Chapter Text
Approximately three months, four days, seventeen hours, thirty-four minutes and seventeen seconds later hardly anything had changed-
“How’s the weather down there, Jason Toddler?”
-Except for the specific short-jokes Roman used against him.-
“Heated by your irradiated ego. How’s the air pressure up there? Are those few remaining brain cells of yours getting enough oxygen?”
-And while Virgil made his best attempt to deflect Roman’s repetitive remarks-
“D’aw, is little Virgil concerned for my well-being?” Roman chuckled to himself, “Is that because you’re always looking up to me?”
-Unfortunately for Virgil, word-play was Roman’s forte, and beating him at his own game would require greater retaliation that a single mediocre insult-
“Keep dreaming, Sir-Sing-A lot.”
-But alas, for now at least, that was all Virgil had to offer.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Virgil. I maintain height expectations for you.”
~ ~ ~
“You’re never going to live this one down. You know Roman too well to believe he’ll ever let this one go,” Virgil thought to himself for the umpteenth time. When this lone, once unproven thought first ventured through his anxious little mind, Virgil hadn’t taken himself too seriously. There had to be some degree of certainty present of course, otherwise the thought would never have arisen, however, after his little debate with Logan, Virgil had made a mental note not to jump to conclusions so readily. In other words, the whole ordeal almost seemed like a comedic aside at first; one Chandler from “F.R.I.E.N.D.S” may have had if only the show had been a little more self-aware, or was still producing any episodes for that matter.
However, even now, Logan, with his incomparable intellect, mathematical prowess, and certified studies in statistics, could not deny the gravity of the situation, or hope to deny the overwhelming amount of indisputable evidence wagered in Roman’s favour.
The logical conclusion: Virgil was doomed.
The illogical solution? Allow these thoughts to plague Virgil’s waking mind to such an extent at which he found himself lying awake at 11:50PM, blasting PG13 music through his now decaying headphones.
The plastic shell that once encased the vital wires was now decaying, exposing what was essentially the vital organs of the head-piece. If you peered closely enough, you could even see where some of the wires had frayed, and strayed away from their formally integrated streams of current. Virgil had been attempting to rectify the situation for the past three months or so now to no avail, but every time he attempted to conjure himself up a new pair the wires seemed to come back in an even worse state than before, leaving him no choice but to endure the damage of his original pair. It had been an inconvenience at first, but over time Virgil’s fingers memorised the exact formation they would be expected to maintain in order to stop the music from sounding like radio static, or cutting out entirely.
Therefore, Virgil did with these newfound negative thoughts as he did any other and buried them out at sea beneath a tidal-wave of sound, meanwhile praying to whatever deity there may be that none of them washed back up on the shores of conscious thought any time soon… or worse yet that the water, gently lapping around his feet, harmlessly spraying the frays of his jeans, suddenly became a powerful wave that outstretched violently towards him, capturing him within its powerful confines and dragging him out to sea alongside all that which he had attempted to discard. That’s when the music would stop playing, and Virgil would begin his frantic struggle to stay afloat. Some days, he’d find a life-ring, or some shaky buoy to cling onto. On others, he’d find himself being pulled down beneath the ice cold waters that pierced his skin until he went numb. Beneath the depths there were no treble clefs, only sharks.
Watch your steps around these words ‘cause:
They’re gonna get you, they’re gonna get you in the end.
Regardless of how seemingly easily he drifted along the water’s surface tonight however, Virgil couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut attempting to convince him that something was very wrong. That his head wasn’t in the right place. That his mind wasn’t in the right time. Something was wrong. Impossibly wrong. Unidentifiably wrong… So Virgil turned up the volume on his broken headphones, and bolted his tired eyes shut.
I swear it’s not a disease, it’s just a game of pretend.
A game of pretend.
Still, the uncomfortable feeling persisted.
Why is it me they’re after?
Couldn’t pick another one.
Resigning himself to mobility with a sigh, Virgil turned to face the one semi-functional clock in his room - that being the one located on his bedside. As he did so, the time glitched forward from 11:51PM to 11:52PM. The green, glitching lights stung the anxious side’s eyes for a solid few seconds before he was able to rapidly blink away the unwelcome stinging sensation in exchange for a more comfortable numbness.
Despite the haziness of his tired brain, even Virgil knew this wasn’t a healthy hour to be awake at… especially not for a third day in a row. On nights like these there was very little that would help him fall sound asleep.
1. Sitting quietly in Logan’s room, contently lulling off to sleep as he listened quietly and politely to the logical side’s ramblings. The vastness of space, which would terrify Virgil spilling over the lips of any other, appeared oddly intriguing, and in an even stranger way, comforting when conveyed through Logan’s enthusiasm. Logan was never shy to share his love for astrology with Virgil, however, he had warned Virgil he would be going to sleep earlier tonight in preparation for a lecture later that day.
2. Asking Roman to conjure up a tale just for him. Virgil had never been a huge fan of fairy tales when he was younger. The idea of mythical beasts had terrified him beyond belief, and because of that, Thomas couldn’t stand to look at images of dragons until he was about eight years old. However, having the hero himself tell the story from a past-tense perspective provided Virgil with a sense of security he was otherwise lacking. It provided him with the heart-warming sense that his demons could, and would, be defeated. But alas, Virgil had already attempted knocking on Roman’s door half an hour ago to no avail.
3. A warm drink. On long, dark nights such as these, Virgil always knew he could go to Patton and ask for the best cup of warm, hot chocolate to ever grace the mindscape… but he rarely ever did so… The sad look concealed within Patton’s eyes whenever Virgil turned to him for help was unmistakable… In his heart, Virgil knew the paternal side would do anything for him, but unbeknownst to Patton, Virgil would do the same for him. He would allow his best friend to sleep for the night, even if that meant forfeiting hot chocolate.
While hot chocolate may have been out of the question, a hot beverage was still attainable, and so, with a heavy heart, and even heavier eyelids, Virgil begrudgingly pried himself from the cosy confines of his bed, and traded it for the hardness of the cold night floor. From there, the only step he could take to rival his initial reluctance was the first step.
“Just one foot in front of the other, kiddo,” Virgil firmly whispered to himself as he finally shakily slid off his precious headphones, and took his first step towards the doorway… then his second… third…
In no time at all, Virgil found himself standing at the foot of his bedroom doorway, or, as he more colourfully phrased it: “The Precipice Of Disaster.” He opened the door slowly, doing his best to minimise noise and avoid stirring his fellow sides, while simultaneously stealing microscopic glances down the dauntingly dark corridor, as if to ensure there was truly nothing else there, hiding in the dark, waiting patiently for him.
With one last shy look, Virgil steeled himself, pulled out his phone, switched on the built in flashlight, and gently closed over his bedroom door so that the inner mechanism was resting lightly against the doorframe. This was a common tactic employed by Virgil: Closing the door just enough to make it appear closed to any passers-by, while simultaneously leaving it open just enough to ensure he could quietly re-enter without alerting anyone, or anything to his presence.
Despite fulfilling the dutiful role of Thomas’ “dark persona,” Virgil himself was not exactly an avid fan of darkness. The veil of night was composed of the harshest materials, and was designed to only ever sit properly over the face of its victim, obscuring the eyes and making a spectacle of the bearer. It was sheer torture. Deprivation of sight was one of Virgil’s greatest weaknesses. The lack of situational awareness… The fear of being caught off guard… The idea of being unable to protect those he held closest simply because he couldn’t fulfil his primary objective, and warn them about potential dangers.
Then again, nobody is ever truly afraid of the dark; they fear what they believe lurks within it.
~ ~ ~
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
Virgil counted each step he took meticulously.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two Three.
It was a plan Logan had devised for him: Divide the number of steps you take into sets of three, then keep track of how many sets you’ve done.
To anybody not following such a seemingly absurd routine the whole ordeal may seem… well… absurd. However, to Virgil, it was an excellent coping mechanism. Evaluating the steps he had taken in terms of threes provided him with a higher sense of accomplishment: Like the journey had been shortened somehow. He still didn’t enjoy his journey through the dark and narrow corridor, but it made it a little more bearable.
One. Two. Three.
Virgil stopped.
As he reached the first step on the staircase and took a cautious peek down, Virgil couldn’t help but notice a faint light emanating from somewhere downstairs… All of a sudden, Virgil’s body began to tremble lightly, as though a gust of cold air had suddenly passed by. Why would one of the downstairs lights be on? Virgil could have sworn all his fellow sides were sound asleep. Perhaps somebody had left it on? No… Logan was too much of a perfectionist. Patton was too considerate, and Roman had an unhealthy habit of turning room lights off every time he stepped out, even if there were other inhabitants still situated within the now-dark room.
It couldn’t be a burglar. Nobody could break-in to Thomas’ head. However, what if something broke out. Roman’s room contained a number of mythical creatures… Dragons. Witches. Dragon-Witches. Was that why Roman’s light had been left on? Had he been…?
No… No Virgil couldn’t think like that. There had to be some other more… logical reason for Roman to have not answered his door… but, in the event something dangerous was lurking in the mindscape, Virgil couldn’t just evade it. If something was posing a threat to his family and to his host, he had to be able to alert them. He had to know what it was.
In an instant, Virgil let out a loud breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding, then quickly covered his mouth, biting down harshly on his already chapped lips as though to punish himself for being so empty-minded. His entire body was shaking. The light peeking from downstairs was now gently glinting against newly formed beads of sweat. His knuckles had long since turned white from maintaining a vice grip on his phone. It was a wonder he hadn’t cracked the screen.
Still, with a single deep breath, and all the willpower he could muster, the anxious side slowly made his way down the stairs.
Even at a slow pace, it didn’t take Virgil very long to reach the final step, where he idled cautiously. With some reluctance, he disabled the flashlight on his phone and slid it back into his pocket, hoping to not reveal his position. Now that he had two hands available, he grabbed onto one of the staircases pillars, and gentle leaned outwards, to try and get a clear view of his surroundings. As he had suspected, the light was coming from within the kitchen, and as anticipated, he wasn’t alone. Over the half-wall that divided the kitchen from the living room, Virgil could clearly make out a humanoid figure, donned in pristine white and royal red. Relief quickly washed over him.
“Roman?” Virgil called out.
The humanoid figure then reacted with a shriek, as if it had been caught off guard. In an instant the light from the kitchen was turned out.
“…Roman…?” Virgil asked again, more cautiously this time as he descended the last of the steps leading into the living room. “I know you’re there.”
Finally, Virgil earned a response.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. Roman, what are you doing?”
“…It’s not Roman, it’s… Patton.” Roman lied.
“Uh-huh,” Virgil responded, clearly unamused.
Each side may have shared the same base voice, but nobody could replicate the softness unique to Patton. Similarly, nobody could replicate that tiny flare that underlined almost everything Roman said, nor could he consciously conceal it.
In one fluid movement, Virgil pulled his phone back out of his pocket and unlocked it, before turning the flashlight back on. With it, he could just about illuminate the area “Patton” was currently shifting awkwardly in.
“Are those new pyjamas, Patton? They look awfully similar to Roman’s.”
“…Small mindscape?”
“Indeed,” Virgil responded as he rapidly closed the distance between himself and the entry-way to the kitchen. “You don’t mind if I turn the light back on, right, Patton?” Virgil asked mockingly.
“No, wait-”
But it was already too late. Before either side could utter another word, Virgil’s hand found its way to the light switch and flipped it on without a moment’s hesitation. Big mistake. The sudden brightness of the room overwhelmed both sides, causing each of them to rapidly blink away the sudden stinging sensation.
“Nice one, Fro-don’t,” Roman snapped, wiping away the last of his shock with a pristine white satin sleeve.
“Oh my word, Roman?” Virgil taunted, finally regaining his vision, “I never would have seen that one coming.”
“Perhaps you’d have better vision if you didn’t insist on nearly blinding us.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Proclaimed the literal embodiment of anxiety?”
“Proclaimed the literal embodiment of stupidity?” Virgil retorted.
“My, my Virgil. I could have sworn you thought more highly of me,” Roman teased with a grin.
Big mistake. For it was then that Virgil noticed something rather peculiar about Roman’s appearance. In a flash, Virgil’s eyes narrowed. Roman’s widened.
“Anyway, I really must be getting back to my-”
“Stop,” Virgil commanded, the firmness of his voice freezing his creative counterpart to the spot, “Don’t you dare move a muscle.”
Roman swallowed back a witty retort as Virgil slowly marched towards him with beading eyes, looking him up and down repeatedly as though he were attempting to scan him… Was this how shop-window mannequins felt? Trapped? Powerless? Over-analysed? Roman wasn’t accustomed to such a foreign feeling. Feelings such as these were the property of his anxious counter-part. Speaking of which… the more Roman thought about it, the more he realised how much of a subconscious role reversal they’d undergone.
When Virgil finally looked him dead in the eyes, his heart stopped entirely. Virgil wasn’t looking up. He wasn’t tilting his head. He was looking straight forward. Then he was looking down… down at Roman’s bootless feet… then back up again, but his eyes were not so curious anymore. No, now they were conclusive.
“Roman.”
“Virgil.” Roman replied, attempting to hide his nervousness behind a curious expression.
Now more than ever, Roman wanted to make a short-joke at Virgil’s expense. Something along the lines of, “How can I help you, Mickey Mouse?” or “Need help reaching the cereal, short-stack?” just to lessen the amount of tension building in the pit of his stomach, but even he knew it would do more harm than good. Instead he settled for lightly tapping his fingers on a nearby counter-top, and prayed his nervous fidget would slide easily under Virgil’s built-in radar.
“Did your ego shrink any over these last few hours? Or was it just your height?” If tone alone could kill a man, Virgil would be on trial for man-slaughter.
“M-my height?” Roman mentally cursed himself for stuttering.
“Yes, Captain Obvious. Your height.”
“What about it?”
Perhaps if Roman played the clueless card, Virgil would second guess himself and drop the topic. It worked when they were children.
“Well, I wouldn’t say there’s too much of a difference,” Virgil began, certainly implying something, “But tell me, where is that ‘two inch superiority’ you’re always boasting about?”
“Ah, that! Yes… You see, I had a run in with the Dragon-Witch earlier and she-”
“Let me guess,” Virgil interrupted, clearly unamused, “The Dragon-Witch stole your precious boots and heels.”
Roman couldn’t help but take a cautious step backwards as he laughed nervously to himself. There was no escape for him anymore. It was the fishing trip all over again, and he, most certainly, was the fish. Virgil had caught him in his lie, hook line and sinker.
“I can explain,” Roman attempted, but he knew his words were falling on deaf ears, “I…” One more glance at Virgil and he knew he was wasting his breath, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to play it off. “It is possible that my boots add a little bit of height,” Roman attempted, “But I also think it possible that this late hour is warping your perspective somewhat. The heels truly aren’t as significant as you may think.”
There was a moment of silence between the two, and Roman wondered to himself if his nonsensical ramblings had actually proven successful in disarming the situation.
“I see,” Virgil finally responded.
Roman released a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.
“Well if that’s all cleared up, I guess I’ll-”
“I see you’re full of sh*t,” Virgil snapped.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice at all, now, was it?” Roman replied, almost completely exasperated.
“For the past three months, four days, seventeen hours, forty-four minutes and twenty-eight seconds-”
“You’ve been counting?”
“-You’ve been making fun of my height, and all the while, you’ve been the same height as me?”
“Look, call me a liar, but I’m not obsessive.”
“I’m not obsessive, I’m infuriated!”
“Wake the whole house then, why don’t you?”
“Would you rather I put you to sleep permanently?”
“Perhaps you should lower you expectations. At least then they’d match your height.”
By the time Roman realised the error of what he said there was silence.
Two red faces.
And an overwhelming sense of pressure constricting their lungs, and tainting the air between the two men.
For approximately thirty-two seconds nothing happened. Neither man was able to move. Even Roman’s nervous fidgeting had grinded to a sudden halt.
Then Virgil took a sudden step backwards. His mind made. His goal set. He figured he wouldn’t need the warm beverage after all, not if he were to spend the night conducting his research.
Someday I’ll spit their laughter,
And bite their tongue.
A sudden, yet calm smile soon took over Virgil’s expression.
“Goodnight, Roman.”
With that Virgil stormed out of the room.
~ ~ ~