Art Gallery and Fall Runway 2016

Logan quieted to let her talk, soaking up the words, staring at the ground and blinking his glassy eyes. He squeezed his knees closer, protective of his very small, fragile feeling self. He was a good person. He knew that, and gnawed at the inside of his cheek, then his lip. The school, scouts, counselors. That was all so big and scary and permanent. It made his head spin. Additionally, Anthia was… had been… a child prostitute. Lord. Nevermind the concept of putting too much on this little girl. It'd already been done. He looked up at her with a strong sorrow in his gaze, an empathy. He knew what it was like to have your life broken so early, before you were even aware enough to try and fight it.

He turned his head away again, grateful, but sensitive to the offer of helping. It was a lot to absorb. And they were friends. How lovely. Not managing to hold it back, Logan sobbed in earnest, little pitiful noises. When she hugged him, he didn't have the energy nor will to flinch. He just let it happen.

A choice. A fallout. Bad, bad things, piling up and drowning him. He didn't know if he could survive that, in the figurative or literal sense. This girl thought he should make the plunge, get it over with. He couldn't! He couldn't. It was hurting him, but it felt like a choice between pain and complete social and lifestyle suicide. He wasn't quite sure how to stand without his foundations yet. He'd gone through his whole childhood and almost all of his teenage years like this. The damage was harsh, and it might've been too late.

But he thought about Dorian. The look in his eyes, the feeling of his heartbeat picking up. All Logan wanted was to have that, and more. For others to see and recognize it, to know how he felt and cared for this man, that he wasn't only a lackey. To have that bombshell effect, like she had, not slow, quiet, forgettable. He was so torn between these two things, his different identities. The Christian pianist, the lover, the killer. Which was most geniune? Who was he? Logan Delacroix? Logan Graham?

Or simply plain, hopeless, lovesick and even sicker Logan? That one, that might've been the truth.

He wrapped his arms around Anthia, crying and crying. Eventually, he calmed down enough to settle into little hiccups. "I wish… I wish I could lead more than one life, somehow. To make everyone happy, to keep myself safe, and to not rush this big, scary thing. Growing up, I guess. I thought I wanted to be older, but now, it's all happening so fast, and I don't know where I'll go from here." And so he went silent again, as he was prone to, his existance feeling… small and unneeded. Like if he disappeared, it would never make a difference, because he was having a breakdown in a closet with a little girl as his confidant. It couldn't get that much worse from here.

He tried not to hold Anthia so hard it hurt her, no matter how lonely he felt, tried to be gentle. These things had been wearing on him for far too long, but he would be gentle, with someone who showed him this kindness. His thoughts drifted.

Wait.

Though his words caught in his throat with the spark of an idea, a single wild concept, his eyes lit up all at once. "I-I think I--" he licked his lips and inhaled sharply. "I think I thought of something. It's-- unconventional, but I… what if I…" With a bordering on manic expression, Logan squished Anthia's cheeks. "What if I did have another life? What if I wasn't Dorian's boyfriend, but his girlfriend? I'd need another name, of course, and expensive magic, and a new backstory, but I--" he scrubbed his own face then, hard. "I'm not bad at acting. I'm not bad at all. I-I need to apologize, and talk about this with him--"

He dug his phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it in his frantic rush to get this done, and feverishly texted Dorian: I'm so sorry for my behavior. I have a solution, so I can be like that with you too, even in public. Like you deserve. We'll talk after the runway. I love you.

After that, he let out a sigh of relief, one that made him sound far, far older than a boy of seventeen. "…Thank you," he murmured, barely loud enough to hear, to Anthia, wiping the tears from his eyes. "You grounded me when I couldn't ground myself."