Archive of Our Own ^beta

When the moon fell in love with the sun
All was golden in the sky
All was golden when the day met the night.

It wasn’t a meeting. 

Maybe it had started that way. But whatever they were doing now, it wasn’t a business meeting. Quite the opposite actually, rather, one might call it a date. They certainly wouldn’t, but someone might. No, if you asked Patton or Janus why they were together so frequently, they would reply (with differing levels of external enthusiasm) that they were “having meetings.” Simple discussions of Thomas’ life, how to integrate the two — seemingly opposing — sides of his consciousness together properly, and the occasional debate on the moral implications of a little selfishness here and there. Simple stuff. Simple.

Well, only if they could fit all the filler talk (like philosophical discussion) between the cups of tea and iced lemonades. If they ran out of gossip (unlikely) or puns (even more unlikely), then sure; maybe a chat about their gracious hosts' mental stability could be had. But even then, the two always seemed to have something more pressing to talk about. Like rattling off facts about snake species, or divulging the latest antics Roman got himself caught up in. That always seemed… more important. 

Though today seems different. There’s less joking, which would surely make way for the more serious discussions the two have at these meetings of (part of) the mind. But no. Thomas’ name hasn’t been raised once. Not once has Patton looked across the rounded, metal table situated in a far away garden of the Imagination, and raised the question of Thomas’ moral standing. Nor had Janus taken his gaze from the hanging vines on a tree behind Patton’s head in order to toss the idea of Nietzsche’s sense of self into the ring for debate. In fact, the two have been sat in near perfect silence for the better part of twenty five minutes. 

The ice in Patton’s lemonade has melted, condensation sticking to the outside of the glass, rolling down onto the metal of the table. Janus’ tea has cooled significantly, bitter and sad on his tongue. Both of them fake sipping their drinks, Patton lifting his cup on occasion before laying it back down as quietly as he can. Janus at least makes the effort of placing his mug to his lips, tilting it back not quite far enough to drink any of the liquid. Neither want to be the first to leave. Neither want to go. Neither want to stay.

“I never asked to be the leader, it sort of just… happened, I guess.” The first of four sentences that had brought them to this stifling silence. The intense suffocation, as the air was pulled from the atmosphere around them. “They just always seemed to look to me for the answers, they all said ‘oh Morality will know what to do!’ And I don’t know what to do, but I’m definitely meant to know, you know? I’m sure you get it.” 

The garden, their garden, is never this quiet. Whether it be their near constant chattering, or the rustling of the gentle leaves, or the crickets chirping in the flowerbeds. Yet Patton’s statement, his penultimate question, had cast the hedge-fenced garden in a dark cloud, and a draining quiet. 

Janus has been rolling Patton’s words around in his mind since they were uttered. He’s well aware that his lack of response had killed the conversation. In fact, he hadn’t even made eye contact. Patton’s sour question lingers on his tongue, strong and wrong, as he turns the cogs of his brain in a constant grind. The leader. In a sense, Janus supposes that’s exactly what the two of them are. In their own strange ways, they are the leaders. Patton with his light, his prince, his teacher, his acceptance. And Janus — with his strange, sad little dark things. The castaways, his scared dark things. Those he vowed to protect. And the one who defected. The one who made it. The one who got out. Janus is almost envious. Almost. 

It definitely shouldn’t take this long to formulate a reply. Surely even a simple yes, I understand that, would be satisfactory. Perhaps too much time has passed, maybe he should change the subject, or maybe he should go. 

“You know, I totally forgot I have plans with Remus. I should take my leave, my apologies.” Is what Janus means to say. Instead, what tumbles from his mouth is a surprisingly smooth: “What does being a leader mean to you, Patton?” He finds the gloved fingers of his left hand tracing the rim of his mug slowly, wrist turning in an elegant twist as he goes. He uses the right to push his hat up on his head more, intending on letting the sun grace across his scales. Alas, the clouds persist.

Shocked, Patton jerks from his trance where he’d been studying the grass below his feet. He tilts his head a little at Janus’ sudden breaking of their peaceless quiet. “Oh-! Well, I suppose…” He trails off, swiping a bead of condensation off his warmed glass of lemonade. “That’s hard to answer.” His smile is nervous, false. His face is a lie. And Janus can see right through it.

Janus muses, pursing his lips and nodding. He moves slowly to tug his capelet tighter around his shoulders, a distraction, a necessity. It’s cold. It’s never usually cold, not in their garden. “Well, why do you feel so much like a leader then? Perhaps that can help you answer.”

“Why are we talking about this now?” Patton’s voice isn’t angry, nor is it confused. It’s… melancholic in a way. There’s a profound sense of sadness to his tone, as though he already knows the answer, and he isn’t too fond of it. He doesn’t move more than to hunch into himself further, hands clasped under the table. 

Janus shrugs and fakes another sip of his tea. “Don’t ask me. You’re the one who brought it up.” He allows his lashes to flutter closed for just a moment, before gazing at Patton from the rim of his mug. Just in time to watch him splutter, just in time to see his hands fly out from dormancy, wafting in the air wildly before landing on the table with a thud.

“Yeah, twenty minutes ago!” Patton pinches the bridge of his nose, a distinctly un-Pattonlike gesture. Perhaps he picked it up from Logan over the years, or maybe more recently from Janus himself. 

There’s a smirk growing on Janus’ face. As much as his stomach gurgles at the thought of Patton’s distress being directed his way — a fact that makes him feel rather sick, actually — he can’t help but be pleased at Patton not bottling his frustration for once. He’s like a shaken cola can, waiting to explode. “All the same, you brought it up. Why do you think you’re a leader, Patton?”

“Because- because I’m treated like one!” Patton surges, exasperated, onto his feet for no more than a second before he falls back into his metal seat. The flowers behind him wilt a little. 

“Are you now?” Janus asks, scoffing as he does. Maybe it’s a little cruel, and it’s definitely rude. But Patton is lying, lying to himself, and lying to Janus, and subsequently lying to everyone else. “The only reason you are treated as a leader, is that from the beginning you have situated yourself as one. You, even now, see your opinion as the deciding one, the most important one.”

“N-no, I don’t,” Patton slumps, voice quavering.

“Oh, you don’t? Well, then I must be mistaken,” Janus very pointedly fakes another sip of his tea, laying the cup back down on its coaster when he’s done. “Though, can I pose a situation for a moment? Let’s say… you’re having a movie night,” Patton quirks up noticeably at that, and if Janus weren’t so focused on conjuring up a suitable scenario on the fly, he’d be fighting back a smile at Patton’s peppiness. “And Virgil wants to watch Nightmare Before Christmas. You however think that everyone would enjoy The Jungle Book more. In fact, you think that if we chose to watch Virgil’s pick, we would be making a morally incorrect choice. In your head, you’re convinced that no one will enjoy the film, that it’ll upset people, that we’d be doing something wrong by not watching your choice. The rest of us agree to watch Virgil’s movie, except for you. If you think we’re making a bad decision, watching something you think is incorrect, is wrong, is bad, what do you do?”

Patton pauses, pouts his lips out and hums, genuinely considering. “That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think any of those things about Nightmare Before Christmas. I think Oogie Boogie is a little scary, but I don’t think watching it would be wrong or bad or anything.”

Janus leans back in his seat, hooking an elbow over the back of his chair. He turns his wrist lazily in the air and tilts his head to the rapidly greying sky. It looks as though it may rain. He makes frightful eye contact with Patton before he speaks: “Humour me.”

“Well…” Patton’s face scrunches, his eyebrows knit together tight as he tenses up. Janus swears he can hear the computer buzzing in his brain, or the hamster in the wheel powering him up. “I-I suppose, if that’s really how I feel, if it’s wrong to watch Virgil’s movie, then I have to say something. Don’t I? I don’t want to upset anyone, but if I know I’m right, and he’s wrong then… It's my duty to set the record straight. We watch The Jungle Book.” Despite the lightness to his voice, the tension remains dead-set in his limbs, tough with rigor mortis.

Janus smacks his lips, spine curving as he cants out over the table, swaying as he goes. The fingers on his left hand dance out towards Patton, flickering in the air much like a snake's tongue as they go. Patton appears transfixed, exhaling as he follows the movement. “Ah, Patton… Notice how you declared Virgil’s choice was wrong? You decided we’d all watch your film, rather than suggesting we watch it.”

Patton sputters, mouth agape before he snaps it shut. Faintly, Janus thinks he looks awfully frog-like in this lighting. His cheeks puffed out, the dull grey-ish glimmer of sunlight has him looking pale, almost slimy with nervous sweat. “No!” Patton insists, “you said Virgil’s choice was bad!”

“Ah, ah,” Janus tuts, shaking his head, “I said you thought it was wrong. Big difference.”

Patton slumps back, defeated. His brows remain furrowed, in thought maybe, but with sadness too. And whilst Janus feels a mild pang of guilt, he forces it back down his throat. “Look, the reason you’re the leader — is because you decide everything. Even if you don’t realise it. You have the last word. Traditionally, whatever you say, goes.”

“But, but I never asked-”

“You didn’t have to. Your existence as morality implies it. The fact that you’re modelled after Thomas’ father demands it,” Janus reaches for his mug, not to drink, merely to hold. Patton leans over the table after him, keeping their faces close. “Because if the others didn’t agree with you, if their views didn’t align with yours: what kind of person would that make them? If they disagreed on what was right, and what was wrong, with the literal embodiment of morality, what would that say?”

Patton purses his lips. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wet behind his glasses. Janus has to tear his gaze away, glaring down into his cold, milky tea spitefully. 

“I know you didn’t intend to be a leader of sorts, but like it or not you are one, and you did it to yourself. Unconsciously, you placed yourself on a pedestal, wherein what you say goes. Because you think you’re right. And of course you do! You’re morality, it’s your job…” Janus sighs as he looks into his mug, watches the thin skin of milk on top as it reflects light back at him. Disgusting.

“I’m… I’m trying, Janus,” Patton insists, pleading and wide eyed and so, so sad, it makes Janus want to kick himself for saying anything at all. But he keeps his face steady, schools his expression to neutral and nods solemnly.

“I know you are,” he hazards a glance to Patton, and winces at his frown, “and I for one am very proud of you. If that’s worth anything to you from a liar like me.”

Finally, Patton smiles. “It means more than you could know.” Shockingly soft, almost literally. It’s like every nerve in Janus’ body has been held to the end of a live wire, rumbling his veins with electricity as his heart pounds in his chest.

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat into his fist, “I think you can continue to be a leader. A better one, let’s say.” 

The clouds above them begin to pull away, and they drift onwards and outwards to their next victim. The rain never comes. Janus’ tea is still cold, and Patton’s lemonade is still warm. Nothing is as it’s meant to be. 

“How did you do it?” Patton asks quietly, resting both his elbows on the table as he plays with the straw in his glass. He pushes it round in circles, hypnotic, twisting it between his pointer and thumb. 

Janus blinks dumbly, once, then twice. Then, “I don’t follow.”

“You know,” Patton dips his head down, pulling the straw between his lips. He doesn’t sip, but he chews nervously on the plastic before rolling his neck slightly, balancing his cheek on his right hand. He taps his free hand off the table nervously. “Lead,” he clears his throat, “the dar- the Others. Remus and Virgil. How did you do it? Why did you do it? For the same reasons as me? Unintentionally?”

He sounds hopeful. He doesn’t want to be alone in his mistakes. 

“No, I did so very intentionally,” Janus remarks, the truth sour on his tongue. Gone off milk. “They needed… direction. They were my… my scared little dark things,” he looks desperately for something to fidget with. Why he thinks Patton deserves the truth, he can’t be sure. “I wanted to protect them, I wanted to keep them safe. They needed that. They needed reassurance and safety and- and lies. They needed someone to wrap them up and tell them everything would be okay, that they didn’t have to worry. I lied to them, every step of the way. Because…”

And Janus grits his teeth, searching for any bit of agitation in Patton’s face, any sense of disapproval. He finds nothing but rapt attention. 

“Because in all honesty,” and he finds the term doesn’t make him feel as sick as it usually does, “I was scared. Absolutely terrified. I didn’t know what was happening, I didn’t know how to fix anything. I didn’t know if we could fix anything. But they needed someone, anyone, to make them feel safe. I very intentionally put myself on that pedestal, and I very intentionally pretended to have the answers. To protect them, to keep my castaways safe.”

Patton hasn’t blinked. He doesn’t interrupt, so Janus keeps talking, the words tumbling from his lips. 

“I looked at them, and I saw fear. I saw neglected children who had been told they were evil and bad and wrong, and I opened my arms up and I told them I would keep them safe, that they could come with me and I would take care of them. I tucked them in at night and kissed their foreheads and lied right to their faces. I told them they were perfect, that no one would ever hurt them again. I lied, over and over and over, and I made myself the leader, because they needed one. They needed me.”

Slowly, Janus slows down. He’s grasping hard at the front of his shirt, the easy confidence all but mopped from his tone. He’s shaking. No one had ever taken care of him. All these years of keeping his scared little dark things safe, and no one had done the same for him. All these years of protecting, and guarding, and denial. All these fucking years.

“I’m sorry.”

Patton’s words are careful, and soft, and quiet. 

“I beg your pardon,” it’s not something Janus had ever expected. An apology. 

Yes, Patton apologises a lot. He says sorry to everyone, for everything, all the time. He’ll apologise for putting one too many sugars in Virgil’s coffee, he’ll apologise for knocking too loud on Roman’s door when he’s working, he’ll apologise for mixing up his glasses with Logan’s even though they’re exactly the same. Patton will apologise to the stove if it burns him, or the fridge if he bumps into it, or the TV when he turns it off. 

But never once has he apologised to Janus. Not like this. Not with such sincerity, with a furrowed brow, with anything less than a beaming grin. And now he’s frowning. His face sad and slant and mourning. 

“I’m sorry,” Patton repeats, reaching his free hand across the table. Janus makes no move to hold it. He’s sterner now, more sure of himself. They both know what he’s apologising for. Morality, pushing the others away. Morality, sorting them into the good and the bad, at such a young age.

Janus shifts awkwardly in his seat, surprisingly out of depth. The sun shines brightly above them, the hue shifting distinctly towards orange as it slowly trudges towards the earth, setting. “I feel no need to forgive you, Patton.”

Quietly, “I know.”

“And yet I do.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Janus flicks his hand, then lets his eyes fall to Patton’s knuckles, laid bare on the table before him. He rustles, then tugs at the tips of the glove on his right hand, slowly sliding it off. He folds it over itself multiple times, setting it down beside his forgotten mug of tea. He places his hand next to Patton’s. Not atop it, just… beside it. 

Patton challenges him with a smile, and fumbles to get the straw from his drink in his mouth again. This time, he takes a sip. He wrinkles his face up. “It’s gone flat.”

“It’s a pity, what time can do to something once so enjoyable,” Janus muses. He doesn’t particularly expect Patton to dig deeper into the sentiment, nor dignify him with a response. To his surprise, Patton bobs his head in agreement. He lifts his hand, and then his naked palm is laying, warm, over top of Janus’ own. His eyes sparkle, and Janus finds he can’t tear himself away, no matter how hard he tries.

He doesn’t try particularly hard. 

Janus’ eyes flick up to the sky, basking in the last remaining drops of gloriously warm sunshine. In just under an hour, the sun will be set, and the moon will occupy his place. The moon, in all her beauty. Janus has to say, as much as he adores the cover of darkness, and the silver shimmer of the night — he much prefers the heat of the day. And when he looks back to Patton, he finds Morality studying his features closely, eyelids heavy and pupils far off. 

“Look at that, Patton. You took the clouds away. You really are a ray of sunshine.” Janus says, because he doesn’t have the heart to ask Patton what he’s thinking about. And, after all, it’s preferable in their little meetings (their little almost-but-not-quite-dates) to discuss the lighter topics. The fun stuff. The sun. 

Rather than just accept the compliment and flash Janus that delightful grin he so wants to see, Patton curls his lips up in a close-mouthed smile. “Janus, I think you might be the sun.”

The lump in Janus’ throat hisses. It snarls and spits venom and shows off its needle-like fangs. It scratches and bites at his innards as he swallows it back. “I don’t think I understand, Patton.”

Patton rubs his thumb over Janus’ knuckles, gaze lowered. When he looks back up, his eyes are wet again, welling with unshed tears. “It’s just, I always thought I would be the day, or the sun, or whatever it’s meant to be — and you would be the night, the moon. But now I’m not so sure. I think I’m too… cloudy to be the day now.” His thumb traces slow, anxious circles. Janus huffs in a deep breath.

“Oh, Patton, I don’t think so. Sometimes the day will be overcast, sometimes there will be clouds. It doesn’t mean the sun isn’t there. You just have to try a little harder to see it, wait a little longer until it comes out.” He notices that he doesn’t have to force the smile that graces his lips. It all comes so naturally. They don’t have to say it. They don’t have to say anything at all. Patton is sorry, and he’s trying, and he’s touching Janus so carefully. Like Janus is fragile, like if he dares to hold him properly — Janus might break. 

After all, they’d been here all day, waiting. And the sun had come out, eventually.

Patton smiles at him. And it’s warm. So is his lemonade. So is the sun.

Janus turns his palm over, stilling Patton’s movements. His hand hesitates in the air before dropping down, his fingers interlacing with Janus’ own. And his skin is cold. So is his tea. So is the encroaching moon.

“And, as a cold-blooded animal, I’ll always wait for the sun to come out.”