Chapter Text
Was Patton even alive?
He must be.
His arms hurt and his legs hurt and his face hurt. Everything hurt. They burned and stung, all while the sweet stench of lavender, too strong and overwhelming, filled his nose. His right side, especially, felt like it was on fire. He didn’t dare move in case he made it worse.
So, Patton stayed tucked under his blanket. It was starting to get too hot, but he wasn’t about to do anything about it. No, he could take it. He was Deceit, after all. He always talked about Deceit being powerful and dangerous. He was never the kind of person to get upset about a blanket. Why should he now?
Still, he wished he could sleep. As soon as Blue and Mocha had left him to the bed, they had tucked him in and left.
Part of him was glad. He didn’t even know them. And they had bathed him. He couldn’t remember it much, if at all, but the echoes of their hands still grazed his body where they touched. It felt unreal, that touch, that wonderfully terrible touch that made him want to sigh and die and cry and wither away in their arms until he was nothing more than dust.
He couldn’t help but feel a wave of either anger, shame, or a combination of the two. They had seen him. What did they think? Did Blue think he was gross, too, just like Mocha did? Maybe he had ruined his chances with both of them. Maybe that’s why the bath hurt so much: they were trying to hurt him.
He didn’t want to believe that Blue would hurt him. He really didn’t. He tried to remember their first meeting, back in the room. When he had seen light for the first time in what felt like forever.
But that was before they laid eyes on what he really was. They didn’t deserve to see what a monstrous thing he was.
That’s it.
Patton curled in on himself.
That’s it.
That’s why everything hurt. It must be.
They were angry at him, weren’t they? They were angry that he let Him do all those things.
So, the other part of him was terrified. He couldn’t trust them. He didn’t even know them. At least he knew Him, more or less.
But them?
They were mysteries.
Patton didn’t like mysteries. Mysteries were like shadows: you never know what you’re jumping into. There could be devils and beasts just past the threshold, just out of sight, waiting to sink their teeth into whoever gets close enough. And all he’s ever known is beasts.
First the beasts were tall and sharp, gritty and dark. Then they were shadows and whatever lie within them. Now they were lavender-scented and warm, but they were still beasts. They had to be. There was no other explanation. They were tricking him.
Letting that sink in, something broke in him. Maybe it was that twinge of hope he had left, or maybe it was a dam of sorts, but all he knew was that it was gone. There was an emptiness now, a painful void where he knew something should be, but couldn’t figure out what.
He had let himself believe he was safe. That was stupid. How could he have been so stupid? He was never safe. Blue and Mocha were not good. If anything, they were his own imagination lying to him again. Or, they were just His shadows playing games. Either was as likely as they were plausible.
With that realization, Patton gritted his teeth. Their slight, elongated points pinched his tongue and threatened to draw blood, but he didn’t notice.
He had to get out.
He got out of the first room (even if Blue helped), and he could do it again. He had to. He couldn’t trust Blue, or Mocha, or anyone. He had tried, but now was more sure than ever that he couldn’t.
He had no one.
Spurred on by a rush of fear-fueled adrenaline, Patton pushed himself up with his wobbly forearms. The bandaged cuts came alight with burning pain, but he barely paid it any attention. He had gotten used to doing that. Ignoring pain was something he had become very skilled at doing.
Then he tested his legs. They were even weaker than his arms, and more bandages rubbed at his thighs, but after a few minutes of shifting beneath the covers, he got enough feeling so that he could kick off the starred comforter. With that on the floor, he managed to peel back the sheet. And just like that, Patton was exposed.
He was clothed, at least, but the warmth was gone. The weight of the bedding was gone, leaving him vulnerable to the air as it nipped at his already sensitive skin. For a second he wanted to try and grab back up the blankets, but he stopped himself. If he did that, he may change his mind. He may never get free.
Biting back a whine, Patton slowly swung a leg over the edge. Then the other. With both feet on the ground, he pulled himself up. He teetered and wobbled. Standing without someone holding him—without Mocha or Blue holding him— felt strange and almost painful. It was as if his bones, after the—days? Weeks? He didn’t even know— he spent on the floor of the room, his bones had seemingly forgotten how to hold him up.
But still, they did. It took all his might, but within ten minutes he was up, taking small steps towards the door.
Navigating the dark was surprisingly easy. He had expected to trip or fall, and his muscles had already grown taut in preparation. But he moved well, and the only things he hit were his own feet. He was used to the dark. It was his now.
When he finally reached the door, he leaned a cautious ear to it. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He faintly felt the agonizing burn in his arms and thighs and chest and, well, everywhere, but it felt far away. There, but detached. Like it had been for as long as he could remember.
He heard quiet speaking. Words, complaints, whatever they were, he heard them through the door. They were muffled, but definitely there.
Were they talking about him?
How many of “them” were there, anyway?
Mocha had said “all” of them. Just how many were in that “all”?
He squinted his eyes shut and squished even farther into the door until he was pressed flat.The voices were all the same, so he couldn’t distinguish between them. Why were they all the same? Blue’s and Mocha’s had been, too. It occurred to him that the voices weren’t much different from His. Or, at least when He wasn’t yelling in His deep, throaty growl Patton was so used to. That sent a chill down his back, and he swallowed. Even more evidence that they were all just one of His tricks. Maybe they were nothing more than extensions of Him, shadows waiting for when he let his guard down.
Patton hummed in thought. With as slow as he was going, he likely wouldn’t be able to run past them. And he definitely couldn’t fight them; his arms burned at the mere idea of more touch.
So, what could he do?
He played absentmindedly with his shirt. It was soft and cottony, pulled from one of Blue’s dressers. His fingers ran over his bandages, which were just thick enough to keep him from reopening the cuts on accident.
What could he do?
What could he do?
What could he, Patton, Deceit, do to escape?
The answer sent a violent shudder through his stomach.
The answer, he realized, was that there was nothing he could do. He was powerless. He was nothing. He was weak. But what if he wasn’t himself?
He vaguely remembered all those times he shifted under His orders. He remembered how his skin knitted itself together, how his bones reworked themselves, how his face turned to dull scales.
Then, he remembered Him. His teased hair, His dark eyes, that special walk He did that was more of a prowl than anything. He imagined Him. His brain screamed not to, and for a moment he thought he would lose control.
Memories flashed through his head, and he almost collapsed on the floor. But something—the adrenaline, or maybe the slight possibility of freedom—came over him, and he was numb. He was cold. His heart seemed to slow to a stop, beating ever-so slowly in its cage.
Then something took over, and he had no thought.
He was instinct, he was feeling, he was pure and raw emotion.
He was fear and disgust and determination and hunger and unadulterated will to live.
And he wasn’t quite himself. He was something else.
Without meaning to this time, and for the first time that he could remember, he shifted of his own accord.
Had he any way to think, he would have wondered what he looked like. He would have questioned exactly who he was. But his being, starved now in too many ways to count, didn’t let him. Patton was following something he had no control over now. It wasn’t scary, but it wasn’t comforting, either. It was simply there. It was himself.
And so, with the last of Patton’s reasoning fading for the time being, he opened the door with closed eyes.
Roman looked between the other sides and Thomas as they spoke in rushed words that he couldn’t comprehend. He had zoned out as soon as Logan mentioned “self harm.”
Now he stared at his sword, wringing his hand around its smooth hilt.
This couldn’t be happening.
This wasn’t real.
This was just another one of Remus’s elaborate pranks. There was no way Patton was hurt, and even less of a chance that it was Virgil who hurt him.
Virgil was a light side. He was a good guy, just like Roman. Heck, they had even had a two-parter about this! Anxiety was good. Virgil was good.
And besides, Virgil and Patton loved each other. Not romantically, of course, but they loved each other. Out of any of the sides, Roman would argue that their bond was one of the strongest. No, this was Remus’s doing. It had to be. Either his or Janus’s, designed to be revenge for making fun of his name. Any moment now, Remus was going to jump up with that crap-eating grin of his and yell, “Surprise!”
But Remus didn’t yell. He didn’t jump up. All he did, and all he had been doing since Logan and Sleep came out, was hold Janus in the corner with uncried tears building in his eyes. Roman swore he saw his shoulders shaking.
Then the door opened and the talking fell away, leaving the hallway dead silent. Roman didn’t look up at first. He couldn’t. Blood roared in his ears. The only person in there was Patton. Maybe this wasn’t real after all!
Yeah.
Everything Logan and Sleep and seen was a mistake. A big ole’ misunderstanding. That’s it. Now Patton was going to waltz through the door and go bake snickerdoodles, or whatever Patton did when he was happy. He didn’t look up until Thomas whispered, “Virgil?”
Then Roman’s head snapped up. For an instant he had hope of seeing his emo friend and of making sure he was okay. He could fix this. Virgil and himself together, they could sort this big mess out. Virge could clear everything up, and then they can make breakfast. Easy!
But he wasn’t met with what he hoped. The Virgil he saw wasn’t the Virgil he wanted. The person in the doorway looked scared and desperate, a terrifying look in his eyes.
More importantly, the person in the doorway was dressed head to toe in black. Black hoodie, black eyes, black skinny jeans ripped at the knee, black combat boots. It was Virgil, alright, but something in Roman knew that it wasn’t his Virgil. They weren’t the same.
From the corner, Remus croaked. “Virgil” whipped around to stare at him, cocking his head. He bared his teeth just enough to see there sharpened points, which he definitely didn't remember Virgil having before.
Remus sunk out with Janus.