Chapter Text
If Roman was going to be honest, he didn’t think much about what his final moments of life might be like. He was too busy dreaming and thinking up all the ways he could achieve fame, riches and living in a mansion hidden by a waterfall on the side of a mountain.
(Logan said he was being ridiculous. But Roman didn’t take the advice of the man who thought working was all there was to living)
He didn’t think of the possibility of dying before the age of thirty until it hit him. Literally. He was driving home late one night after a rehearsal. It was dark. He was humming along to the last refrains of Nonstop from Hamilton when something rammed into the side of his car.
He didn’t feel the pain; shock was one hell of a drug. But the back of his head felt sticky, and his eyes felt so heavy all of a sudden. A nap sounded good at the moment. He heard tires squeal in the nearby distance, and he wanted to laugh.
Of course, he had to be the victim of a hit-and-run. He was on a stretch of empty road late at night. The chances of someone driving across him were slim. He needed to dial 911. Roman looked over to the phone holder attached to his dashboard, only to see his phone damaged beyond repair.
He took a deep breath. Great. He was going to die, and his lead role in the play would go to his understory Dorian. The rest of the cast was going to hate him for up and abandoning them a week before opening show.
Movies and novels always depicted your whole life flashing before your eyes during your last moments of your life. But all he could think about was that one time in second grade where he stole one of Logan’s pens and how guilty he still felt for doing it. The pen had been one of Logan’s favorites. He liked saving up his money and buying fancy colorful pens to mark his notes with.
He would’ve kept Logan’s pen if it wasn’t for Patton, his imaginary friend and superb little Jiminy Cricket. Patton chastised him for the action and convinced him into giving the pen back and apologizing for stealing it. Damn, he’s going to die still feeling guilty over something Logan forgave him a decade and a half ago for.
The stench of smoke was in the air and took Roman far too long to realize it was going from his car. He couldn’t move—his body screamed in protest.
“Please,” He begged to the moon, the stars, the universe—to anyone who would hear his call, “please help. Please, please, please—"
Something lifted him out of the car, cradling him like a child. They carried him until they were far away from the smell of smoke and gasoline.
“I’ve got you, Ro,” A voice whispered, “You’re okay.”
The voice sounded so achingly familiar. Roman would’ve tried to look up at their face, but he lacked the strength to crane his neck. Instead he took solace in their presence. He wasn’t going to die alone and abandoned.
“What are you doing?” Another voice hissed, also sounding just as familiar as the first, “we can’t do this—you know the rules.”
“Vee, it’s Roman.”
Huh. That’s funny. Roman didn’t remember giving them his name.
“But—”
“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same for Logan.”
“Fine.” The other muttered, apparently unable to argument against that.
The one who was holding him turned their attention back to Roman.
“This’ll sting a bit, but it’ll make everything better, okay?”
Something soft was pressed against his forehead. Nothing happened at first. Then a bolt of electricity pulsed through his veins. He screamed out loud, both in surprise and pain. He grasped onto them tightly and didn’t let go, even as the pain slowly ebbed out of him.
“That hurt,” He gasped, “A lot.”
The second voice chuckled at his reaction, to which the first hushed at them.
“I’m sorry,” They apologized, “it hurts a lot more when I have to heal more than just scrapes and bruises.”
Roman froze, the pieces slowly starting to click together in his brain now that he wasn’t near death. There had been a reason why the voices sounded familiar. Why the two talked as if they knew Roman and Logan. There was only one person he knew that could heal injuries with a single kiss.
Hesitatingly he opened his eyes and looked up.
“Patton?” He whispered.
There was no way. He had to be hallucinating things. But his imaginary friend smiled back at him, just as he remembered him. Patton was a towering, gentle giant who was everything Roman dreamed for in a father. In fact, Roman still privately wished the imaginary friend a happy Father’s Day every year. Logan thought it was illogical, just like many things Roman did in life.
Patton eagerly nodded, “It’s so good to see you, kiddo!”
Heart racing, Roman stumbled out of Patton’s arms.
“This can’t be real, you’re supposed to be—”
“—imaginary?” Someone else finished, and he looked over to see Virgil. He’d been Logan’s imaginary friend—a fairy with raven black wings. Roman watched, stupefied, as the fairy flitted through the air—coming to rest on Patton’s shoulder.
I’m afraid we’re not quite as imaginary as you’ve once thought.”