Chapter Text
It had been approximately three months, four days, and seventeen hours since this entire ordeal had started, but who was counting? Well, aside from Virgil that is… To be more specific, the anxious side had been counting for three months, four days, seventeen hours, thirty-four minutes and fifteen-wait-seventeen seconds. However, to claim that this figure was a reliable one would be a fool’s errand given how he had spent a few moments simply standing there in a stunned silence before starting the metaphorical timer on his metaphorical stop-watch.
One could, however, propose the idea that Roman’s once simple shenanigans had spiralled out of control approximately three months, three days, fifteen hours and thirty-four seconds ago without any major risk of inflating or deflating the exact figure. However, the fact that Virgil’s life fell apart on a mildly cloudy day, late-July (July 22nd to be more exact) at 2:35PM TC, with an approximate temperature of about 45°F (44.98) was entirely irrelevant. All that mattered was that the events that had transpired that day set-course for an ever-regrettable decision; One that would alter the life, and the footwear, of Virgil-Anxiety Sanders forever.
…
But he didn’t dwell on it.
~ ~ ~
It had started off with little more than a simple gesture and witty remark-
“Alright shorty, simmer down,” Roman remarked, throwing his right hand rather flamboyantly in the air.
-However, this simple “witty remark” had left Virgil at a loss for words.
“You’re like… two inches taller than me.”
“Don’t you mean two inches superior?”
“Why don’t you come down here and fight me?” Virgil foolishly fired back.
“Well, I wouldn’t like to hurt my back now, would I?”
~ ~ ~
Virgil could still remember - in great detail - the sly grin Roman had given him that day: The way the prince’s right eyebrow shot up fiercely. The way his normally soft-brown eyes glimpsed knowingly into Virgil’s soul. Perhaps most importantly, Virgil could still remember the feeling of one million fireworks going off all at once in the pit of his stomach as the might of his own anxiety kicked in.
“You’re never going to live this one down,” Virgil had thought to himself, “You know Roman too well to believe he will ever let this one go,” and, for the most part at least, Virgil had been correct.
~ ~ ~
The day after the initial incident had perhaps been the worst of them all, as that was the day on which Virgil was confronted with an unfortunate, and undeniable reality: His initial suspicions had been correct.
All four sides had gathered consensually in the commons. Logan had been the first to appear, swiftly followed by Patton, then Roman, and last but certainly not least anymore, Virgil. Similarly to most days, the group had gathered in the commons in order to assist Thomas in organising a future video, be it intentionally or unintentionally. However, unlike most days, no singular member of the group had arrived with the intent to face an impending predicament. Instead, the gathering was a direct result of some notable fashion choices on Thomas’ part, before rapidly evolving into a debate about “fitting in.”
From there, the video unintentionally wrote itself: A troubling predicament arose, Patton made numerous unnecessary dad-jokes, and finally, the group was able to arrive at a suitable conclusion. Heck, they even ended up making some unexpected fashion choices of their own.
It was only when the sides receded back into their home domain that true chaos broke free.
~ ~ ~
“Nice work today, hobbit,” Roman teased as he strutted confidently past Virgil, head held high and shoulders hanging low but relaxed.
“Excuse me?” Virgil replied, a noticeable edge lingering in his tone.
“I said you performed well today, Rumpelstiltskin.”
In that moment, Virgil pondered whether or not he’d ever been offered a more back-handed compliment during his time spent as an outcast.
~ ~ ~
From that day forth, off-handed comments regarding his height became a regular pass-time for Roman. Whether Virgil was passing through the commons, dipping out for a snack, or simply lounging around peacefully within the confines of his room, not bothering anyone or anything, Roman would find him.
Virgil always heard Roman before he saw him. The creative side walked with a stride so confident, that the impact of his feet on the floor practically reverberated off the walls, making it no secret to anyone that his majesty came bearing great news that all those across these multi-dimensional lands must hear.
~ ~ ~
“How’s the weather down there, shorty?”
“You’re losing your edge, Romano. That one wasn’t even creative. How long are you going to hold this whole ‘short-thing’ over my head anyway?”
For a moment it had seemed as though Roman would offer another blatant witty rhetoric, his mouth moving quickly as though to form the first word. However, the words died on the creative side’s tongue, never to escape his lips. It was almost as though this magnificent display of royalty had suddenly been deprived of all sense of functionality, and therefore had been left to emote in the same manner that a guppy might had it just watched the movie “Jaws” for the first time. This little guppy named Rupert now faces two issues you see:
1. Rupert is terrified of sharks.
2. Rupert now has to deal with the repercussions of a large, electricity based object coexisting with him indefinitely among these murky depths.
However, before Virgil could comment on his companion’s sudden bout of inarticulate stupor, Roman sprinted past the divide into the kitchen and grabbed a spare post-it note from the fridge. Within mere seconds the note became closely acquainted with counter-top as Roman abandoned his normal Prince-like demeanour and instead opted to slam the poor piece of paper down onto the merciless marble below. In under a minute he was back at Virgil’s side, beaming wildly as he held the post-it note close: its back to Virgil.
“What?” Virgil snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin after witnessing the aforementioned fiasco.
It was then that Roman raised the post-it note up high in the air, directly in line with Virgil’s head as though the thing were a magical crown, levitating high above its awaiting recipient.
“Roman, I swear to whatever deity there is, if that says ‘shorty’ I’m burning ever last single one of your Disney movie posters and/or merchandise.”
As Virgil took a step back to see what Roman had written he braced himself for some form of insult; a short short-joke at his expense. What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was a small yellow post-it note with the words “2 inches” scribbled hastily onto it.
“I hate you with every inch of my being,” Virgil muttered.
“Ah, so not very much then?”
With that Virgil stormed out of the room.
~ ~ ~