mad.
I was worried about you.
I love you.

Remus drew an arrow pointing at the last phrase and scribbled more confidently:

Neeeeeeeeeeeeeerd!
I love you too

And just like that, they were corresponding again. Remus’s drawings grew from tiny etchings near the wrist to their former stretch across both arms. He described in detail his classes and classmates, caricaturing particularly crochety professors late into the night. Logan squeaked in harried notes about his internship, which was slowly revealing itself to be a grueling, overly glorified teacher’s assistantship. Remus tried to cheer him with so many little telescopes and flying comets, but the most beautiful artwork of all was the rainbow birthday cake that came in July. Logan may or may not have cried again. It may or may not have been difficult to see through his tear-covered glasses as he wrote out:

Thank you, Remus.

Wobbly green letters replied:

I’m sorry I missed last year.

Logan was quick to assure him:

It’s alright Remus.
We can’t change the past.

Remus’s pen strokes were still crooked as he scribbled back:

But I hurt you

Taking a page from Dr. Picani, and Disney as well, Logan shared sage advice:

The past can hurt, but the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it.
We can learn to be much better communicators togeth—

The green pen cut him off to ask:

Did you just quote the fucking LION KING?

Logan may or may not have blushed as he explained:

Sorry, my therapist is rubbing off on me.

Remus doodle a smiley face and agreed:

Mine too, or I never would’ve caught the reference.

Logan smiled fondly, wondering if there was a whole school of psychiatry devoted to animation hidden away somewhere. It was with this illogical notion that he forced himself to muster his courage to the forefront and use some of those communication techniques Picani was always preaching on about. He slowly and carefully wrote:

Remus, please don’t feel pressured one way or another.
We have not discussed meeting in person for over a year and I simply wish to know your thoughts on the subject, whatever they may be.

The green pen dithered and spiraled, stopping and starting a new sentence once or twice before it could finally communicate:

Please don’t take this the wrong way
I’ve just got a lot of shit to unpack in therapy and I love you, I really do, but
I can’t
You
I need

Logan brought his pen down a little below the latest false start to write:

Take as much time as you need, Remus.
I just wanted to let you know that the topic is not off limits.

His little artist’s writing was noticeably steadier when he replied:

Thanks
You’re pretty frickin amazing Lolo

He let his blue pen copy the letters:

I think you’re pretty frickin amazing too, Remus.

And if dozens of stars danced on his skin, if his cheeks were still littered with little hearts and octopi for the next three weeks, Logan was almost too happy to care.

He was not so happy as to be blinded to the disappoint of his internship, which was drawing to a blissful close come the end of the summer. At the urging of Doctor Picani, Logan applied for a position at the Jauntaling Museum’s Public Observatory. It helped that this was exactly the kind of job he had been fantasizing about since age twelve, but it may or may not have taken a therapist’s assurance to submit that application. Remus drew delicate little fireworks when he got the good news that Logan finally had a reason to wear a tie every day.

As proud as he was to be a “real” astronomer, Logan sometimes wished he had just a fraction of Remus’s artistic abilities. Specifically, he wished for such skills as Remus’s birthday figuratively inched closer. Nineteen candles were a tad too numerous for him to manage, and despite all the prep work with the ruler his two-dimensional cake still turned out lopsided. Remus didn’t care, enshrining the mess within a frame of zombie limbs in the time it took Logan to brush his teeth. A little note of appreciation read:

Thanks, Lolo
Love you

If Logan were a less logical person, he might have wondered if the smitten sensations he felt after each note from Remus contributed to how quickly the autumn seemed to pass. He knew that time moved at a steady pace measured in hours and minutes, but somehow the year had gone by and Logan found himself at yet another good old-fashioned all-inclusive holiday party.

He was still against the wall, nursing yet another eggnog, but this year Remus was figuratively showering him with notes and drawings. A murderous elf here, two reindeer enjoying a post-coitus cigarette there, a smattering of zombies bursting out of beautifully wrapped presents. Green pen wobbled within the elf’s speech bubble:

Hey Lolo?

Logan set his eggnog down amongst the dancing Santas to reply:

Yes Remus?

The speedy scrawl soon revealed:

I want to meet you IRL
Next year
If you’re cool with it
But I want to take this really slow okay?

Logan had already spelled out “Of cour” when another body slammed into his. The pair of them barely avoided a collision with the tree, but Logan’s eggnog and the armada of dancing Santa’s were not so lucky. There wasn’t much time to steady himself out from under the other young man before the poor fellow was pulled up by his sweater. Logan watched in shock as the aggressor- Gabe- shouted in the other man’s face, “She’s my soulmate, mine!”

“Gabe please, it’s just a game!” a young woman, no doubt Gabe’s soulmate, pleaded.

“Like hell it is!” Gabe spat.

“Okay,” said Dee, appearing seemingly from nowhere just like always. “Gabriel, I want you out of my apartment in five seconds. You can call an Uber outside.”

Gabe dropped his original target back at Logan’s feet, but he didn’t have long to threaten Dee when Patton and four particularly buff P. E. teachers broke through the crowd of party guests. “Fine, asshole,” Gabe hissed as he stalked towards the door.

His soulmate burst into tears. “Patton, I- I’m so sorry, I don’t know why he gets like this, I thought this year would be different, I –”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay kiddo,” Patton soothed. “It’s not your fault, honest.” He shepherded the young girl upstairs, giving a nod to Dee as he left.

“Okay people, show’s over,” Dee told the still silent mob. “If you don’t want clean-up duty I suggest you occupy yourselves with the festivities. But no more Like-like!”

Much of the party laughed, albeit somewhat forcibly, as people began to busy themselves. A shock of wild orange hair rushed past Logan to the other young man on the floor. “Zeke, Zeke, Zeke,” they repeated, clearly in the throes of a panic attack.

The young man took his soulmates hands into his own as he sat up, urging them to “Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe for a second. I’m okay, see?”

“You two can go upstairs, for some privacy,” Dee said in a voice barely above a murmur. “The office is the first door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Zeke smiled as he spoke. “C’mon Whim, I’m gonna get you some place safe, okay?”

Logan watched as the young man wrapped a protective arm around his soulmate’s shoulders, the adrenaline still elevated in his system. It must have been the adrenaline’s fault, that Logan was suddenly so overcome with the urge put his arm around Remus whenever he stumbled into a wobbly-written mood. Remembering their correspondence only moments earlier, Logan scrambled for his pen as he rose up and dashed into the kitchen. With baked goods cooling but no onlookers gawking he took stock of the messy, jagged line of blue ink that cut across much of his arm, the only thing close to an injury on Logan’s person after the scuffle. The root of the line, his failed message of assurance, was circled in green ink, surrounded by four or five similar questions of “U okay?” and “Logan?” He wrote just below his original note to explain:

I apologize, Remus.
I was pulled- or rather, pushed- away for a moment.
We can take things as slow as you like.
I look forward to meeting you next year.

A little green smiley face soon appeared, followed by a wavy line crisscrossing purposefully over Logan’s accidental one. At its stop a little sprig of cartoon mistletoe formed out of stray pen pricks with an arrow and a note:

Kiss here?
Check yes or no

Logan checked yes and pressed a quick kiss to the back of his hand. As silly as it was, he found himself humoring his little artist and kissing the spot again and again. With the mistletoe drawn on his epidermis Logan was technically in a perpetual state beneath it. He didn’t even hear Dee come up behind him until the other man made a gagging sound.

“You two are acting like a couple of middle schoolers,” he chided, but there was no real bite in his voice.

“Imagine what it will like next Christmas,” Logan teased. He could tell from that glint in Dee’s eye that he’d caught the real meaning.

“You better tell Pat and I right when it happens,” Dee ordered.

Logan nodded to hide his grin. “I promise.”

This would have been a much easier promise to keep if Logan had any idea of when this long-fabled meeting would be happening himself, but Remus was not nearly as obsessed with the details as he had been two years ago. No grand plans inserted themselves between the zombies and the wer-iguanas, no suggestions bubbled over into every conversation, no updates at all were given all through January. A few days into February, Remus finally announced:

So I wanna meet before Valentine’s Day and hang with you ON Valentine’s Day but
This is not a big thing like
We’re not gonna fuck, okay?

Logan half wondered if it might ease his little artist’s mind to learn that he was demi, but that would mean explaining demisexuality and centering his own feelings in the conversation and worse yet trying to do so on his already crowded forearm, all of which seemed a bit much. Instead Logan simply wrote back:

Of course, Remus.
That is a good pace for me also.
Do you have a specific day in mind?

The green pen strokes were steady as they spelled out:

Not yet
But before Valentine’s

That was all that was said on the matter. Another week went by and Logan tried very hard to occupy himself with work at the observatory. He was half researcher and half teacher, explaining the telescope’s and satellite’s images to museum guests and occasionally swapping out to maneuver the instruments himself. His lunch took only fifteen minutes to eat but the regulations of the museum required he take a whole hour off, ridiculously long as that was, so Logan took his colleagues’ and Picani’s suggestions that he use the extra time to explore the museum. He had an average speed of viewing one department in its entirety every two months.

The Natural History Wing was very informative, even if the taxidermy wildlife was a tad creepy.

The Jewel and Mineral Hall was certainly dazzling even for non- Steven Universe fans.

The Statuary was beautiful, filled to the brim with classical art. Logan was just about to cut across one path and complete the department when he noticed a young man seated on a complimentary bench, sketching furiously into his sketch pad. He was copying one of the statues, Logan realized, and though he would justify his behavior by saying it would have been rude to block the artist’s view Logan may or may not have picked up the bad habit of people-watching over the years.

People-watching artists to be more specific. He couldn’t help but wonder want little tics his own little artist possessed as he drew, like this young man’s habit of sticking his tongue out against his thin mustache. A shock of whiteish-grey hair bobbed in and out of view as the familiar young man looked from the statue to the sketchpad to the statue again. He was too transfixed with his drawing to realize Logan was off to his right, spying from behind the vase-like trash receptacles in the corridor that connected the Statuary to the Jewel and Mineral Hall. It was quite a good view too, before two other young men approached by way of the gift shop.

“What ho, dear brother!” shouted the man in the red and white jacket, obviously enjoying the way his voice echoed across the cavernous hall.

“Mm busy,” the artist grunted, never turning away from his work.

“Dude, it’s been hours,” said the young man in the patchwork hoodie.

“Virgil’s right, my concentrating comrade,” the man in red agreed. “And we should really grab some grub for lunch.”

“Café has a student discount,” the artist replied. Logan had suspected they were university students, likely from that Visual and Performing Arts College not far from town.

The man in the hoodie, Virgil apparently, sighed. “You need to eat, too, Rem—”

“Later,” promised the artist. “Almost finished.

“Look, Virgil and I have already gotten lost in here once,” the man in red spoke much more quietly, “and I’m not going to risk getting lost again just to find you haven’t moved three hours from now—”

“Shut up Roman!” the artist snapped, and something in Logan’s mind figuratively snapped along with him.

Remus had a brother named Roman.

“Geez, what is your problem lately?” Virgil asked with rising frustration. “You’ve been acting like a total weirdo ever since we got back from Winter Break.”

Remus was a student at Visual and Performing Arts College.

“It’s none of your damn business if you’re gonna be a dick about it!” the artist shot back.

Remus certainly had a fondness for foul language.

“Whoa there, gentle sirs, let’s all simmer down a bit,” said the man in red. “Virgil, Remus, chill.”

Remus. That artist was Remus.

Logan may or may not have gasped.

Chapter Text

Discovering that he was actually a pretty good student had been a surprise for Remus. He knew it was dumb with all the awards he’d won back in middle and high school, but it was still a shock when the professor insisted his Mail Man piece be entered in a professional show based on the half-finished work alone. The past year of therapy helped to quiet some of the doubt, but he couldn’t fully shake the sense that this was all some big mistake. Surely if these professors and gallery coordinators knew that this was Remus they were talking about, they would all change their minds.

That building academic stress couldn’t hold a chainsaw to his impending meeting with Logan. “Impending” was a generous word for it when there was no real plan, but that tickling worry was adamant that if he didn’t meet Lolo soon they’d never meet. People got hit by freight trains or devoured by man-eating lobsters all the time. Well, maybe not the lobster part. Remus just didn’t like lobsters, and he didn’t like feeling as though one of the best parts of life could be snatched away at any moment. Sometimes he scribbled an extra note or asked for another constellation just to watch the response appear on his skin. Just to know Lolo was still out there. He wanted to meet him and hold him and hear his voice again. Remus had only heard Logan’s voice once, on that stupid video call years ago that he was too dumb to save and too angry to enjoy. If his memory could be trusted Logan sounded steady, deep but not too deep and just a little monotone, like he was practicing it to be that way. Remus missed Logan’s voice.

They were going to meet BEFORE Valentine’s Day, not ON Valentine’s Day like Roman kept saying would be “so cute!” or even “absolutely magical.” Remus didn’t want a “magical” day, because magic would lead to lovey-dovey bullshit and lovey-dovey bullshit would lead to ripping each other’s clothes off and Remus liked that idea, he really did, but just not yet. If his stomach still threatened to up-turn every time he heard that word- BABY- that word, he couldn’t risk whatever his traitorous body might do if he tried getting to know Logan biblically. Sure he hadn’t puked his brains out when he used to draw smut, but he also didn’t really feel much of anything. Instead of his usual drawing zone it almost felt like he’d slipped out of his body and could watch the whole thing from above. If Roman’s rom-com marathons and decades of Disney ballads had taught Remus anything, it was that sex was not supposed to feel like nothingness. He had to fix this shit.

The plan was to milk Lolo’s patience for all it was worth and take this at a snail’s pace, get used to this beautiful alien holding his hand and being near him before anything romantic took off. You didn’t have to fuck someone just because you loved them, right?

Remus really needed to hash all this out with Dr Picani, but first he had to get through this stupid week and stupider day trip. When Roman realized they all had a gap in their schedules he’d practically demanded Virgil and Remus go explore the city with him. Because it was so much fun going to some fancy museum to look at real artists’ work when Remus was so sure his wasn’t up to snuff. He totally hadn’t been dragging his feet when the Doc kept suggesting this museum. Sure there were whole wings of the building full of other stuff to see, but Remus knew he’d end up wandering the Statuary, surrounding himself with classical antiquity and modern art giants and the knowledge that his work was utter dog shit.

But then he saw it. A Roman copy of Greek work. Captured in marble was a heroic nude lying prostrate on the ground, wounded. The figure stoically looked down at his injured leg, his brows knit ever so slightly. He was such an astounding contradiction. Strength and weakness, life and death, victory and defeat laid out perfectly atop each other in stone. Remus didn’t even realize he’d opened his sketchbook until it was already in his lap.

He crouched close to the statue at first, scribbling down a copy of that woefully determined face and foreign necklace. Then he backed himself up to the bench across from it to capture the statue’s full body. Remus never knew how he’d use these powerful bursts of creative adoration when they hit. He only knew that this statue had seared itself into his mind, demanding reverence. If Remus could capture him just right, appease the statue just so, maybe he really could make great art one day.
Which is why it was such an annoyance when his idiot brother marched up behind him, shouting, “What ho, dear brother!” Roman had gotten so much more annoying after that damn Shakespeare course, always slipping little Elizabethan phrases into conversation.

“Mm busy,” Remus grunted.

“Dude, it’s been hours,” his idiot brother’s slightly less of an idiot soulmate chastised, probably exaggerating but it wasn’t like there was a clock anywhere for Remus to check.

“Virgil’s right, my concentrating comrade,” Roman punned. He was such a sucker for alliteration. “And we should really grab some grub for lunch.”

“Café has a student discount,” was all Remus bothered to reply.

Virgil sighed his trademark “mother hen” sigh. “You need to eat, too, Rem—”

“Later,” Remus barked. “Almost finished.”

“Look, Virgil and I have already gotten lost in here once,” Roman tried to explain gently, “and I’m not going to risk getting lost again just to find you haven’t moved three hours from now—”

“Shut up Roman!” Remus snapped. If he didn’t memorize this statue right then, he was going to lose it, he could feel it.

“Geez, what is your problem lately?” Virgil finally let a little sass seep into his voice, not that Remus cared. “You’ve been acting like a total weirdo ever since we got back from Winter Break.”

“It’s none of your damn business if you’re gonna be a dick about it!”

“Whoa there, gentle sirs, let’s all simmer down a bit,” his brother pleaded. “Virgil, Remus, chill.”

“You guys chill!” Remus whined. “I said I was busy dammit!” It was only then that Remus bothered to look up. A lump of shame lodged in his throat when he saw how hurt and confused Virgil looked, all worry and no anger. Roman looked about the same. No statue was worth that pout. Remus let all his frustration out in a sigh of his own, fingers at his temples as he apologized, “I’m sorry. Just been freaking out lately about projects and trying to meet Logan and shit. Getting lost in that, that zone when I draw is easier than facing it all, okay?”

When Remus finally looked up the mood had radically shifted. Virgil was wide-eyed but not fearful and Roman was grinning even wider than usual. “What?” Remus asked, but all he got in answer was Roman excitedly pointing. The target was Remus’s left hand, now off his forehead and bearing new looping swirls of Lolo’s handwriting:

Remus, would you like to meet today?

Logan worked at an observatory. An observatory in a museum. This museum, Remus realized.

“Say yes, say yes, say yes, yes, yes,” Roman giggled as he spoke, hopping up and down with glee.

“Oh shit,” Remus said aloud. Fuck. Okay, this was happening. Finally. Today? He hoped his breath didn’t stink.

“Is that him?” Virgil asked, looking off to the other hallway. Roman and Remus both glanced just in time to see a grown man duck behind one of those weird trash vases. A grown man wearing glasses.

Remus stood up and his sketch book thumped to the floor, spilling its guts like an explosion of so much half-finished art.

Logan rushed out of hiding to pick up the pages. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sputtered, “oh Newton I hope nothing’s ruined, I should’ve given more warning, I’m so sorry, I—”

Remus grabbed the man’s face with both hands as he joined him on the floor. “Lolo,” he said, taking in every detail of his soulmate’s face. Nothing would go unappreciated this time.

“Remus.” Logan tentatively reached out his own hand to cup Remus’s cheek. It felt like his head hitting the pillow after a too-long day, like baking with Momma and more batter landing on the ceiling than the cookie sheet, like spending a rainy afternoon bundled up warm and cozy with hot cocoa. It felt so damn right.

A hug felt even more right as Remus launched himself at Logan’s chest and two strong arms wrapped around him. Remus had never thought it could be like this. He only realized he was crying when he heard Logan murmuring, “It’s alright, Remus, it’s alright,” and felt a hand stroke his hair. The hand pulled away, and for a moment Remus worried he’d ruined it somehow, but then his soulmate made a happy sort of sound and said, “My little artist.”

Remus shifted so that he could peek out from the crook of Logan’s neck and see what had garnered such sweet words. His soulmate was holding a page in his hand, a doodle of the Dumpster Patrol made while waiting for Dr Picani months ago. Remus laughed, a wet and messy thing since he had just been crying. “Remember when I used to draw you comics?”

“He’d better,” Roman scoffed, bringing the world back into focus. “You made me doublecheck all your spelling!”

“You? Checked the spelling?” Virgil only had to cock an eyebrow and smile to wrangle Roman’s ego back in check.

“Mistakes happen when you’re seven,” Roman defended.

Logan chuckled at their banter, a warm steady sound that thrummed in his chest as Remus still held him close. He wanted to hear that laugh again and again, but Logan tried to hide it with a clearing of his throat. “You must be Roman and Virgil respectively?” he asked the pair still standing.

“And you’re Logan, the renowned astro-nerd,” Roman said brightly.

“Roman be nice!” Remus hissed, finally pulling himself away from Logan’s shoulder.

His brother made that pompous offended sound, too deep to be a squeak but just as annoying. “I am being nice, Kingsley Tackle-Hug! Funny nicknames are my tour-de-force, just ask William Shakes-punk.”

Virgil sighed his eyerolling sigh and looked sympathetically down at Logan. “LeRois, am I right? Can’t live with ‘em—”

“Can’t live without them,” Logan finished, with a smile so bright it probably glowed in the dark. He handed Remus the Dumpster Patrol sketch as he went on, “And you can’t live without your art. Shall we restore your sketchbook and peruse the café?”

God damn, he was smooth. Remus couldn’t find the words for a minute, nodding fervently. “Yeah,” he said at last, “yeah, let’s do that.”

It was so much more perfect than anything Remus could have planned. Logan was so kind, showing them all around like so many ducklings. He even found Roman a museum map before he went back to work in the Observatory. They watched his little spiel about the telescopes and the planets and Logan was a total professional, despite Roman’s antics. Much later that night, long after they’d left the museum, Remus got a note on his forearm:

It was lovely meeting you today, Remus.
I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

The sorely maltreated art history textbook was again flung off the bed as Remus groped for a pen. He scribbled back:

Of course!
I loved it
I love you
I still want to take things slow, though
Bedroom-wise
Is that okay?

Logan did that thing where he started to write but stopped himself, leaving dozens of quick little pen strokes before he could get out:

Remus, may I call you?

If the textbook was used to mishandling, his phone wasn’t. Remus scrolled through to find his only blocked caller and smashed the unblock button. He tried to settle his breathing as it started to ring, but that was all undone when he heard “Hello?”

“Logan?” Remus asked.

“Remus?” Logan asked in return. “You saved my number?”

“Uh huh, I mean yeah,” Remus corrected himself. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

“Ah yes, well, um,” his soulmate mumbled over the words, the audio to those half-started pen pricks. “I wanted to reassure you,” Lolo decided, the steadiness strong in his voice now that he’d picked a script. “I am perfectly willing to ‘take things slow’ for whatever reason, but I have my own reason which I’ve been keeping from you.”

Oh God. There it was. Logan didn’t want him, didn’t want a broken soulmate, didn’t want—

“I’m, I think I’m demisexual,” Logan blurted out.

Remus’s panic stopped and his confusion began. “Demi-what now?”

“Demisexuality is when a person does not develop sexual attraction without first developing a strong emotional bond,” Logan explained, a little too quickly. “At this current moment I do not experience any sexual attraction, but my hope is that this is something I can develop now that we’ve—”

“You love me, you just don’t want to fuck me?”

“Remus, please don’t be angry with me—”

“Lolo I’m not angry, I promise,” Remus insisted. “Were you really that scared to tell me?”

There was a quiet sputter on the other end. “I thought you would be hurt,” Logan confessed. “I didn’t want you think I didn’t love you because I didn’t want you in that way.”

Remus laughed, just out and out laughed. “I’ve been panicking for a year thinking you’d hate me for denying you ‘in that way!’ No really, I had this nightmare vision that we’d meet and you’d wanna jump my bones immediately and then it would all go to shit if I couldn’t put out!”

“Remus, I’d never try to- were you that scared to tell me?”

“Guess we haven’t got this whole ‘healthy communication’ thing down yet.”

Logan chuckled that perfect chuckle again. “I would conjecture the same.”

And damn if that wasn’t the perfect segue way to mentioning the unmentionable. “Hey Lolo?” Remus tried not to chew at his lip, not to ball his fist around his pillow as he asked, “Can I tell you something else? Something kinda shitty?”

“You can tell me anything, Remus,” Logan assured him.

Remus took a very deep breath before he spoke, another old habit the Doc said was a lot healthier than the others. A part of him still hated the idea of telling anyone, let alone his soulmate, but the rest of him really wanted to be a healthy communicator. For Lolo. “I was, when I was a kid I got abused,” he finally began. “Like, Catholic Priest cover-up scandal kind of abused. Wasn’t a priest though, just this dude who used to babysit Roman and I. He’s in jail now but it wasn’t me who put him there. I’m one of many, it turned out. The Doc calls it grooming, the kind of stuff Gray told me and probably the rest of them to make us not tell. Thank God some little girl didn’t listen, huh? Anyway, that’s why I’m in therapy. And why I want to take things slow. You good?”

He was a little nervous that Logan had so little to say, but there was croaky sound in his soulmate’s voice when Lolo finally replied, “Remus, what that man did to you was despicable and I hope you know that it was not your fault. Thank you for sharing this part of your history with me. I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t express what was going on while you were still a child, but I want you to know that I will always respect you and your boundaries. I love you and I want you to feel safe and happy in whatever way you need, because that is the bare minimum of what you deserve.”

Remus tried not let Logan hear him snort back the snot as he wiped away a few fresh tears. “I love you too, Lolo, I- thank you.”

“This isn’t a favor, Remus. This is respect.”

That was it. The dam in Remus’s eyeballs split open and he could barely hiccup out the words, “I thought you were gonna hate me. Think I was a cheater.”

“Remus, I will never think less of you for something like this, let alone hate you. Of course this wasn’t cheating, my God is that what—" The call was quiet besides Remus’s sobbing until Logan asked, “I don’t want to overstep, and please know you have every right to say no, but I think it might help if I could comfort you in person. Would you feel comfortable if I came over?”

“Yes. Yes, yes.” He scribbled the address on his arm, the phone squeezed precariously between his shoulder and his chin.

“Okay,” Logan soothed, “I’m going to continue our call as I drive, but fair warning that the audio may temporarily disconnect as I switch to hands-free calling.”

“Okay,” Remus nodded as he spoke, almost dropping the phone.

A faint knock drew his attention to the door. “Remus?” his brother asked.

“s’Okay Roman,” he tried to explain through the door. “Logan’s coming over.”

“Would you like to sit with Roman while you wait for me?” the call picked back up. “Would his presence help you feel calm?”

“Uh huh,” Remus agreed, setting the phone on speaker as he opened the door.

“What’s going on?” Roman asked, wrapping Remus in a hug before they were even out of the doorway.

“Remus shared some painful past experiences with me.” The phone added this weird buzzing sound to Logan’s voice as his cautious words were projected through the speakers. “He has given me permission to comfort him in person and I am on my way. These experiences were very, um, difficult and—”

“You told him about Gray?” To say that Roman looked surprised was a tragic understatement. “But I thought you said—”

“I changed my mind,” Remus defended, still sniffling.

Roman, for his part, tried not to laugh. “Logan,” he told the phone, “you must be some kind of feelings expert to get my brother to open up like that. He’d said before that he was never going to tell you.”

“I’m hardly an expert on feelings,” Logan replied. “I simply try to be honest. Remus, I’m sorry if I ever gave you reason to distrust me.”

“No, no,” Remus tried to say as the tears and snot poured on, “I just, I, um, Gray told me you’d think it was cheating and despite everything I kept on believing him.”

“God, that sick bastard,” his brother seethed beside him.

The phone made some popping sounds before Logan’s voice came back in spurts. “Oh Remus- I should have known- abuse is never- Remus- always love you.”

“You’re breaking up on us Poindexter.” Roman picked up the phone and held it close to both their ears. “Come again?”

Instead of an answer there was a knock on the front door, reverberated through the phone. Remus was ripping it open and flying into Logan’s arms before he could think to clean himself up. His sobs fell in time with Logan’s heartbeat as they swayed in the doorway.

Virgil emerged from the bathroom and stared. “Did I miss something?”

“Only that Logan can travel at warp speed, oh Captain my Captain,” Roman quipped with a nod towards their bedroom. Virgil mercifully didn’t ask questions as he followed along, leaving Logan and Remus alone at last.

Light fingers stroked his hair for the second time that day and Logan murmured softly, “Let’s move to the couch Love.” Remus nodded into the crook of his soulmate’s neck as felt himself be steered inside. He heard the door close but he never bothered to look up from Logan’s shirt. It wasn’t the dress shirt from that afternoon, being made of much softer fabric. Lolo was in his pjs then. His nerdy soulmate drove all the way here in his damn pjs like Remus was something special.

“I’m busted,” Remus confessed, the words tumbling out in a panic. “I try and I try to get better and I’m still busted. That’s why I wasn’t gonna tell you, so you wouldn’t know how busted I was. But then it felt so right being held and you were so scared thinking I could be mad at you and I just couldn’t string you along.”

Logan’s arms wrapped tighter as he said, “You’re not broken, Remus.”

“I’ve got triggers and shit. Certain words, certain smells. I’m scared I’ll be triggered if we try to get physical. Another reason I’ve been stalling.”

“Remus, having triggers doesn’t mean you’re broken,” Lolo assured him. “It means you’ve been through trauma and have figuratively come out the other side. You’re a survivor, Remus. Even if you carry these triggers all through your life, you are still strong, still resilient. And I will always love you.”

Later he’ll suspect it was all the crying, but in the moment all Remus knew was that he was suddenly exhausted. He felt his breathing steady as his eyes began to droop, whispering over and over again, “Survivor, survivor, survivor.”

He woke up the next morning to Roman’s jostling and joking. “Wake up, Sleeping Dookey! Your sugar daddy soulmate literally bought out a doughnut shop for you.”

“Those are blatant falsehoods!” Logan shouted. “I am no one’s ‘sugar daddy’ as you put it. And the bakery still had plenty of doughnuts after I made my purchase.”

Remus wasn’t totally sure he believed that last part. There were at least seven boxes on the kitchen table, and Virgil was guarding another from his usual perch atop the fridge. “The maple bars are mine,” he hissed, but Remus just rolled his eyes.

“Nobody gets to call dibs until Remus does,” Roman shot back. “Specs said so, so cool thy jets Mr. I’m-totally-not-a-breakfast-person-until-doughnuts-are-involved.”

“That’s your best comeback?”

“Give me a break, I haven’t had my coffee!”

As the pair of them continued to bicker, Remus turned to his soulmate with a quizzical look. “You made them wait?”

“I didn’t know which flavor you preferred so I bought a dozen of each,” Lolo explained. “These two immediately began circle them like figurative birds of prey, and to prevent them from consuming your favorite before you had a chance I insisted they wait to eat. Your brother responded with your rude awakening.”

“You bought 72 doughnuts because you didn’t know which ones I’d like?”

Logan’s ears and cheeks went a little pink, like a selective sunburn peeking through. “It had seemed logical at the time.”

Remus would’ve had to split his face in two to smile any harder. “Is your logic always so skewed, or is it just when I’m involved?”

“I’d like to think my logic is never skewed,” Lolo tried to play it cool.

“Your ‘little artist’ knows better,” Remus replied with a wink, finally securing a chocolate doughnut. “Thanks for being such a weirdo, Lolo.”

It was Logan’s turn to smile until his face hurt. “Thank you for being you, Remus.”

Chapter Text

Finally communing and communicating with Remus in person was more wonderful than Logan had ever allowed himself to imagine. They spent their first Valentine’s Day marathoning each other’s favorite films and nitpicking the plot holes with the ease and comfort of old friends. Their first month together was filled to the brim with outings and get-togethers and introductions with one another’s friends and family, rounding each excursion with a hug hello and a hug goodnight. The next month was a tad less busy, excepting the discovery about their shared therapist. Remy and Dr. Picani were metaphorically “over the moon” when Remus and Logan strolled in arm in arm. The good doctor was especially excited to hear they’d like the occasional couple’s session tacked on. It was a few months later that things finally got intense. Their latest session began with Dr. Picani’s usual assertions, “I’m so glad you both wanted to do this. Many people make the mistake of thinking couple’s therapy is only for those in crisis, but even the best relationships can still find room to grow.”

“Don’t get sappy on me, Doc,” Remus warned. “I keep telling you, I’m still a trash goblin.”

Logan couldn’t help but laugh, and when he couldn’t hide it with another cough he had to confess, “Your habit of calling him ‘Doc’ always reminds me of the Looney Toons character, which of course reminds me of the infamous Picture Day—”

“I was six!” Remus crowed in defense. “And that was a damn good Bugs Bunny.”

“It really was,” Logan agreed.

Dr. Picani laughed himself, to Logan’s relief. “I remember you telling me about that, Logan! He really did love it, Remus, he said it was the first time he ever smiled naturally in a school picture.”

Remus beamed to hear his work so well regarded. “I told you it was a good Bugs Bunny.”

“If anything the character was improved by you drawing him.” Logan placed his hand on Remus’s knee but quickly took it away, hoping he hadn’t crossed a line.

Remus picked back up and held it close in his own hand, a tender redrawing of the boundary. “I’m not fragile, nerd. You can’t break me any more than I already am.”

“Are you referring to your trauma, Remus?” Dr. Picani asked. “We’ve talked about shifting away from brokenness—"

“Yeah, yeah, Doc, it's a work in progress” the little artist waved him off. “It’s just that I told him everything, the fast version, but still—"

“And I don’t need to know anything else until and unless you are ready,” Logan assured him. “You don’t have to share any more than you already have.”

Remus made a gagging sound even as he squeezed Logan’s hand tighter. “See, Doc, he’s freaking perfect and shit but I worry he’s only like that cause he thinks he has to.”

“Remus, I want to respect you, you deserve respect,” Logan insisted, unsure if he should lean into or away from his soulmate’s affection.

“This isn’t about respect, this is about how we’ve done nothing but hug since we met and I can see the little gears turning in your head every time we do even that much.”

“There are no gears in my head,” Logan deflected.

“And there is no war in Ba Sing Se,” Dr. Picani interjected. “Remus, am I right that you think Logan has made a decision without you?”

“I haven’t made any decisions,” Logan tried to explain.

“Oh I know what decision you’ve made,” Remus told him, the frustration rising in his voice. “You’ve decided that I’m too trigger-happy to be touched! I’m not stupid, Logan, I know you want more!”

“I never said you were stupid, and I don’t know what I—"

“Then why the touch embargo?!”

“Because I’m stupid!” Those pesky feelings brought a hush over the room, and in the quiet Logan elaborated, “Looking back over the years I’ve known you, there were signs of the abuse that I ignored or misinterpreted. Your discomfort around Gray, your precocious sexual advances, your acting out for attention were all cries for help that I didn’t recognize. I was over eighteen for half of your childhood and as your soulmate I had the most intimate communication with you, but even I let you down. Getting to know your adult self has been incredible Remus, but I worry that if I cross out of your figurative comfort zone, you’ll be too afraid to tell me and I’ll continue to miss the signs. I could never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

Remus shook his head fiercely. “Nuh uh, Lolo, you are not allowed to blame yourself. I wrote to you everyday but I didn’t share everything. There were plenty of adults in my life who saw more than you did and even they couldn’t ask the right questions to figure me out. Besides, you were a teenager for the first six or seven years we knew each other. It wasn’t your job to realize what was going on. If anything, it was your job to keep me going. I don’t know that I would be in art school right now if it wasn’t for your pushing be to be my own hero. You were the oncoming train at the end of the tunnel, and I knew one day I had to be okay enough to meet you. I loved you as the life I had to look forward to, and I love our life now as that alien future come to pass. You could never hurt me, Lolo, and you never have.”

Dr. Picani’s face was half-hidden behind his notebook, likely to muffle the squealing. “That was so sweet and honest, both of you,” he said. “It’s that kind of radical vulnerability that lays the groundwork for healthy communication. We need to bring all these feelings out into the open before we can face them.”

“I just don’t want to push you,” Logan went on, letting their therapist’s words guide him. “Remus, I don’t mean to hold you at arm’s length, but I would never want you to feel like you had to keep pace with my wants and desires. I don’t even know if I would enjoy more physical displays of affection.”

“Yeah, we’re both still learning what we actually want from each other,” his soulmate agreed. “I get that you’re demi and might not be down for some of this stuff, but if you want to try something we can explore it together rather than you just assuming we shouldn’t bother. You’re allowed to ask, okay?”

Logan squeezed Remus’s hand in his as he assured him, “And you’re allowed to say no.”

“And vice versa, too!” Dr. Picani added. “Like the Cave of Two Lovers, you both have to take that leap of faith to trust each other and to trust in your bond as soulmates. Let the fire burn out and let down your guards.”

“There’s a fire burning?” Logan asked, receiving only stifled laughter as answer. But the session had served its purpose and by the end of the day he and Remus were giddily kissing each other on the cheek. It wouldn’t be until Remus’s twentieth birthday that they kissed “properly” on the mouth. Remus had shifted in his theater seat as they watched the seventh Zombie Slasher film, and when Logan looked over to see what was the matter a little whisper asked, “Wanna make out?”

Neither of them could recount the movie’s plot when they left, a tad less presentable than when they’d arrived.

That year was full of “Could you?”s and “Can we?”s and “How do you feel about?”s, a veritable Compendium on affection. Logan liked kissing and back rubs and the occasional mishandling of his tie to lead him about, which quickly became Remus’s favorite way to beckon his Lolo. Neither of them cared for hair mussing, but Remus adored when Logan helped him curl his mustache. Logan’s little artist also loved to be called his little artist, and to be hand fed his dinner when a burst of inspiration would otherwise deny him meals. Most nights would find them holed away together in Remus’s studio, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Despite their now constant and consistent vows to be frank with one another, there was one particular avenue of affection neither felt brave enough to mention. The closest they had ever come to overtly sexual behaviors were the sticky, shirtless make-out sessions in the hot tub that summer, but even then, nothing below the belt of their swim trunks was acknowledged. Logan once dealt with his “nothing” in the shower, an awkward and messy experience he decided not to repeat. With so little reference and so much unsaid, he guiltily went back on his word and decided never to bring it up. Why trouble their happy stasis to make the matter known? Why worry his beloved with unimportant feelings?

Logan’s selective silence didn’t cause him any regret until Remus turned twenty-one and suffered all the usual birthday festivities for such an auspicious occasion. Dee even had a sympathetic tinge to his smirk as he watched Logan wrestle his little artist away from the bar. “The pub will close in ten minutes, Remus,” he explained again.

“And they’ve already stopped serving,” Patton added.

Roman grew tearful and sat down on the filthy sidewalk to mope. “Why do good things have to end? Do I have to end?”

“Don’t get metaphysical on me yet,” Virgil grunted as he tried to heave his soulmate upright once again.

“Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up!” Remus declared, “We can keep the party going at our house, Roman!”

“But it wouldn’t be the SAME!” Roman bawled, and if Virgil didn’t regret giving into the twins’ puppy-dog-eyed pleas, Logan certainly did.

“Chin up, Buttercup,” Dee told the young man with almost fatherly wisdom. “Things will look brighter in the morning.”

“You’ll want these,” Patton agreed, doling out red and green sunglasses to their appropriate wearers.

Remus immediately mashed his pair over his eyes, then slung an arm around Logan’s shoulder. “How do I look, Lolo?”

“You’re the metaphorical picture of sophistication, my little artist,” Logan replied, eliciting giggles from his soulmate. “Now say goodbye to Patton and Dee while I get you in the car.

“Goodbye to Patton and Dee while I get you in the car,” Remus parroted with glee. He was apparently a very jovial drunk. Roman was less so, but he was Virgil’s problem.

“Goodnight kiddos!” Patton said with a wave. “Happy birthday!”

“Is it though?” Dee asked, that mischievous glint in his eye as Roman’s chin started to wobble with nonsensical tears. Virgil groaned and flipped him the bird as the sobbing began anew. Luckily the car was started and Logan had an easy escape with his LeRoi.

“Is it though, what an asshole,” Remus chuckled as they pulled away. “Dee’s an asshole.”

“I think he’d take that as a compliment,” Logan agreed. He was too focused on the road to watch the mischief cast its figurative spell over his soulmate’s eye.

“Lolo,” purred the birthday boy. “Your glasses are crooked.”

“Yes, I believe that was your doing.”

“You look pretty with your glasses crooked.”

“If you say so, my little artist. You do have better aesthetic taste.”

“You look sexy with your glasses crooked.”

Logan may or may not have felt a blush rush to his cheeks. “Oh?”

“Pull over, Nerdy Wolverine.”

“Remus, you’re drunk,” Logan reminded himself. “We’ll discuss it when you’re sober.”

“Poopy,” Remus pouted, slumped in the passenger seat. “I was finally gonna bang you.”

“Alcohol affects your judgement,” Logan explained gently.

“But we’re soulmates silly!”

“All the more reason to wait.”

Remus sighed and rested his head on Logan’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to make you wait so long. It’s just that every time I try to ask the words get stuck and I feel nine years old again.”

“Remus—”

“I love you, I love everything we already do, I know it feels different with you, a good different,” the truth at last tumbled out as Remus went on and on, “It feels so right to hold you, to be with you, it really does. It’s like a tire fire that takes the whole autoshop down with it, I just get so carried away with you that I forget all the bullshit. But, but then I remember and it hurts Lolo, it hurts so bad to remember. Sometimes I think it hurts more remembering than it did while it was really happening.” He laughed a weepy sort of laugh and asked, “I’m busted, aren’t I?”

“No, Remus, you’re not ‘busted’ as you put it,” Logan told him, eyes still on the road and definitely not at all misty. “You are a survivor, Remus. You’re stronger than I ever could be.”

“Strong enough to fuck you?”

“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”

“Okay Lolo.” And with that, Remus was snoring on Logan’s shoulder.

It took some effort to get a still-sleeping soulmate up the stairs and into bed, but Logan managed. He was just about to leave the apartment when Virgil staggered in, the other LeRoi also asleep. “Here,” Logan said softly, slipping his arms under Roman.

“Thanks,” the young man whispered as the pair of them carried Roman into the far bedroom. As he pulled the covers over his soulmate Virgil timidly asked, “Would you mind spending the night? Just in case?”

“I’d be happy to,” Logan assured him. The couch had proven quite comfy after all, and though the rest of the night passed uneventfully Logan didn’t mind the change-up to his sleep cycle.

What he did mind was waking up half past nine, covered in pen marks. A tear-soaked squiggle here, a scratched out note there; the clearest article he discovered on his forehead:

Lolo I’m sorry.

If the bathroom had been any farther from Remus’s door Logan might have leapt as he ran, and as it was he may or may not have skid across the floor in his stocking feet as he knocked furiously. “Remus?”

A gasp could be heard from inside and the door opened with a startled “You’re here? Already?”

“I spent the night.”

“You mean- God I’m an idiot,” Remus sputtered, flinging his arms around Logan’s shoulders again. “And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Logan asked in confusion.

“For harassing you? About sex?” Remus pulled away in distress. “I didn’t dream that did I?”

“No you did not,” Logan promised, “but I think we remember it differently. You suggested sexual relations but you didn’t harass me. You didn’t even argue when I told you we’d discuss it when you were—”

“When I’m sober, blah blah, I know!” Remus whined. “And I am so, so sorry for even bringing it up, really, I just, the booze in my system and I completely ignore all that talk about communication and everything and I go ‘boom here’s the plan,’ I just decided you had to be down for it and that was so, so dickish of me—”

“Remus, I’m fine to talk about sex.” Logan may or may not of realized it was true until he said it, but it was indeed fact.

His little artist shook his head, “No, no, this isn’t about me—”

“It’s about sex,” Logan corrected. Then the implications finally began to add up and he asked, “Did you assume I wasn’t interested in sex?”

“KInda?” Remus replied with a shrug. “I mean, demisexuality is on the ace spectrum, and you’d never brought it up before—”

“Oh Remus, I’m so sorry, I thought that you didn’t want to bring it up—”

“Dammit, did we do it again?!” Remus laughed. “We’ve got this really bad habit of not communicating about the really important shit, you know that?”

Logan had to laugh a little himself as he agreed, “So it would seem. I think we’ve both been waiting for each other to do the hard work of starting the conversation.”

Remus smiled a wicked little smile. “Wait’s over, nerd.”

“And not just because you think we have to?” Logan asked, his wits still very much about him. “You called yourself ‘busted’ again last night.”

His little artist groaned, gently banging his head against Logan’s shoulder. “Okay, okay, I’m not busted, I don’t need fixing, sex wouldn’t fix me even if I did need fixing, blah, blah fucking blah.”

“It’s all true, Dear,” Logan assured him with a kiss atop his messy hair.

Remus looked up as if inspiration had struck. “Sex isn’t the answer, it’s the question,” he realized. “It’s a question I’d like to ask.”

Logan may or may not have gone a little pink as he admitted, “It’s a question I might like to ask, too.”

“Then let’s ask together,” Remus brought their foreheads together as he spoke, spinning his Lolo inside the bedroom before gently shutting the door.

Chapter Text

Remus wasn’t sure where the time had gone, but before he knew it he was graduated and making gallery deals and wining and dining with the art world elite. At twenty-five he was the youngest artist to have their work featured on the cover of Art Soothes, to say nothing of the countless smaller publications that had come before it. Only Art Soothes had asked for an interview, however, and a joint-interview with Logan at that. “The magazine is all about connecting to art on a soul level,” Kara explained, “so of course we like to see how an artist’s soulmate also connects to their work.”

“I most connect on an intellectual level,” Logan replied, nervously eyeing the microphone and recording equipment. “Remus’s work is often inspired by classical antiquity, and it is interesting to compare his sculptures to their historical counterparts.”

“Can you give us an example?” Kara prodded.

“Take ‘The Surviving Gaul’,” Remus offered, rescuing his soulmate from having to take the lead. “My latest recycled sculpture is like a twin for ‘The Dying Gaul’ over at the Jauntaling. I even recreated the torque out of an old bungee cord.”

Paul the photographer snapped a few more pictures as Logan straightened his tie. “ ‘The Dying Gaul’ was actually misidentified as a gladiator, but the Celtic torque around the figure’s neck clarifies that he was an outsider to the Greek sculptor and audience that would have first viewed the piece,” he lectured, in his element at last.

“So you connect through history?” Kara tried to simplify.

“Through knowledge,” corrected the artist. He bore his forearm and the myriad of former constellations as proof, elaborating, “Lolo’s a huge nerd, especially for the stars. He draws the constellations and I doodle over top. He tells me the history and I create something that sits comfortably next to it. Well, as comfortably as a carefully curated pile of trash sits next to bronze and marble.”

Kara and Paul laughed in sync, their own soulmate tell. “This is a real ‘meeting of the minds’, then,” she realized.

“Totally,” Remus agreed, turning to the astronomer with a smirk. “Talk nerdy to me, Lolo.”

His soulmate blushed and the photographer snapped about a dozen shots just of his red cheeks. Kara scribbled something on her tablet and quipped, “Adorable. Can you tell me about your process?” The little artist kept his teasing to a minimum for the rest of the interview, but he had a feeling Logan’s blush would be getting its own byline.

“I did not blush,” Logan denied later that evening, when Patton and Dee came round for dinner. “If anything I cleared my throat, but I did not blush.”

Remus crept up to hug him from behind. “Pictures don’t lie, Lolo. What’re you gonna do when you’re all pink in millions of newsstands across the country?”

Logan blushed again, but he didn’t have time to deny it when Roman and Virgil came whooping through the door. “BROTHER, NERD, oh hi Patton, PATTON, SCARY LAWYER MAN!” screeched the arguably older and definitely louder twin.

“Sorry we’re late,” Virgil trailed behind. “Sir Scream-a-Lot got some big news.”

Roman wrapped both Remus and Logan in a pounding hug, squealing with glee. “You’re in magazines, but I’m going to be on TV!”

“You got the part?!” Remus gasped.

His brother nodded so furiously it was a miracle he didn’t grow dizzy. “I’m Prince Handsome.”

“You sure are,” Patton agreed with a confused smile, “but can we backtrack a little? Who’s Prince Handsome?”

“Remember Sportacus from Lazytown?” Virgil replied. “Think that, but with fairy tales. And less creepy puppets.”

“Storybook Lane will definitely have less creepy puppets.” Roman was too excited to take offence, releasing the happy couple to clarify, “We start filming this month and the show airs on Sprout next Fall! I’m one of four human characters teaching kids all about the joys of reading.”

“That sounds awesome! I’ll have to tell my students next year,” Patton crowed, ever the fan of good children’s content.

“It looks like there’s good news all around, then,” agreed the “scary lawyer man” himself. Dee had been a little too well behaved to not be hiding something. “Patton and I were going to wait to tell anyone, but we just got approved by the agency.”

Logan’s mouth hung open in knowing shock. “W-wow.”

“I know!” Patton squealed, now just as giddy as Roman. “It could still take up to a year to get paired with a surrogate, but we’ve got all the clearances taken care of and our profile’s been accepted.”

“Surrogate?” The puzzle was starting to come together in Roman’s joy-addled brain. “You guys are gonna be—”

“Parents,” Virgil finished. “You’re going to have—”

“A baby,” Remus realized, the last to catch up. He was still mulling over the news or he might have caught Logan’s concerned glance, too. Instead the excitement overtook him and he congratulated his friends, “Oh my gosh, that’s amazing! You’re gonna have your own little shit goblin!”

Patton squeaked at the swearing, but Dee simply smiled and said, “Why yes we are.”

“I’m going to get you all the Storybook Lane merch when it comes out,” Roman promised, still capable of self-promotion even in the silliest of moods.

“You’ll need board books, too,” the dark and stormy poet chimed in. “I can get you discounts with my publishers.”

“We need to bring the little one home first,” Patton tried to remind them all, to no avail.

“There’s a lovely star mobile in the Jauntaling gift shop,” Logan said. “Would that suit your plans for the nursery?”

Dee laughed and shook his head. “You guys really aren’t getting that the baby isn’t here yet, are you?”

They really weren’t, and the rest of the celebratory evening was spent hashing out all the details of parenthood for the happy couple. There were rounds of congratulations for one and all as the visitors dawdled off to their separate cars. Remus watched them both pull away through the front window of his and Logan’s charming little house, now emptied of its charming little guests. “Lolo?” he asked, absentmindedly tidying up as his thoughts turned back to their charming little conversation. “Do you want to have kids?”

Logan stopped in the hallway. “Remus, you’re twenty-five.”

“And you’re thirty-one,” Remus shot back. “What, do you really want to wait until you’re forty to even think about it?”

“I just meant that we don’t need to rush into anything,” Logan said gently. “It’s not like we have to ‘keep up with the Joneses’, as they say.”

Remus sighed, trying and failing not to get annoyed. “I wasn’t talking about keeping up with Pat and Dee, I was talking about us having kids.”

His soulmate tapped him on the shoulder, then opened his arms for a hug. He didn’t speak until Remus was safely enveloped in his waiting arms. “You were very brave tonight.”

“It’s just a stupid word,” Remus shrugged, but his damn tear ducts betrayed him. “I’m getting better. The Doc and I do exposure therapy every once in a while.”

“It shows,” Logan assured him. “But we don’t need to have one of our own just to prove it.”

Remus kept his arms tight around Logan’s waist, but he raised up to look him in the eye when he told him, “I don’t want kids to prove I can say that damn word, I want kids because you would be a freaking amazing father, Logan Berry.”

“Oh,” and damn if Logan didn’t blush AGAIN. “Oh Remus, I’d love for us to be parents, I just couldn’t stand the thought of rushing you into it.”

“You’re not rushing me, it’ll take years anyway,” Remus fussed. “Pat had half those clearances already just to be a teacher and we’ll be starting from scratch.”

Logan laughed that quiet, studious little laugh of his and confessed, “Actually, I had to get several child-safe clearances myself when I started working at the museum.”

“Oh” was all Remus say for a moment. “So it’d only take—”

“About six months to get the rest of the clearances and take the parenting classes,” Logan nodded. “Then it would be up to a year and nine months to bring home our ‘little bundle of joy’, or we could take less time and bring a slightly bigger ‘bundle’ into our lives.”

“You mean an older kid? Like from foster care?” Remus asked. “They say it’s really hard for kids over a certain age to be adopted.”

“Many potential parents are afraid of any emotional issues an older may have developed,” Logan noted solemnly. “To say nothing of the ‘FOMO’ on all of their formative years.”

Remus snorted back a laugh. “Nice slang there, Nerd.”

His soulmate beamed. “I’ve been practicing. But what do you think?”

“Virgil was in foster care, before Roman and I met him,” Remus mused. “I always thought it would be really nice to take in a kid nobody else wanted, be somebody’s miracle.”

Logan looked a little misty-eyed as he said, “That’s a beautiful way of putting it.”

“I guess we should start the paperwork, huh?” the little artist asked with a grin.

“First thing in the morning,” Logan agreed, “but tonight I want to enjoy your company and another glass of wine.”

Remus smiled. “Dance me to the kitchen?”

“Of course.”

“Draw me another star?”

“Does Orion sound alright?”

“With you, Lolo,” Remus crooned, “it sounds perfect.”

The End