Sanders Sides Oneshots and Short Stories

Alexithymia

Not requested.

Ship(s): Platonic Analogical

Category: Angst/vent

Warning(s): Emotional detachment

Summary: Logan doesn't feel anything. Not anymore.

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Open the fridge. Stare. Take out nothing. I am not hungry.

I want to be hungry.

I want to want something.

I don't want anything.

Logan slides the door closed. The absence of light is not welcomed. The shadows seem to warp and twist around him, and if he doesn't know better, he would think Anxiety is at work.

He fills up a glass of water and brings it to his lips. The drink chills him to the bone. He can't feel his fingers anymore. Numb.

"Midnight snacks?"

He doesn't jump. He heard Virgil coming down the stairs.

"Midnight drink, rather," Logan replies.

Virgil hoists himself up onto the counter, the corner of his lip quirking up. "So what kept you up?"

"Nothing. I'm just not tired."

"You look tired." Virgil inspects him for a long moment, and Logan forces a smile.

"And you look dark and brooding, but we all know better."

Virgil chuckles shortly. He drums his fingers on the tile. The only other noise is Logan's heartbeat, pounding in his ears. "Do you want to know why I'm up?"

"I'm not particularly opposed to knowing. Rather, I have no strong opinions toward the concept."

A pause. "Nightmares," Virgil admits softly. "I've had them for as long as I can remember. Just another part of being Anxiety, huh? Ever had a bad dream?"

"I don't dream," Logan says.

Virgil watches him curiously, but doesn't refute him.

"I don't dream," Logan repeats. He doesn't feel in control of his words, his anything. Like he's trapped inside a shell. "I never have. I don't feel enough to dream."

"I get it." Virgil reaches out as if to set a hand on his shoulder, but Virgil is not Patton. He can't comfort like Morality. Instead, he moves past Logan and pulls open a cabinet, searching the contents for something unknown. "Sometimes I'm empty. Dull. But even that doesn't get rid of the nightmares."

"Does it ever get better?" Logan asks. He's so cold, but the air around him is so warm. Stifling, in fact. He tugs a bit at his shirt collar.

Silence. Virgil closes the cabinet and folds his hands in his lap. His gaze is fixed on something far away. "Not really. But some things can help."

"Like what?"

"You guys," Virgil replies. "Patton and Roman, and even Deceit sometimes. You all make me feel again. It isn't always pleasant feelings, but feelings all the same. They can't do it on their own, Logan. First, you have to learn to want to feel." He slides off the counter and lands with all the grace of a cat, soundless. "To quote Supernatural: 'only humans can feel real joy, but also such profound pain. It's easier this way'."

"Easier what way?"

"To be empty." Virgil moves past him, to the doorway, where he pauses and meets Logan's tired stare. His eyes are earnestly sad. "It's always easier to feel nothing at all than to feel pain."

Then he's gone, and Logan is alone.

Logan bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He can't feel it. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but there is nothing to clear. The haze is in his mind, not his sight.

His eyes begin to sting. Not with tears. Never with tears.

What I would give to cry.

He could compare this feeling to a puppet, being tugged along on strings with no decisions of his own. Like something else is dragging him through all this, forcing him onward. He is too tired, too weak to resist.

He is always too tired.

Always too weak.

They say that Hell is crowded, yet, when you're in Hell, you always seem to be alone
And you can't tell anyone when you're in Hell, or they'll think you're crazy
And being crazy is being in Hell
And being sane is hellish too.

- Lost by Bukowski

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