Chapter Text
“Patton, it is only six in the morning. Why is our dining room table covered in baked goods?” is the first thing Logan gets to say after wandering into the living room.
As he says, their entire dining room table is covered with muffins, cakes, cupcakes, banana bread and more. Patton has clearly been busy, and Logan is remiss to note that he is unable to eat any of it. Just to test it, he tries to grab one of the cupcakes—one with blue frosting and a snow theme—only for his hand to just hit the solid wood of the table; precisely as he had anticipated, all of these confectioneries exist in the ghostly void meaning he can't directly access them.
Patton grins sheepishly, hands covered by oven mitts and holding yet another batch of chocolate chip cookies on a baking tray, “Morning, kiddo! I was feeling antsy last night, couldn't sleep, so—yeah! Baking seemed like a good idea!”
Logan stares at him for a moment before sighing, ignoring the small smile gracing his lips, “Patton, you're a ghost. You guys don't need sleep.”
Patton pauses, looking down at his flickering form showing glimpses of a gunshot wound and a bashed in skull. Patton's hands take on a slight shake as he sets the tray down, “Oh, hahah, yeah... Right. Must've slipped my mind, somehow!”
Logan hums, gesturing to the baking aplenty decorating their tabletops. A curl in his gut speaks of guilt for reminding the habitually forgetful ghost of his proper role, but Logan can't help it. It seems only fair to tell him the truth, Logan’s been doing it for Patton since he was fourteen.
“Sit down, Pat,” Logan says, and the ghost floats over and plops down on one of their chairs, curling into his little cat hoodie he only "wears" when he's feeling lost. Logan lets his face soften, “I'm going to make myself food, you dig in with your treats.”
Logan turns his back to Patton, and without looking, he can sense the ghost pausing before reluctantly picking up and biting into one of the treats. Logan smiles to himself.
Now, what to eat? He can't make something that requires a lot of preparation and time, or takes up a lot of space. Even if the vast assortment of cookery items covering the kitchen aren't real in a way that Logan could touch them, his mind still tells him that they're very present and there.
It's hard to combat your sense of sight and smell when your sense of touch disagrees.
It's one of those things that shows Logan shouldn't believe in ghosts; if he is such a stickler for reality and logistics, ghosts should never have been on his radar as a possibility. And yet, he believes in them wholeheartedly.
How can he not when there are two in his home, who have solidly been his two loyal companions his whole life? How can he not believe when the first time he saw them, he saw the sickness and wounds upon them that a child his age had not been exposed to in media yet?
Yes, during his teen years, he'd fallen into a state of frenzy and denial—fearing the terms "imaginary friends" and "schizophrenic" possibly applying to him—but that phase has long since passed. He knows Roman and Patton, he knows the two are ghosts and he knows they are his friends. None of those terms are lies, they are all honest, complete truths.
It's hard to imagine his life without them, without Patton's bubbly attitude that is constantly flickering when confronted with his lack of true corporeality, without Roman's dramatic singing to punctuate any given moment.
They'd been with him through most things.
Roman staying with him through any crushes—more so exclaiming "cutie alert!" only for Logan to look and see someone not remotely his type—sharing with him tips and tricks that time Logan had to participate in the theatre club by the pushing of his teachers, and creative insults.
Logan's good at that himself, however, Roman always loved making up nicknames, lighting up when Logan used them and they got to see the reaction of the other. Logan knows it helped Roman feel just a little more real.
Patton who helped him out during his home economics class, sharing stories of his life as though he still lived it, speaking of his little brother who he always patched up the clothing of and made food for when their parents wouldn't. Patton who was his emotional rock when his grades started slipping during high school and his parent's had shown their disappointment in him clearly.
“-ey, Specs, you've been staring into that cupboard like it owes you cash for the past two minutes, you good?” the familiar voice of Roman rings out, and Logan barely refrains from visibly startling.
He blinks back to himself as he is, indeed, still looking inside the cupboard, and hastily grabs a packet of two minute noodles to shield his embarrassment.
“Apologies, I must have gotten lost in thought. Good morning, Roman, help yourself to Patton's baked goods. We have plenty to go around,” Logan says, hoping the change of topic isn't obvious as he turns the kettle on and prepares the noodles.
“Yeah, kiddo! Help yourself!” Patton chimes in, a little more genuine cheer back in his voice now, though an edge of concern and tenseness remains.
Roman huffs, plopping down on his chair and grabbing one of the muffins with his left hand, his right rubs at his eyes. His shoulders relax as the food reaches his phantom taste buds, “Mmm! This is wondrous, padre! How do you do it?”
The familial nickname is something Roman developed for Patton when Logan was around eleven. Coincidentally, it was also around the time Roman hid his death wounds more, despite the taxing efforts Logan has noted it taking.
Patton's wide beam softens to a gentle smile, genuine and warm, “You really think so?”
“Yes!” Roman proclaims, gesturing around with his spare arm, Logan taking the time as the kettle goes off to pour the water in the bowl, “Truly a delightful treat! Logan, have you tried them?”
“No, Roman,” Logan begins, continuing before Roman can cut him off, placing the bowl in the microwave, “they are ghostly made food, henceforth, I cannot eat them as you can.”
Logan sometimes wonders if it is merely a ghost thing or a Roman and Patton thing that they constantly forget their ghost status or that Logan cannot interact with the stuff they create due to his lack of such a status.
Roman wilts, pouting, “Shoot, right—well, nerdy wolverine, you should know they are really good.”
“I wouldn't expect them to be anything else,” Logan says, and the microwave beeps, telling him his noodles are ready. Wonderful.
-+-
Ghosts are real.
Remus has known that little fun fact since he was a toddler, barely learning how to walk, and happened to see the well-dressed stranger watching over his crib.
Unlike most children, Remus did not yell for his parents to aide him. They wouldn't, anyway, but Remus has always been a bit of an oddball—a damn proud one at that. He saw the stranger—who looked at him with slightly amused eyes, half of their face drenched in blood and scarring; a light, easing coo on their lips at his antics—and excitedly waved at them.
It was a disjointed wave, uneven and uncoordinated in the way only a child's could be, but the stranger stiffened at the gesture, looking at him with a new gleam in their eyes.
After that, Remus was never alone again. That ghost—Janus, a name he would only learn at the age of twelve; Dee-dee is what he called him prior—stuck around, playing the semi-benevolent, caring role Remus' actual parents wouldn't.
Janus was the one to learn his dreams of marine biology, to push him towards it—the one who got him through the misery that was his forced socioeconomic class in high school. Remus doesn't know where he'd be, who he'd be, if not for the sarcastic spirit.
When he was nine, another ghost showed up. They'd been considerably younger than Janus, by a good few years at least, and a lot more modernly dressed to boot. Their eye bags were sunken in, skinny to the point of starvation and bruises littered their arms and chest.
Janus was the one to talk to them first, calming them and telling them the obvious yes, you're dead. No, we cannot do anything about it. Yes, you can change your form but that takes time and energy and is a hassle. Yes, we do have to look the way we died. Yes, I'm going to tell you why my face is like this, definitely talk.
Vee hadn't taken it well, any of it.
“I can't be dead!” he had yelled, eyes wide and fearful, “they can't have succeeded! They can't have won—I was supposed to live!”
“I know,” Janus had said, with that look in his eye Remus knew from when he'd cried over losing a plushie he'd been experimenting on with rough stitches and patches. “None of us ever want to experience it, I know, we'll figure it out.”
And they did. Vee stuck around, sticking to Janus' side like an anglerfish male, becoming something like a brother to Remus.
Reminding him when he'd skipped a meal, telling him the answers to quizzes and tests, and giving constructive criticism to any of Remus' artwork. Whenever Remus ended up hurt, it was always Virgil who reacted the strongest with stress—like the time Remus got his leg stuck in a bear trap.
It wasn't intentional. It just kind of happened. He had been walking along, fine and dandy, saw it on the way, and got his leg caught by a second one he didn't see. Honestly, out of the three of them, Remus was the calmest about the injury. It didn't even hurt that badly.
Virgil and Janus had freaked out, blah blah blah, Remus managed to get home fine with an only lightly mangled foot that never quite healed right and still gave him pained tremors seventeen years later.
Nothing like beloved teenage memories like that to get him through the day, let him tell ya.
He'd long moved out of that town, by the way, mostly thanks to Janus and Virgil's insistence once he was of age to be out of his parent's thumb. Bleeding, soft, putty hearts, the both of them.
His childhood house hadn't even been that bad, to be honest. It hadn't affected Remus much, but it clearly stressed out Virgie and Janny to keep living there so move he did!
And it has been going wonderfully, to be honest. Twelve years free of that house, and Remus still can't believe he wakes up to the only yelling being from neighbours—something that only happens on rare occasions like Valentine's or Christmas.
It is surreal. He kinda loves it.
And he can see the change the years away from the house have done for his family, even if they're both ghosts who literally can't have a social life besides Remus and each other.
Dee-dee has taken up the skill of knitting, using ghost yarn and knitting needles based on the offering Remus gave him from the store. He'd had the guy next to him when he was buying the shit, anyway, but whatever. The offering part is what made the whole thing work.
Virgil eats food—thanks to the whole offering it up to them like it's a sacrifice, again—which Janus was ridiculously proud of the anxious emo for. Remus was too, but he'd expressed that with giving Virgil poetry filled with guts and porn emphasising his love. Listen, he's not the most practical guy around, but he thinks he makes it work; especially given Virgil's reaction was to just roll his eyes and snort.
Their love language had been carefully cultivated over the years, mostly formed with insults and begrudging shows of affection. This had been made all the more awkward considering the whole human vs ghost issue. Remus tried to fix that issue once as a teenager, rationalising that being a ghost sounds pretty heckin neat. Virgil and Janus had not agreed and, well, Remus lived to see his thirties to keep the long story short. Or, shorter, he's not very good at being concise.
So, yeah, ghosts are real. He's known them for years and his longest companions willing to stay with him are long-dead folks with nowhere else to go. Kinda sad for them, really, but eh, Remus ain't complaining. He loves them, everything they have to offer him and everything they've done for him.
His alarm to "wake up" is going off, to which he says, “Fuck off, I'm already ten minutes ahead of you,” as he had, in fact, woken up ten annoying minutes before it.
He gets off his ass, shutting off the beeping. Then, from out in the hallway, he hears Janus say “oh, thank the gods, I thought it would never shut up-” and Remus nods along in solidarity.
With antsy limbs, he throws on his uniform—changed slightly along the edges with embroidered stitching of all kinds of marine wildlife for a little stylistic flair—and runs a hand half-heartedly through his messy, roughly dyed curls.
He swipes through his hair again, presses a finger to his moustache to flatten the hair there, before calling it a day and bailing on any further haircare.
It's never worked for him before, ain't no way he's trying it now.
He pauses to stretch, feeling that familiar sense of accomplishment and relief as he hears his spine crack like a glow stick. Oh that felt good.
With that out of the way, he leaves his bedroom and strolls into the living room plus kitchen with a passing greeting, “Morning, Jan!”
Janus snorts, smirking fondly though he'd throttle Remus for bringing it up, and following after Remus' dedicated, focused path. “Yes, terrible morning to you, Remus.”
The alive one beams, arriving at the kitchen like he planned and opening the fridge, rummaging through the veggies drawer.
“Morning, Virge!” he yells over his shoulder, having seen Virgil sitting on the counter, hands curled around a gifted mug engraved with #1 murder story victim along the side.
He doesn't see it—his back is currently to the ghost, after all—but he can sense the way Virgil rolls his mirth-filled eyes with a put-upon huff.
“Morning, you idiot.”
Remus gasps, as if mortally wounded, face split in a grin, “I didn't even call you a slut this morning, Virgil! And you hit me with the idiot card... I should feed you to Jekyll, I'm sure he'd love the delicacy of ghost limbs.”
He punctuates his statements with a bite into the ripe, raw tomato he found in the fridge.
Jekyll, "Remus'" pet snake, lazily rests under the heat lamp Janus had begged Remus to get him. Just like everything about Jekyll. The snake is less Remus' and more Janus' in all but the law because Remus is the only one who can put his name down on a bill and pay.
If Janus ever figured out how to possess someone, Remus is sure he'd use it just to be able to officially own a terrarium with all kinds of snakes. Janus loves snakes. If Remus had ever been scared of snakes—which he wasn't—Janus' love for them would have converted him long ago.
“We are not feeding Virgil to Jekyll,” Janus says, like the party-pooper he is, “and do tell me you're only having that for breakfast, Remus?”
Remus blinks innocently up from behind his tomato, and smirks. “Sure can, Dee! I'm only eating this for brekky.”
“No, you're not,” Virgil cuts in before Janus can say the same thing, because they're both persistent about healthy eating habits despite both being dead for decades now.
Remus pouts.
“Yes, yes, we're very cruel to make you eat like a responsible adult, woe is you. Now go make toast with just mustard as a topping like you love.”
Remus huffs from around the over halfway done tomato but concedes the point. Besides, mustard on toast does sound good. Maybe he'll even throw on some tuna from the little can in the cupboard! He really needs to use those up.