An Idea- Janus Just Being Roman For Some Reason Or Another When Suddenly Patton Apears. He Asks If He

an idea- Janus just being roman for some reason or another when suddenly patton apears. he asks if he can rant about something (Janus says yes) and procedes to indirrectly confess his feelings to Janus. -Vibe

ok hang on let me just---

He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, sometimes, so he slips into another. He never means any harm by it, not in moments like these, and especially not this time. But his scales are itching and irritated, so it is a relief to get rid of them for an hour or two, and he chooses Roman’s form because he knows that Roman and Remus are occupied with a project, and will be for hours yet. He doesn’t intend for anyone to see him, but it can’t hurt to be cautious.

He doesn’t intend for anyone to see him, so of course, someone does, in the one minute in which he rises into the kitchen, intent on fetching a snack and spending the rest of the day napping and watching soap operas until he feels vaguely like himself again.

“Hey, Roman?” someone asks, and someone is Patton, because of course it is. He can feel himself blushing already, so he places another illusion atop the first to mask it.

“Patton!” he says, turning to grin at him as Romanly as he possibly can. “What’s poppin’, padre?”

Patton smiles back, but--- there’s something off. A strange look in his eyes, like anticipation but not quite, almost a jitteriness. It doesn’t seem like anything bad, but it’s certainly a bit odd.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Patton says. “I kinda wanna talk about something? And I mean, no pressure if you don’t feel up to it, but I feel like I need to get it off my chest, and I think you might understand the best?”

He blinks, a tendril of guilt curling in his chest. This conversation isn’t meant for him. But he hardly wants to reveal himself now--- the moment for that, if there ever was one, has passed, and even besides that, he wants to know what’s on Patton’s mind. Selfish of him, he knows, and probably not precisely moral, but then, morality is hardly his area of expertise.

“Sure,” he says. “What’s up?”

Patton sighs, leaning against the wall. Some of the tension drains from his frame, and he crosses his arms, cupping his hands around his elbows.

“So, uh, I think I’m in love?” he says, and something in Janus’ heart shatters.

He knew, after all, that his own feelings would never be requited. That he would be better off keeping them to himself until he could force them away for good. But still, it hurts, deep inside, and he struggles to maintain Roman’s face.

“Oh?” he says, and fights to keep his voice even, to force down the tremor that wants to creep in. “Do tell.” And he winces, because that’s far more like his typical cadence than Roman’s, but somehow, Patton doesn’t seem to notice.

“I just---” he starts, and then cuts off shaking his head, his eyes squeezing shut. “I just feel so good? When I’m around him? He makes me really happy, and I want to spend time with him, like, all the time, and he’s been so kind and funny and he’s so pretty and I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to kiss him, so, uh. Y’know? I think it’s love?”

Bitterness is a potent drug. But he refuses to give in to it, refuses to hurt Patton because of it. He smiles, as warm and inviting as he can muster, encouraging him to go on.

“And literally everything he does, it makes my chest feel warm and fuzzy, like I’m floating and I never ever wanna come down. He laughed at a joke I made the other day and I wanted to just---” He flaps his hands around a few times--- “grab his hands and swing them around and just hold him for a little while.” He beams. “Did you know that he slurs his s’s when he’s excited? He did it when we were talking this morning and he was so embarrassed but I thought it was really cute and that’s when I figured out that I wanted to kiss him really, really bad.”

Wait.

“And have you ever looked at his scales?” Patton continues, completely unaware of the bomb he’s just dropped. “I mean, really looked? They’re all green-brown if you just glance at them but when you look at how they reflect the light, they’re actually a bunch of colors. A lot of yellow, but there’s greens and blues too, and gosh, they’re just so gorgeous.”

What?

Janus feels lightheaded.

“Do you think I should tell him?” Patton asks. Janus wrenches his attention back down to earth with an effort, and sees that Patton is peering at him now with worried eyes. “I guess that’s what I really wanted to ask, since you know the most about this kind of stuff. I think I want to tell him, but I’m scared he won’t feel the same way. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I lost his friendship because of this.”

Janus is still reeling, is still stuck on I think it’s love, trying to reconcile that with the fact that Patton--- is talking about him? And that can’t possibly be right, because why on earth would Patton like him? But he can’t be talking about anyone else, because no one else hisses their s’s, no one else has scales, so it must be him. Patton loves him.

“Uh, Roman?”

He shakes himself. “Right, sorry,” he says, and his mouth is so dry, and he needs to think of something to say, something that will end this conversation, because he feels like he’s about to vibrate right out of his skin. He needs a moment to process this, to absorb it and allow himself to believe it. “I, uh, I think you should go for it. Take that leap!”

Patton stares at him. “You really think he’ll be alright with it?” he asks, soft and insecure.

“Patton,” he says, “I don’t know how he could possibly turn you down.”

He is, quite possibly, giving too much away with that. But Patton thinks he’s Roman right now, so he won’t realize that Janus has just confessed to the fact that he would do absolutely anything for him. Anything at all.

Patton grins, bouncing on his heels, his spirits seemingly buoyed. “Okay!” he says. “I think I’ll do that, then! Thanks, kiddo!”

Janus flashes him a smile, not trusting himself to say anything else, and he watches him go. The second Patton has left the kitchen, he drops his disguise, too overwhelmed to keep it up. He shakes his hands a few times, fiddles with the edge of his capelet, runs his finger down his scales, and when none of that feels like enough, he buries his face into his hands and squeals. He’s very, very glad that there is no one else around to see, because he simply can’t stop himself; there is too much emotion rising up inside of him, bursting out, eager to be free, to be expressed, and he can do nothing but let it out.

And when he’s calmed down just enough to think coherently, he sinks out and into his room. It seems that he has a confession of his own to prepare.