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Blood red crimson spilled from Patton’s arms as Virgil sobbed, desperately trying to hold pressure while Janus got supplies. Remus was forced to sit outside, and to keep Roman from seeing too.
It was foolish really.
Sides can’t die.
Logan never got the appeal until now.
Patton lay on the floor as Virgil and Janus fix him up, and all Logan can do is stare. The taste, scent, and sight of blood was going to be in Logan’s dreams. Not in a good way, not in a bad way. It was just going to be there. Tauntingly.
He wonders if he’d get the same effect if he did it himself.
That was selfish wasn’t it? To see someone else in pain and wish it was yourself? Especially when they’re so close to you? Literally and figuratively?
He should be doing something. He’s just in their way now. Quite literally.
He moves out of the doorway.
He could be more useful.
He’s supposed to be.
But there was something… poetic about it? Patton, such a bleeding heart, spilling his feelings all over the tiled floor. Logan wished he could too spill his insides out like this.
Does that make sense?
Perhaps not.
Logan was always better at analyzing and appreciating poetry, not making his own.
Patton has already been patched up by now, and Logan cruelly wishes he got a second more to view it all.
Yet, he has to stitch it himself. To be useful in some way is to unburden himself in another.
As he stitched Patton up, he knew this was something he couldn't hope to experience again. It would be selfish to hope Patton harm again. It would be selfish to make the other sides go through this another time, whether it be with Patton’s blood or his own.
But maybe one can dream.
Maybe one can imagine.
And one day, one will find a more controlled way to seek out that memory once again, but as his own reality.
Logan was never one for writing poetry.