Chapter Text
There is a certain novelty in gardening – a peace hidden among the freshly opened petals under the young sunlight, enchanting smell of lilacs fading in the southwest wind.
Janus pats the ground thoroughly as if it will start purring slowly – he only needs to do it a little bit lighter, a little bit gentler, more attentively.
Flowers are a straightforward bunch when listened to closely and with a proper amount of patience. Much alike his fellow sides – with some it takes a little bit more prickling than with others.
If only he could read the flower language as easily as the language of self-conscious feelings hidden beneath the thicket of lies. Sensing deception and being an embodiment of deceit (which is both factually true and untrue at the same time) does not grant you the magical powers of simply knowing how to deal with whatever that lurks beneath.
Gathering his belongings, Janus sighs – glancing towards the sheer bush of deeply red roses – it’s easier now, but not easy.
He steps forward, changing his gloves with a swift familiar motion, massages the slightly tired wrists, ready to leave – there are, after all, other things that need to be done. Like checking on Remus and his wreckage of a room before it collapses completely from the infestation of flaming-hot-Cheetos-frogs.
‘You should try one, D! They croak when you eat them and they’re not just flamingly-flavoured! They’re actually on fire!’ Janus stifles a sigh, draped in a tone of endearment.
The soft, yet determent rustling stops his plans though.
There is an opening now – between his neatly cut living wall and an old broad oak tree. He knows that passage, swears to avoid it every time it appears in his space lately – it’s only polite – he tells himself that.
He isn’t welcome in the Imagination – not now and not exactly ever.
There is a place for him in here, if you want to dig deeper, go into schematics. There is daydreaming and meet-cutes in the streets, when you pull the veil over your eyes just for a minute – to imagine how it would be, dipping your feet a little into this selfish “what ifs” – to be a little bit braver, somehow bolder and free.
To greet that handsome guy standing by the corner, date him, have a grand marriage and adopt a bunch of kids.
But usually – usually Janus slips away, doesn’t interfere as much. Gives the reign to the true ruler of the imagination. Doesn’t say anything about his part in soothing night terrors and sweetening the doomed dying dreams.
The passage burns a hole in his chest – waiting wordlessly – so Janus straightens his back, eyes squinting barely. A quiet biteless threat buried in the dim yellow glow of his left one.
“With all due respect – no,” bickering with the Subconscious is of no use, but he is stubborn and intent on sticking to his decisions. Which at the moment is not listening to some know-it-all stick that managed to grow into a tree somehow. But the oak squeaks dully and bends its branches invitingly, insisting.
Janus would’ve put his hat off for a dramatic effect, but it lies silently in his room still, so he just steps back in defiance:
“Roman doesn’t want to see me. Anywhere, especially there. Especially right now. And in case you haven’t notice – oh, right, how rude of me, trees don’t have eyes – it’s nighttime! He’s probably off wasting his time fighting some fantasy villains. And I oh so don’t like the competition.”
There is no such thing as tree-speak as much as Patton wants to believe it, hugging another breech in hopes to receive a nice word back and laughing sheepishly when the miracle doesn’t happen. There is only understanding things from clues, bits and pieces – and a sharp feeling of wrongness to the air that you breath.
“Unless…” he whispers, tasting the worry on his tongue – sore and tingly, “Unless there’s a competition that Roman doesn’t seem to be winning… Oh, that – opinionated, indomitable – that bloody all-over-himself fool.”
The leaves sew themselves back the moment Janus launches into the thin verge of the in-between of Thomas’ mind. He doesn’t really question why he’s the one being called for help in the first place, not now, not yet.
The forest is wide and high – characteristically fairy tale-like – with birds eyeing him cautiously and small nervous animals disappearing into the grass.
He looks rather out of place here – his usual deliberately picked attire changed for a simple black button-up shirt and a pair of suitable trousers. Perhaps not a fit for a skilled gardener, but after all they are rather not corporal as is the garden’s dirt.
But being incorporeal in one sense doesn’t cancel out the possibility of being hurt and experiencing pain in another. Tedious semantics.
He slithers carefully, keeping his pace prompt yet not completely out of breath. Perhaps – most likely – Roman is somewhere close.
Considering the big all-seeing-something seems to root for him finding the prince. ‘Reptiloids, called it’ would’ve said Virgil if they talked to each other more than in hisses.
It takes him more or less ten minutes of irritating wandering to reach quite the convenient clearing – a perfect place for an ambush, a trap or another evil deed. Janus grits his teeth, the sharpness biting into his lip, sobering.
Creativity is sprawled over the ground, breathing harshly, short gasps for air, melted with groans and inaudible mumbling. A nasty dark cut crosses out the lightness of his carmine sash – a crisscrossing stroke over his princely clothing.
In other circumstances Janus might have said something about picking white for such outdoor activities, involving blood that is, but now’s not the time. Now his hands are trembling just slightly – not in fear, but in understanding. ‘Isn’t it always easier to just throw yourself into the things that are familiar? Things you can do and do so-so splendidly. To overwork yourself, wishing to silence the ever-wailing sound of your own mind?’ He knows – he sure knows.
“Oh, your highness. How the mighty have fallen,” he notes, shushing concern under his breath.
There is only one logical conclusion here, the right decision to be made – Logan would be proud, surely – to carry the prince out of the Imagination. The wounds, received here, will fade away the moment they step out of the realm.
The problem is – Janus isn’t as strong as Roman or as fast as Remus. He can’t – he wouldn’t be able to pick up something both so fragile and heavy. But – but he’s cunning, good at prioritizing and “life or death” situation problem-solving. He can’t carry Roman all the way back by himself. Or can he?
Just for tonight – a little bit sturdier, a tad more reckless with a pinch of wishful thinking. Just for now he can be enough – for this, for here – for Roman. Little white lies, when used accordingly, can give someone, oh, so much power.
Janus breathes in and slowly, almost tenderly embraces the prince, pulling him closer – slips his arms under, pair after pair, enveloping. He could be enough for a while even if it’s awfully tiring.
All the way back Roman doesn’t wake up, only whispers some “show them”, “halt, you, creature” and a series of “don’t you dare” ending in pained sighs. Obviously tired not only physically, but mentally. Still. Janus glances at the nearing oak – he probably should talk with Patton about it. Again.
The air in the garden is crispier, like a freshly cleaned sheets bathed in the washing powder with a neatly typed “lemon and mint”.
It’s more viscous in the Imagination, enshrouding you deeper into the building up fantasy, lulling further to the nowhere’s edge.
The stillness of the flowerbed brings Janus some calmness, a portion of familiarity and confidence in his own – reassures him in a way that the rapid breathing of Roman can’t. ‘At least, he is breathing.’
It’s not safe to bring the prince to Janus’ room – who knows what effects it might have on the exhausted side. The blood is still present on his suit, but it’s worn now – and there is no wound as far as he can see. So it wasn’t, it wasn’t for nothing.
He probably should put Roman somewhere to rest – maybe call others to assist him, but it’s almost… an ungodly hour.
Waking Patton up would be, well, ill-mannered. Virgil is up probably, but it’ll only bring him more worry – and he’s not sure if their status quo saves him from any accusations of slashing the prince in the moment of weakness or whatever. Logan would say that Roman needs rest and Remus – oh, dear – he just hopes (‘More like hops’ – ha) that the frogs didn’t start some kind of a new French revolution in his absence.
“Let’s just,” he lowers Roman down warily, puts him gently beside the golden daffodils, “We’ll just let you rest here. No worries, really. The grass is quite soft. And when you wake up… Well, until then I will have an excuse or two for this situation,” murmurs Janus more to himself than anyone, but still something within him strives to sooth the distressed line between Creativity’s eyebrows.
It leaves a bitter taste on a tip of his tongue – awfully close to caring. There was a pillow, maybe – just forgotten somewhere among his gardening tools and leftover philosophy books.
He has no other option but to wait until the prince awakens.
Well – considering Roman is a prince – there is another option. Janus stops his eyes on the sleepily parted lips and stands up abruptly. What nonsense. And the one that totally lacks consent.