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December 23rd - 6:04 PM.
Virgil Sanders feels his stomach sink as he stares at the email on his phone.
He’s gripping the device in fingers that are stiff and red from the cold air as he stands outside the university’s Humanities building. The cold, biting December air stings in his nostrils, and Virgil tucks his nose into the thick black scarf wrapped around his neck. The few students still on campus hurriedly rush across the plaza to duck out of the freezing, unforgiving cold and into the warmth of the buildings.
Virgil, on the other hand, feels rooted to the spot. He swipes down to refresh his inbox as if the airline might send him an email with the subject line of “hey, we were just kidding!”
Anything but the “Flight GW8102 Canceled” subject line, and the offer for a refund with the explanation that the next two days have flights completely booked.
Tis the season, Virgil thinks bitterly, his stomach churning. His chest clenches against the cold air.
Maybe he’s overreacting, but the realization that Virgil won’t be home for Christmas makes his throat close up and his eyes burn. He grits his teeth and resists the urge to hurl his phone through the campus square. He has to go home. The first time he has a real family and home to spend Christmas with, and he’d be trapped on campus with nobody. Alone.
This year was supposed to be different. Virgil hadn’t spent a Christmas alone—or feeling like it—since Logan and Patton had taken him in when he was fifteen-almost-sixteen as a foster kid. He was seventeen when they asked if he’d like to be adopted.
This would be his first Christmas as a real, legal Sanders. And now he wouldn’t even get to spend it with his dads.
Virgil clenches his jaw shut and shakes his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. “Just perfect.”
“Everything Gucci?” a distantly familiar voice speaks up.
Virgil slips his phone—and his hands—into the pockets of his coat and looks up at the new voice. A guy that Virgil recognizes from his English 100 course is arching an eyebrow at him, his lips quirked in a faintly amused smirk. His hands are also shoved into the pockets of a white coat, a red scarf tightly wrapped around his neck and a white beanie with a small gold crown printed on it pulled low over his light brown hair.
What was his name again? Something Prince?
“Yeah,” Virgil tells him. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Virgil tries not to wince at how clipped the reply is. He’s just… tired. And upset. And the sooner he can be alone, Virgil thinks, the better. “Don’t worry about it. But, uh, thanks.” He starts walking towards his dorm and barely holds back a groan when he starts walking alongside him.
The corner of the guy’s mouth curls up slightly. “Appears we’re headed in the same direction.”
“I guess so.”
“This cold is abysmal.”
Virgil quirks an eyebrow, then lifts a shoulder in agreement. “It’d definitely be better if there was at least snow on the ground.”
He laughs. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen snow.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence, filled only with the muted sound of their shoes scuffing against the sidewalk cement as they head towards the main road that cuts through campus. Virgil briefly considers increasing his pace, but he doesn’t want to be rude. Besides, a part of him doesn’t mind the company too much. It’s distracting, if nothing else.
“So can I ask why you’re still on campus?” His classmate’s tone is light and easy.
Virgil sighs. “I had a shift at my job this morning.”
He can feel his classmate’s gaze on him. “And you didn’t book it out of here the second you could?”
“I just found out that my flight home was canceled,” he says hollowly. He tries to not feel nauseous as he says it. “So I guess I’m on campus for Christmas, since every flight is booked for the next two days. Not old enough to rent a car, and there’s no way in hell I can afford to Uber up the length of the East Coast.”
Virgil has walked almost half a block before he realizes that his classmate stopped dead in his tracks. Virgil slows his pace and looks over his shoulder. “What?”
“Are you serious?”
Virgil glances around as if there’s any possible way he’s talking to someone else. “I mean… yes?”
“That is a travesty,” he announces emphatically after a moment. He jogs the short distance to catch up to Virgil. “Unthinkable. You can’t not spend Christmas with your family. Can they, like, come get you or something?”
Virgil coughs as if it’ll keep his throat from closing up again at thinking about it. Maybe it’s immature of him—he’s 18 for crying out loud—but he just wants to see his dads on Christmas. And talking about why that won’t happen isn’t exactly Virgil’s chosen line of conversation right now.
“My dads, uh… I don’t really want to ask that of them, y’know? We’ve got family from other places flying in, and I’m sure they’ve decorated and everything…” Virgil’s voice breaks off. He ducks his head and starts walking again, blinking hard to clear his blurring vision.
“Wait, hold up.” He feels someone grab his arm and Virgil stops, pulling his arm out of the grip.
“What? Look, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. But it just so happens that today is a lucky day for you.”
Virgil snorts, but when he looks up into his classmate’s warm brown eyes, he realizes he’s not joking. In fact, there’s a brightness and excitement in them that both alights a spark of hope in Virgil’s chest and dread in his stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you lived up the East Coast, right?”
Virgil is staring at him. “Yeah…”
He gives him a wide grin. “I’ll drive you! I’ll get you home in time for Christmas Eve.”
Virgil feels himself deflate. “C’mon, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Look, it’s already shitty that I’ve gotta stay on campus. I’d appreciate not rubbing salt in the wound.”
He frowns. “I’m serious.”
Virgil scoffs. “You can’t be. I’m talking Maine, dude. This isn’t, like, half an hour up the highway.”
“I’m headed up there anyway,” his classmate says dismissively. “I’ve got a car and can be on the road in, I dunno, twenty minutes?”
Virgil chews on his bottom lip. Asking a near stranger to drive him all the way to Maine wasn’t really fair to him, was it? He hadn’t meant to make the guy feel bad enough to offer anything. He didn’t want to be a burden. And they barely knew one another.
And yet…
The offer is more than a little tempting. Virgil can feel the homesickness like a yearning deep in his chest, threatening to collapse inside of him and drag him down with it. And… he did say he was headed up that way anyway, right?
“I… I don’t know…”
“Think of it, if you will, as an adventure. Two knights on a quest to get home before the clock strikes midnight.”
“I think you’re mixing up your fairy tales, there—“
“Or a Christmas miracle, if that’s more your speed.”
Virgil glances at him skeptically. “Are you calling yourself a miracle?”
He gives him a cocky smile. “Better than the one on 34th Street.” His smile falters into something a little more sincere. “If that convinces you.”
Virgil looks at him—the bright earnestness in his eyes, the expectant raise of his eyebrows, the slight lift to the corners of his mouth—and then looks down at his purple boots. “I mean… you… you said you’re headed up there anyway?”
He nods. “Yep. So whaddaya say?”
Virgil isn’t sure what does it, really. If it’s the eagerness and persistence of this classmate that he barely knows or if it’s the threat of not seeing his dads for his first Christmas as a Sanders, but… he finds himself caving. He sighs, then looks up from his shoes to meet his classmate’s gaze.
“Yeah. Sure, okay. If… if you’re sure it’s not, like, a burden or anything.”
He beams at him. “Not at all. Wanna get on the road in like, half an hour? Is that enough time to pack?” He starts walking down the street again, and Virgil follows after him.
“Uh, y-yeah. Yeah, that works.” Virgil rubs the back of his neck.
“Great! I’ll see you then. I gotta swing by my place and get my stuff. Which dorm are you in?”
“Stokes. Room 292.”
Roman glances up and down the street they’d been following before starting to jog across. He waves a hand over his head. “I’ll be there in thirty,” he calls over his shoulder.
…
December 23rd – 6:49 PM
Twenty minutes later, Virgil rakes a hand through his hair as he surveys the assortment of dark colored clothes shoved unceremoniously into the purple duffle bag. The Nightmare Before Christmas album plays from the speakers of his computer. He hums along to “What’s This?” softly under his breath, his mind racing. Did he have everything? He runs through a mental checklist, then snatches the toothpaste out of the drawer of his desk and tosses it on top of the pile shoved into the bag.
He blows out a breath. Did he really just accept a 20 hour car lift from a near stranger?
Apparently. I’m an idiot.
Virgil’s phone lights up with a SnapChat from Patton. The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks upwards as he pulls it up and stretches out on his bed for a moment. It’s a video of Logan on a ladder outside of the house, stringing Christmas lights along the edge of the roof. His dad had typed the caption, I guess you could say your father is the LIGHT of my life? Virgil smiles at the pun and rolls his eyes, even as he feels the tug of homesickness pull at his stomach again.
More than anything else, Virgil just wants to be home.
There’s a knock at the door. Virgil jumps up and crosses the small room to swing it open. His classmate is standing on the other side with the same bright excitement in his eyes that he’d had standing on the side of the street. Virgil feels, admittedly, a bit relieved that he at least didn’t seem to be regretting his offer.
“Hey. I know I’m a little early…”
“Don’t worry about it.” Virgil shakes his head. “I’m ready anyway. Just a sec.” He leaves the door open as he turns back to his stuff, tugging the zipper closed of the duffle bag.
His classmate—is it too late to ask his name? Probably.—steps into the room. “Is… is this Nightmare Before Christmas?”
Virgil has his back to him as he grabs his pillow off his bed. He doesn’t turn around, even as he can feel himself flushing slightly. “Yeah.”
“A woefully underrated choice of Christmas music,” he says with no detectable trace of sarcasm. “I gotta admit, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a fan. Although I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise. You do have the, ah, Halloween aesthetic already.”
Virgil snorts. “Halloween aesthetic?” He pauses the music and closes his laptop, slipping it and its charger into his backpack.
“Well, y’know. Your whole dark-clothes-purple-hair-black-eyeshadow ensemble. It doesn’t exactly scream ‘Cindy Lou Who’, Virgil.”
Virgil smirks and ducks under the strap of his duffle bag. “Can’t argue with that, Princey.”
His classmate cocks his head and arches an eyebrow. “Princey?” He purses his lips as Virgil freezes, then shrugs. “Y’know, I don’t totally hate that.”
Virgil relaxes and grabs his backpack and pillow. “Ready,” he says.
His classmate grins and steps out of the way as Virgil walks out of the room. “Does this mean I can call you Emo Nightmare?”
“No,” Virgil replies dryly, locking the door behind them.
“Robert Downer Junior?”
“I—“
“Marilyn Morose? J.D-lightful? Gomez Addams?”
“How many of those do you got?”
“A 20 hour car ride’s worth.”
…
December 23rd – 7:41 PM
Virgil watches the blurs of tree branches against the sun that sits just a few inches above the horizon line. “Sleigh Ride” drifts through the speakers in the old four-door sedan, and Roman—Virgil had finally gotten his classmate’s first name by glancing at a discarded English paper in the backseat—hums quietly along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Virgil leans his head against the window and glances at the phone in his lap.
He still hadn’t told either of his dads that he’d gotten a lift from a classmate all the way to Maine. Or that his flight had been canceled at all, to be honest. He pulls up Father in Messages, typing out a message: Flight canceled but found a ride. He stares at it for a moment. Virgil sighs and deletes it, locking his phone.
The song switches and Roman seems to perk up, straightening up on his seat. And then, much to Virgil’s surprise, he starts to sing along. “Oooo Merry Christmas, Saint Nick!” Virgil has to admit, he’s more than a little impressed by Roman’s crystal clear falsetto.
“Well way up North, where the air gets cold, there’s a tale about Christmas that you’ve all been told,” Roman sings shamelessly. He glances over at Virgil and then laughs. “What? Mr. Nightmare-Before-Christmas isn’t big on the Beach Boys? I’m shocked.”
Virgil lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t say a thing, Princey.”
“You didn’t have to,” Roman says, amused. “You look like you’re about to jump out of this car.”
“I just didn’t peg you to be our modern day Frankie Valli.”
“A Jersey Boys fan, I take it?” Roman remarks excitedly, cocking an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t peg you to be a musicals guy. What’s your favorite? Let me guess: Sweeney Todd? Addams Family? Little Shop of Horrors?”
“Dear Evan Hansen,” Virgil replies dryly. “But good guess.”
Roman blinks in surprise. “Gotta admit, I did not see that coming. So you’re a theatre guy after all.”
“I mean…” Virgil slips his phone into his pocket. “I’m really not? Generally speaking? I’ll go to shows. But…I dunno. Acting and singing isn’t anything I could like, get up there and do, y’know?”
Roman looks unconvinced. “Sure you could.”
“No, no I really couldn’t.”
“You just gotta learn to loosen up, Virgil,” Roman says, as if doing that is the easiest thing in the world.
Virgil snorts. “Uh, yeah, I know we don’t know each other that well, but… loosening up isn’t really something I do.”
Almost as if on cue, the song changes and Virgil doesn’t miss the mischievous glint that alights in Roman’s eyes. He flexes his grip around the steering wheel, glancing at Virgil out of the corner of his eye. “Here we go,” Roman announces.
“What are you—“
“I really can’t sta—baby, it’s cold outside—I’ve got to go awa—baby it’s cold outside,” Roman sings, trying desperately to sing both parts and switching the pitch of his voice seamlessly as he does so. “This evening has been hoping that you’d drop—so very ni—I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.”
Virgil can’t help it; he barks out a laugh. He claps a hand across his mouth a half-second later, but Roman just grins as he keeps his eyes on the road.
“Help me out here, Virgil. It’s a duet for a reason.”
Virgil rolls his eyes. “No way in hell, dude.”
Roman shrugs as if to say your loss and jumps back in. “My father will be pacing the fl—listen to the fireplace ro—so really I’d better scur—Beautiful, please don’t hur—but maybe just a half a drink—put some records on while I pour.”
Virgil shakes his head, barely holding back a smile as Roman stumbles his way through the song. There’s a warmth in his eyes as he keeps singing both parts of the duet through the first verse, even his expression changing ever so slightly as he switches between the two parts. Though he hadn’t said it explicitly, Virgil has no doubt that the guy beside him has plenty of acting and performance experience. He makes the song… engaging. Before he’s even really aware of what he’s doing, Virgil finds himself quietly humming along with one of the parts.
That is, until they reach the part where they both sing the same line. “Ah but it’s cold outside,” Virgil sings quietly, Roman much louder. Roman’s face lights up brightly and for a moment, Virgil isn’t really sure who’s more surprised—Roman or himself—at the fact that Virgil just actually sang. In front of a stranger.
Roman doesn’t say anything about it, and Virgil is grateful for that, but his grin stays firmly in place as he hums with the musical interlude and cocks an eyebrow at Virgil when the next verse picks up. And in the split second where Virgil has to make a decision about what he’s about to do, a part of him just says Screw it. You won’t make a bigger fool of yourself than Roman already has, right?
Roman looks so hopeful and it’s the last little nudge that Virgil needs. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and jumps in.
“I simply must go,” he sings.
“But, baby, it’s cold outside,” Roman implores through song. Virgil hopes his whole face isn’t red, but the grin Roman’s wearing loosens some of the tension in his chest.
His classmate keeps his eyes on the road, but sings his part entirely too dramatically and there’s something both admirable and comforting in that for Virgil. He seems comfortable having the figurative spotlight on him—maybe even the literal spotlight, who knows?—even though only two of them were in the car. It’s fun to watch him, Virgil admits. And more than that, Roman makes it fun to be a part of. His sheer excitement at the impromptu car karaoke duet is oddly contagious.
“Oh but it’s cold outside,” they both sing as the song finishes.
Roman looks absolutely invigorated, and Virgil decides that maybe now isn’t the best time to bring up that the song is… problematic. Perhaps that’s a cynical detail that Virgil will keep to himself.
…
December 23rd – 9:07 PM
“Hey.”
“Hm?”
“You hungry?”
Virgil stretches his neck and glances at the clock. They’d been on the road for over two hours now. The sky was dark, the drone of headlights and overhead lights illuminating the highway becoming monotonous in their rhythm. It was too early for Virgil to actually be tired, but he’d been dozing in and out for the past hour or so. The vibration of the car and quiet Christmas melodies floating through the speakers had been unusually soothing and familiar to him.
Roman had also fallen unusually quiet the past hour. But his question had pulled him out of his thoughts. And now that he thought about it, the answer was a very firm yes. Virgil had been so preoccupied with packing and his stomach had been tight with nerves about the trip before he left that food had been one of the last things on his mind.
“Yeah,” Virgil replies, straightening up from where he’d been slouched against the door. “I could eat.”
“Great. There’s a diner a few miles up ahead.”
Virgil nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket again. He has another SnapChat, this time from Logan. He’s distantly surprised. Virgil remembers the dinner conversation last year that had largely been Patton attempting to talk Logan into downloading the app on his phone. Virgil had strongly suspected then—and still now—that the main reason Logan eventually gave in was so that Patton would stop harassing him about it. SnapChats from his father were significantly fewer and farther between than from his dad.
Virgil pulls them up and realizes there is more than one. The first is a picture of a gingerbread house kit on a shelf with the question I am considering purchasing this. Would you have any interest in helping me assemble it? Virgil taps the screen for the second Snap and sees a picture of the same kit in the back of their car with the caption, I have purchased it. You do not need to feel obligated one way or the other in terms of providing assistance.
His father’s such a dork. Virgil feels something squeeze his chest a bit.
A few minutes later, Roman pulls into the parking lot of a diner just off one of the exits. The neon sign illuminated against the black night sky reads Dot’s Diner in red and white. A blue-and-red open sign sits lit up in the window. The parking lot is nearly empty, save for a few generic cars and a red pick-up truck.
Inside the diner, Virgil feels like he stepped into some kind of cliché 50s era movie. A black-and-white checkered floor matches the countertop where a chef can be seen cooking through the cutout window looking into the kitchen. The stools are covered in a worn, red leather that matches the booths by the windows. A bell jingles overhead as they push through the door, and a young woman—probably about their age–in a blue skirt and white apron that matches her blouse excuses herself from the counter and grabs a couple of menus.
“Hey, guys,” she greets warmly. “Welcome to Dot’s Diner. Booth or counter?” Her dark hair is tied up in a knot with a pencil stuck through it. Virgil glances briefly at her name tag. Valerie.
“Either one is fine with me,” Roman answers. Virgil nods his agreement.
Valerie leads them over to a booth by a window, takes their drink orders, and gives them a minute to look over the menu. Virgil decides quickly—grilled cheese would probably be a safe choice, and his stomach is tying itself in knots thinking about getting home anyway—and glances around the diner.
There’s an older man in a denim jacket and a blue baseball cap sitting at the counter nursing a cup of coffee. A tired looking woman and two small children sit in a booth at the opposite end of the small restaurant. Christmas music filters softly through unseen speakers. There’s an old jukebox on the far wall with a stuffed Stitch that Virgil recognizes from Lilo and Stitch sitting on top of it.
Roman sets his menu down, apparently having decided, and stretches his arms above his head with a groan. “Two hours in, eighteen or so left to go, right?”
Virgil tries not to grimace. “Something like that. And uh… thanks again. For letting me come along.”
Roman waves a dismissive hand. “Please. It’s a pleasure.”
Valerie returns with a cup of coffee for both of them and takes their order. When she leaves again, Roman dumps three packets of sugar into his cup, and Virgil curls his fingers around his own mug.
“So, uh,” he says as Roman takes a sip, “who do you know in Maine?”
Roman crinkles his nose at the taste, then adds another packet of sugar. “What do you mean?” he replies absently.
Virgil’s brow furrows. “Like… who are you going up to visit?”
Roman looks up at him, looking almost confused before understanding dawns in his expression. “Oh! Uh, just a family friend that I haven’t seen in a while,” he answers.
It wasn’t exactly the answer Virgil was expecting. “So you’re not from there?”
“Nah.” Roman shakes his head. “California kid, born and raised.” A bell dings from the kitchen before a chef calls out an order.
Virgil takes a sip of coffee, grateful for the jolt of awareness that comes with the hot bitter drink. The caffeine hopefully would kick in soon, too. “That’s cool,” Virgil says, in part because he really isn’t sure what else to say.
Roman lifts a shoulder. “Have you always lived in Maine with your dads?”
Virgil looks out the window—there really isn’t much to see but a dark parking lot and a darker sky—as he thinks about how best to answer. “I’ve always lived in Maine. But I was bumped around in the foster system for a while.”
Roman tilts his head slightly. Virgil supposes he’s just grateful that the look in Roman’s eyes seems to be more curiosity than pity. He’s all too acquainted with what pity looks like after he tells someone new that he was a foster kid. He’s tired of it. That’s part of what made him perhaps undersell just how long he’d been in foster care. He entered the system when he was six.
Valerie returns with their plates of food. She refills Roman’s coffee—how the hell did he drink it that fast?—and promises to return in a bit before moving to another table. Roman digs into his hamburger and Virgil glances down at his grilled cheese. It reminds him briefly of the way Patton would make grilled cheese and always insisted that cutting it into triangle was “really the only way to eat grilled cheese, kiddo”.
Virgil sighs. Was everything going to remind him of home?
“So,” Roman says after a moment, “did your dads foster a lot of kids before you?”
Virgil picks up his sandwich. “I don’t think so. I think I was probably their first? They never really mentioned it.”
“Home-run on the first swing, huh?”
Virgil takes a bite and looks at Roman skeptically. “A sports metaphor. I’m surprised.”
Roman snorts. “You got me. I’m a thespian, through and through.” Something softens in his expression. “But seriously. It’s… Your family seems really cool.”
Virgil feels a warm affection for his dads swell in his chest. He can feel a smile tugging at his lips, but he coughs and takes another bite of his sandwich. “My dads are total dorks. But… yeah. They’re pretty great.”
Roman looks quietly at Virgil for a moment, something conflicted in his eyes that Virgil can neither explain nor identify. “It’s great that it lucked out that way, huh?”
Virgil thinks about the scent of Patton’s cookies wafting through the living room as Logan helped him with his Chemistry homework. Logan asking in that “only if you want to” kind of way if Virgil would help him do a jigsaw puzzle. He thinks about the first time Patton had said the he was proud of him, after Virgil admitted he was having a really hard time adjusting to the new school and new environment. He thinks about how Logan had found him on the floor of his bedroom in the middle of an unusually bad panic attack and held him and walking him through a breathing exercise to ground him. The way Logan had barely-restrained tears in his eyes when Virgil had told him that he’d been accepted into college. The way Patton had hugged him when he moved in and Virgil had almost cried.
“Believe me,” Virgil eventually replies. “I got the best part of that deal.”
…
December 24th – 12:12 AM
They’d been on the road for somewhere around five hours when Roman announces that he needs to stop for gas again, and how opportune of a time that would be to also stock up on snacks.
“We do still have a long drive left to go,” Roman says. “Snacks are absolutely imperative to the success of this quest.”
Virgil scoffs, even as he smiles in faint amusement. “Calm down there, Princey. This is gas station food you’re talking about. You can tone down the fanfare a bit.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Roman points a finger at him. “On the contrary, Snap-Crackle-and-Flop, isn’t gas station snack food a staple in all great American road-trips?”
Virgil sucks in a skeptical breath through his teeth. “Is it, though?”
“Yes,” Roman says, snapping his fingers. “It absolutely is. And you’regoing to be in charge of getting snacks so that I can fill up with gas.”
“Seems like a lot of pressure.”
Roman waves the comment off before flipping the turn signal as he pulls off the exit. “You got this. My only request from my humble sidekick—“
“Hey—!”
“—is that you get an energy drink and some candy for me. I could use a sugar boost right about now.”
Virgil arches an eyebrow. “Anything specific? Candy is a pretty generic request.”
“Surprise me.”
They pull into the gas station a few minutes later. The bell above the door jingles as Virgil presses through and surveys the store. The tiled linoleum floor reflect the fluorescent light above, shelves lined with everything from to-go shampoo containers to stuffed animals to bubblegum. Virgil exchanges an acknowledging nod with the person in the orange beanie behind the counter before wandering over to the candy aisle.
Virgil blows out a breath at the sheer variety of options. Surprise me, he’d said, as if that wasn’t the exact worst thing he could have possibly said to Virgil. Did he prefer chocolate or fruit-flavored stuff? Did he have any allergies? It would probably be smartest to avoid nuts, just in case. Virgil groans as he stares at the options before snatching a pack of Twizzlers and a Hershey’s Bar and moving on. He grabs a couple of bags of chips for himself and two energy drinks.
By the time he gets out into the parking lot, Roman had pulled the sedan into a parking spot away from the gas pump.
“What took ya so long, Brittney Sneers?” he remarks as Virgil ducks back into the car.
Virgil shakes his head. “A little clarity never hurt anyone,” he quips back. “Hope either Twizzlers or Hersheys was an okay choice. Wasn’t sure which would be better, so I just got both.”
As Roman pulls out of the parking spot, Virgil sees the quick, odd look on Roman’s face illuminated by the neon open sign and store lights. “Both are great,” Roman says. “Thanks.”
…
December 24 – 3:40 AM.
“Huh…”
Virgil stirs, taking in a deep breath as he straightens up and opens his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and wasn’t even entirely sure of when he’d last looked at the clock.He glances at the time on the dashboard of the car, noticing distantly that the radio is quieter than it had been when he’d fallen asleep. The sky is dark, and Virgil can only barely make out the field that stretches out on his side of the car and the tree line that borders the other side of the two-lane road.
He glances over at Roman, seeing the way his eyebrows are furrowed in something like concern. “Something wrong?” he asks, trying to pretend that his stomach hasn’t started immediately twisting into uncomfortable knots.
Roman glances at him. “You’re awake.” He looks back at the road, then glances down at the dashboard. “Uh, I think we’re probably okay?”
“That’s… reassuring…”
Roman’s lips quirk into an apologetic smile. Virgil doesn’t miss the way his eyes keep flickering back and forth between the country road ahead of them and the dashboard behind his steering wheel. “I just, ah… I should probably check something. Not to worry, Jack Sorrow. This should be super quick.”
Virgil nods wordlessly, not entirely believing Roman. From the way he keeps glancing at his dashboard, Virgil is pretty sure there’s something wrong with the car. A sensor, a light, something not quite working properly. Virgil swallows against the rising panic he can feel hot and thick in his throat. Don’t panic yet, Sanders, he tells himself as he pinches and tugs on the strings of his hoodie. It’s probably nothing, right?
Right.
Roman flips on the turn signal even though it’s a two lane road with no cars in sight and pulls off. He switches off the ignition and takes in a deep breath that–for some reason he can’t exactly explain–makes Virgil even more nervous. Then Roman flashes him a smile.
“Stay here,” he tells Virgil before opening the door and unbuckling his seatbelt.
Virgil rolls his eyes. “I’m not some damsel in–” He’s cut off when Roman closes the door.
Virgil takes in a long, steadying breath in the sudden silence of the car around him. He watches as Roman walks around to the hood of the car and props it open. Virgil feels his heartbeat pick up just a bit at the realization that whatever it is Roman needs to check has something to do with the engine. Virgil groans and scrubs a hand across his eyes, grimacing when eyeshadow comes away on his fingers.
Suddenly desperate for some kind of distraction to stop the thoughts he can feel prickling the back of his mind, he pulls out his phone again. He has a text from Logan, one from Patton, a Tumblr notification, and a few mass emails from his university. He pulls up the text from his father. Your dad ate the gingerbread man from the kit I had purchased. Not to fear - all the pieces of the house itself are in-tact and now hidden, should you still have interest in assisting me in its construction when you are home. The choice is entirely yours.
The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks upwards. He decides he’ll respond tomorrow at a more… appropriate hour. He doesn’t particularly want a long text lecture from his father about maintaining a healthy circadian rhythm right now. Besides, one glance at the top of his phone screen tells him that he doesn’t have reception here anyway. He looks at the text from Patton, sent around 9 PM.
Hate to bother you, kiddo, but do you know what time tomorrow we can expect you? Should we pick you up from the airport? Your father and I certainly would be happy to! We just need to know what time. :) Can’t wait to see you! We miss you so much. <3
Virgil feels his eyes burn suddenly. He rubs at them impatiently, sucking in a shaky breath. He just wants to be home. And maybe it sounds stupid or immature or a million different other things, but he wants to sit at a table and do a puzzle with his father while he explains string theory and he wants to watch stupid, cheesy Christmas movies with his dad and he wants to watch his dad get flour in his father’s hair when he dances to Christmas karaoke in the kitchen and–
He wants he wants he wants he wants.
He can feel it like acid in his stomach, like a balloon in his chest threatening to burst him open with its pressure.
Virgil shoves his phone back into his pocket and pinches the bridge of his nose. He hears the sound of the hood of the car slamming closed and when he looks up, Roman is circling back around to the driver’s door. It’s hard to really see his expression in the dark, but Virgil tries to take comfort in the notion that he doesn’t really look tooupset.
“Good news,” Roman announces as he opens the door and slips back into the car. “Looks like it’s just a faulty sensor.”
“Great,” Virgil says, his voice still a bit tight. He’s grateful for the cover of dark because his vision is still blurring a little around the edges.
Roman glances at him as he shoves the key back into the ignition. “You okay?”
Virgil clears his throat and nods. “Yep.”
“Okay,” Roman says easily, and Virgil is grateful that he doesn’t press the issue further. Roman turns the key in the ignition.
The engine grumbles, growls, sputters, then silence. Virgil feels a little bit of the air leave his lungs. Something hot and uncomfortable replaces it in his chest.
Roman frowns. He tries again, turning the key. Virgil doesn’t know the first thing about cars, but he knows that the engine is supposed to start when you do that.
Grumble. Growl. Sputter. Silence.
Virgil feels the color drain from his face.
“No… Not now, c’mon,” Roman mutters under his breath. “Dammit, don’t do this.” He presses harder on the break. Turns the key again. The engine gives a pathetic whine. Silence.
Virgil’s heart jumps right up into his throat. His mind is spinning. All of the thoughts he’d been barely keeping at bay come in a tidal wave. The car broke down in the middle of nowhere several hours from anywhere at three in the fucking morning. I have no service. We have no way of getting help. We’re stuck. We’re trapped.
Stuck. Trapped. Not getting home.
I’m not going to get home for Christmas.
Suddenly the car is much too hot and Virgil can’t breathe. Before he’s even fully aware of what he’s doing, he unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the door, and gets out of the car. He can hear Roman distantly saying his name but he ignores it as he closes the door behind him.
The cold air is good. He’s not wearing a coat, or a hat or gloves; the cold air seeps into hoodie in a few seconds and is biting against his skin but it’s grounding. He tries to breathe and it burns his nostrils a bit, frigid in his throat. He takes several steps from the car. Virgil looks up at the sky as if he might be able to see stars–his father had taught him to look for constellations when he needed to calm down–but the night sky is dark and thick with clouds.
“Virgil,” Roman calls out to him, jumping out of the car too. “You’re gonna freeze out here.”
His hands fist in his pockets. “What are we gonna do, Roman?” he demands, ignoring the comment. His voice sounds high for a reason Virgil can’t place. “Are you telling me we’re stuck out here?”
Roman looks taken aback. “I–”
Virgil rakes a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this,” he says to himself. “This is just my fucking luck.”
“I told you I’d get you home in time for Christmas Eve,” Roman says in a tight voice. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I meant that.”
“Don’t!” Virgil can’t take it anymore. The false hope is crumpling in his chest, splintering at the seams and Virgil doesn’t think he can take another promise that Roman can’t keep. “Don’t… tell me things like that, Roman.” He sucks in another breath of frigid air. “Look, I… I know that this car thing isn’t your fault. I’m not mad at you, I just–” damn it, his vision is blurring again–“want to go home.”
“I know you do,” Roman tells him.
“You don’t get it.” Virgil’s chest still feels incredibly tight. “This was supposed to be my first Christmas as their actual, legal kid. My first Christmas with a real family that was mine, instead of one that I feel like I was using on borrowed time. The first Christmas with a family where I don’t have to worry about whether they wish they could send me back, because they chose me. They chose to keep me. They–” Virgil’s voice cracks and he cuts himself off because he can’t speak past the lump in his throat anymore.
I’m not going to get home for Christmas. Virgil can feel the homesickness that had been swelling in his chest start to crack and splinter.
Virgil’s vision is too blurry to see clearly, especially in the dark, but he can hear the crunching of frosted grass under Roman’s shoes as he moves closer to him. “I’m getting you home to them, Virgil.”
“Stop, okay?” Virgil snaps at him. “Why do you keep saying that, anyway? You have your friend or whatever that you’re visiting. Why is it all about me getting home? You can drop the ‘knight in shining armor’ act, Roman.”
“I… don’t.” The confession is said softly but it lands heavy in the silent winter night air between them.
Virgil’s brow furrows. “What?”
Roman suddenly won’t meet his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck and looking very interestedly in his shoes. “Have a friend that I’m visiting in Maine. I don’t have one. I… don’t actually know anyone that lives in Maine, aside from you.”
Virgil stares at him, uncomprehending. “I… you mean you lied about needing to go to Maine anyway?”
Roman closes his eyes as if bracing himself. “Yeah.”
“Wait.” Virgil shakes his head. “That… doesn’t make any sense. I–you–” Virgil trips over his words before stopping and trying again. “Why the hell would you just…”
Roman crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. “I guess I just… wanted to see you get home for Christmas.”
Virgil blinks a few times. “I don’t believe you,” he says finally. “Nobody is that much of an altruist.”
“Not an altruist. An adventurer.” The deflection sounds thin.
Virgil doesn’t let it go. “Roman.”
He hears Roman huff a frustrated breath. “Look, Virgil…” Roman finally looks up at him and Virgil raises his eyebrows expectantly. Roman shakes his head. “When you told me about your dads and how you couldn’t get home to spend Christmas with them… You have dads that love you and accept you and chose you. I…” Roman averts his gaze. “I don’t have that. I came out to my parents two years ago as a fucking stupid last ditch attempt to get them to see me and they kicked me out. I don’t… have a family to go home to. I spent last Christmas alone, and it…” He cuts himself off, letting the thought go unfinished.
He glances back up at Virgil. “So when I heard that you had two dads who you were trying to get home to… I guess I just needed–need–to see a happy ending. And if maybe this also meant that I wouldn’t have to spend the next two days alone and could spend Christmas Eve Day with another person, well… that seemed like a win-win.”
For a long moment, neither of them says anything. Virgil doesn’t know what to say. So instead, the biting wind tugs and pulls at the strands of Virgil’s purple bangs and makes the outer shell of his ears sting. The muted silence of winter blankets the two of them. Virgil shivers slightly and tugs his hoodie tighter around him; the fight that has bled out of him so suddenly has allowed for the cold to seep into his skin and cling to his hair. Virgil glances up at the sky again, distantly disappointed that the clouds are still heavy and he can’t see the bright winter sky that he knows exists beyond them.
He’s still trying to think of what to say to Roman, when he notices something. And the words that come out of his mouth aren’t quite what he had in mind.
“It’s… snowing.”
It’s as if being noticed bolsters the snowflakes’ courage, coming a bit more insistently. The bit of moonlight that peeks between the clouds casts just enough light in the sky to see the snowfall. As it reaches the ground, it clings softly to the frozen grass.
Virgil glances at Roman and stops short at the look on his face. Even in the dark–even with several feet between them–Virgil can see a brightness and softness shining in Roman’s dark eyes as he stares up at the sky and looks around at the air surrounding them. Virgil remembers very suddenly that Roman had said he’d never seen snow before.
“It’s… beautiful,” Roman says. “I mean, you see pictures of it but it’s different up close.”
The corner of his mouth curls up in a soft, uncertain smile as he glances at Virgil. Virgil smiles faintly back.
Roman crouches down and pulls a glove off, pinching the snow between his fingers. He shakes his hand out and then looks back up at Virgil. “It’s cold.”
Virgil rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Yeah. It is frozen, after all.”
“But it’s soft at the same time.” Virgil’s smile falls a little more naturally at the sheer wonder in Roman’s voice. He sounds like a little kid. “It’s just so cool.”
Virgil cocks an eyebrow. “Was that a pun?”
Roman smirks faintly at him. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”
Virgil snorts. He pulls the hood of his hoodie up open his hair, shivering again. His hoodie was now cold and getting increasingly wet, and in the back of his mind is a voice that sounds an awful lot like father imploring him to get in the car, or at least to grab his coat out of the backseat. The thought of Logan gives another sharp, painful tug in Virgil’s chest.
Roman glances up at him, then stands with a sheepish look on his face. “We… should probably go sit in the car or something. Get out of the cold. One of us is bound to get sick otherwise.”
Virgil huffs a short laugh. “You might be right about that, Princey.”
The two of them duck back into the car and Virgil pulls off his hoodie. Wordlessly, Roman reaches into the backseat and hands Virgil a red blanket with a small smile. Virgil can’t stop shaking anymore and thanks him through chattering teeth, wrapping it around his shoulders. For a long moment, the two of them watch the snowfall dust the country back road pavement and the grass in the field.
A few moments later, Roman breaks the silence. “I’m gonna try again.” He digs the key out of his pocket and shoves it into the ignition again.
Virgil sighs. “Roman, I really don’t think–”
Roman twists it. The engine grumbles. Growls.
Then roars to life.
Virgil suddenly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Holy shit,” he says instead, sitting back in the seat and raking a hand back through his hair. Virgil swears its the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his life. “I mean… holy shit.”
“YES!” Roman shouts. He laughs with a mixture of euphoric relief and exhaustion. He throws a bright grin at Virgil as he flips his headlights on. “How about that for a Christmas miracle?”
Virgil can’t help it: he grins right back. “Better than the one on 34th Street.”
…
December 24th - 7:19 AM.
Virgil rolls his shoulders and flexes his grip around the steering wheel of Roman’s car as he glances at the clock. A little less than twelve hours of driving time left until he’s…
Virgil doesn’t finish the thought. It’s probably silly, but a small part of him is afraid of jinxing it. At this point, he doesn’t want to risk anything. He’s had enough near misses to spark a bit of superstition in him.
He glances at Roman sleeping in the passenger seat, his head lolled against the window tucked under the blanket he’d given Virgil to use to warm up. He’d only driven about an hour after the car started working again before Virgil had pointed out how utterly exhausted he looked. Roman had put up a half-hearted fight about “not delaying their grand adventure another moment” before Virgil shut him down by telling him about the studies he’d read for a psychology course that pointed to how driving on sleep deprivation was even more dangerous than driving drunk. Roman offered a compromise: “I’ll sleep if you drive.” Virgil had accepted despite his surprise, figuring it would probably be the only way to get Roman to sleep a bit.
Roman’s usually flawless sweep of hair is a disheveled mess, falling into his face and squished against the glass. From the way he’s folded up in the seat, Virgil can’t possibly imagine any way that he’scomfortable. But he’s dead asleep, and a part of Virgil is glad for it. Roman needs the rest.
He hears his phone vibrate in the cupholder, but he doesn’t need to look at the screen to know who’s texting him. It occurs to him then that he still hasn’t responded to either of his dads messages, and he can’t keep ignoring them for long. They’ll definitely start to worry, and that’s not what Virgil wants. He tells himself that it’s not like he’d be awake at this hour to reply to his dads on a normal day anyway, but it does little to assuage the odd mixture of guilt and homesickness that twists his stomach.
Virgil glances at Roman again and sighs. He’s a good guy. Maybe one of the best Virgil had ever met, and they’d only known each other for less than a day at this point.
“Screw it,” Virgil mutters under his breath and flips the turn signal, pulling off the exit. He turns into the nearest gas station and parks the car, shutting it off and snatching his phone before climbing out of the car as quietly as he can. He closes the door gingerly, doing his best to not wake Roman before he takes in a deep, steadying breath.
He dials the number before he can lose his nerve and waits while it rings.
“Kiddo!” Then, a little more distantly, “Logan, it’s Virgil.”
The brightness–even at seven in the morning–of his dad’s voice is warm and familiar. Virgil swallows past the lump in his throat. “Hey, dad.”
Distantly, he can hear his father’s voice on the other side of the line too. “Patton, has Virgil given you his flight information yet?”
“No, not yet, Lo. Hang on, Virge,” Patton tells him. “I’m gonna put you on speaker so your father can hear ya too.” Virgil hears a quiet beep. “Can ya hear us?”
“Yeah,” Virgil replies, the corner of his mouth curling up a bit. “Yeah, I can hear you.”
“Virgil,” Logan says. “Can you text us your flight number? Or–hang on, I may have pencil here…”
Sudden nervousness squeezes his chest at realizing that he’s going to have to tell them. For the briefest moment, he suddenly has no idea how they’re going to react. What they’re going to say. The fears that he’d been avoiding thinking about ever since reading about the flight cancellation come rushing to the forefront of Virgil’s mind.
What if I’ve let them down?
He takes in a long, deep breath to steel himself. He has to tell them. He just hopes they’ll understand.
“Actually,” Virgil says, “I have something to tell you guys.”
…
December 24th - 2:33 PM.
“You could get some sleep too, y’know,” Roman tells him as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel along to the radio.
He’d woken up about half an hour ago and insisted he’d gotten enough sleep to be okay to drive. He certainly looked better rested. Besides, Virgil had been driving for somewhere around 8 hours–longer than he really should have been, if he’s being honest–and had been all too willing to trade back.
The early afternoon sun is high in a crystal clear blue sky, glistening off the frosted branches of the trees that line the six lane highway. In fact, the branches were the only indication that there had been ice and snow at all; it had long since melted off the road. Traffic is light, at least for now. With it being Christmas Eve Day, Virgil really isn’t sure how long that’s likely to last.
Virgil lifts a shoulder in response to Roman’s comment. “I’m good,” he says.
He isn’t sure how to tell Roman that he’s too excited to sleep without sounding like he’s eight years old. But it’s the truth. He’s been watching the hours tick by, the mile markers change as they cruise past. A part of him is afraid to get his hopes up, but another part insists with increasing volume in his head I’m going to be home for Christmas.
Roman seems to accept his answer, but Virgil finds his quietness a bit unnerving. When he really thinks about, Roman had been quiet ever since the initial excitement of the car starting again had worn off (even though Virgil still couldn’t quite believe it; he’d never been that lucky in his entire life except for falling into Patton and Logan’s home). At first, Virgil had mostly chalked it up to exhaustion, but Roman still seems quieter than usual. And Virgil isn’t entirely sure why. He isn’t sure if it’s really his place to ask.
“Hey, um.” Roman flexes his grip around the wheel. “Virgil?”
“Yeah?” Virgil looks up from where he’d been staring absently at the plaid patch on his hoodie sleeve.
“Just…” Roman rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for, y’know…” He stops for a moment before continuing. “Being the Robin to my Batman for the trip.”
Virgil scoffs–even though he knows what Roman is really thanking him for. It makes something twist a bit in Virgil’s chest, but he lets Roman play it off anyway. At least for now. “Excuse you. You’re driving me. So if anything, I think that makes you Alfred and meBatman.”
Roman holds up a hand to his chest as a show of dramatic insult, but Virgil catches the slight note of relief in his eyes. “I am nobody’s butler. And, may I point out, that Batman drives his own car.”
“This is hardly the Batmobile.”
“Excuse you, but this car is an incredibly noble steed and you will refer to him by name.” Roman pats the wheel affectionately.
Virgil quirks an unimpressed eyebrow. “Which is?”
“Maximus. After the horse from Tangled?”
Virgil nods his understanding, his mouth quirking into a very brief smile. He glances at Roman out of the corner of his eye. Through the facade and the bravado of confidence, Roman had essentially just thanked him for letting Roman drive him to Maine. He thinks back to what Roman had said the night before on the side of the deserted country road. And if maybe this also meant that I wouldn’t have to spend the next two days alone and could spend Christmas Eve Day with another person, well… that seemed like a win-win.
“I have a sudden, brilliant idea,” Roman announces, pulling Virgil out of his thoughts.
“What?”
“Let’s play ‘I Spy’!”
Virgil raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You want to play I Spy? You’re that bored?”
“Yes,” Roman answers immediately. He hesitates, then adds, “Plus I kind of have to pee and haven’t seen an exit sign in miles. I could use a distraction before I start singing ‘O Christmas Pee’ or ‘Urine Mean One, Mr. Grinch’ or something.”
Virgil barely holds back a snort. “You’re put some thought into this.”
Roman sighs, but Virgil sees the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “Are you gonna help a guy out, or no?”
Virgil pretends to think about it for a moment. “Okay. Sure. I Spy with my little eye something…. that has to pee.”
“Hey!”
Virgil laughs.
…
December 24th - 7:12 PM.
The sun was setting around the time that Virgil had started to identify landmarks again. An hour or so after that, Virgil realized that now–even if the car broke down again–he was close enough that he could ask his dads to pick them up and he’d still be home. The sky was dark by the time Roman turned the corner into the neighborhood, per Virgil’s directions.
The neighborhood looks exactly like he remembers it. Virgil watches with the odd mix of ache and anticipation as the houses roll by. Some have Christmas lights along the roofs, others outlining the windows, some in the bushes. Virgil sees a menorah in the window of one house, a seven-candle set for Kwanzaa seen through the window of another.
The light-up inflatable snowman in Mr. Picani’s yard on the corner of the intersection feels like a beacon welcoming Virgil home.
He tells Roman to turn left, his throat oddly tight. When he has the thought yet again–how he just can’t wait to see his dads–he doesn’t even care anymore if it sounds juvenile. He’s missed home.
“It’s right up here on the left,” Virgil tells him.
“This one?” Roman asks quietly, slowing down and pointing.
Virgil nods. “That’s the one,” he says. He coughs to clear the lump in his throat. “You can just pull into the driveway.”
The moment he does, Virgil sees their white front door open. Patton–blue polo, khaki pants, gray sweatshirt tied around his shoulders–steps out. Logan follows closely behind, wearing a black coat and holding a blue one that he then promptly wraps around Patton’s shoulders. Virgil takes in a very deep breath and releases it slowly.
He’s home.
Virgil unbuckles his seatbelt, then looks at Roman. Roman is quiet. And he won’t look at Virgil.
“You put your stuff in the trunk, right?” His voice sounds…off. In ways that Virgil can’t quite place.
“Yeah.” Virgil nods. He’s waiting for Roman to shut off the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Patton and Logan starting to make their way down the short sidewalk path in front of the house towards the driveway. Through one of the front windows, Virgil can see an undecorated Christmas tree and the thought that they both wanted to wait until Virgil was home to decorate the tree squeezes something in Virgil’s chest.
Roman sighs, then gives Virgil a smile that really looks more like a grimace. “Here. The trunk catches sometimes. I’ll help you get your stuff.” He switches the car off and unlocks the trunk as Virgil jumps out.
“Ya made it!” Patton announces with a smile that is somehow brighter than the Christmas lights outlining the roof of their house.
Virgil can’t help the soft, genuine smile that pulls at his own lips. “Hey, dad.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s engulfed in a hug. Virgil stumbles a bit from the sudden impact, but the familiar feeling and faint scent of cookies and cotton unravels the last of the tension in his chest. He sinks into his dad’s embrace, and Patton just pulls him in closer.
They pull back when Virgil hears the click of the trunk opening. Virgil feels someone else wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in, pressing a small kiss to the top of his head. Virgil glances up at Logan who mouths welcome home. There’s a warm twinkle in his eyes.
Roman pockets the keys and gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes to both of Virgil’s parents. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Sanders. And the lights are an exquisite touch.”
Virgil shakes his head quickly. “Right, sorry. Dads, this is Roman. Roman, these are my dads.”
Logan inclines his head in greeting and extends a hand. “Logan. This is my husband, Patton. It’s nice to meet you, Roman. And we are incredibly grateful for your generosity in getting Virgil home.”
Roman shakes his hand, but shrugs. “Really not a big deal, Mr. Sanders.”
“It is to us,” Logan says with uncompromising sincerity in his voice. He reaches inside the trunk and pulls out one of the suitcases.
Roman reaches a hand out to stop him. “Oh. Sorry, sir, that one’s actually mine.”
Logan looks at him. “Yes, I’m quite aware of that.” When Roman blinks at him, uncomprehending, Logan looks to his husband. “Would you prefer to explain or should I?”
Virgil smiles faintly at the soft look that shines in Patton’s eyes. “Roman, we have plenty of extra space and food if you’d like to stay.”
Roman’s eyes widen, and he’s shaking his head before the words spill out of his mouth. “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose like that–”
“You’re not imposing, kiddo,” Patton insists. “Honest. In fact, I think Logan and I would feel better if you at least got a good night’s rest before driving more. And that’s only if you really don’t want to stay. We’d love to have you stay for the holidays.”
Virgil watches with a familiar note of amusement as his father adjusts the frame of his glasses. “To be perfectly frank, it was rather foolish of the two of you to drive twenty hours without stopping to sleep somewhere. Had I known with enough time to put a stop to it, I certainly would have. Such unsafe behavior–”
“Lo,” Patton cuts in gently. Virgil smiles sheepishly at the light admonishment and pointed look from his father.
Roman, to his credit, looks sheepish as well. “You are all very kind to offer, but I should really get back on the road.”
“Princey,” Virgil says softly. Roman looks at him, and Virgil stops short at seeing the pained look in Roman’s eyes. He sighs, then steps closer. “You don’t have to spend Christmas alone this year.”
Roman freezes, looking suddenly like a deer caught in headlights. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head again, yanking Virgil’s dufflebag out of the trunk with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. “Thanks, but I don’t really need your pity, Virgil,” he says in a clipped voice.
Roman reaches to close the trunk, and Virgil’s hand shoots out and grabs the trunk lid to stop him. “It’s not pity,” Virgil tells him firmly.
“Yeah, right.” Roman tries to shut it again but Virgil holds it open.
“Listen to me, Roman Prince.” The use of his full name makes him stop suddenly. Wide brown eyes meet his, looking at him through strands of disheveled brown hair. Virgil presses on. “When I told you that I was adopted after being in foster care for a while in that diner, I expected pity from you. I see it almost every time I tell someone. But you didn’t pity me. I could see it in your face.” Roman averts his gaze and Virgil blows out a breath. “So look at me. Do I look like I pity you?”
There’s a long beat of silence before Roman finally looks up again. Wordlessly, he shakes his head. The Christmas lights from the house reflect in the tears collecting at the very corners of his dark brown eyes.
Virgil softens a bit. “Roman,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “you came all this way to see a happy ending. You deserve one too.”
Roman swallows hard and quickly wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “Are… I mean…” His voice cuts off.
“Yes,” Virgil tells him. “We’re sure.” He looks up to see both of his dads standing a few feet away–Logan with his arm around Patton’s shoulders–clearly having both decided to give the two college students some space to talk. Apparently they can both still hear them, as both of his dads nod their agreement when Roman glances their direction as well.
Roman takes a deep breath. The corner of his mouth tugs up in a faint, almost-smile. “I… Okay.”
Virgil shoots him a rare grin and pulls Roman’s suitcase out of the trunk. Logan steps up to take it from him. He and Roman head towards the house, and Virgil can hear Logan informing him of details such as where to find shampoo and conditioner, towels, extra blankets, a first-aid kit–the front door closing cuts out the string of information.
Patton is following closely behind them, but stops short at the porch when he realizes that Virgil is still standing in the driveway. “You okay, Virge?”
Virgil glances around the neighborhood. The blanket of snow in the yards have foot tracks through them. A series of snowmen in the yard across the street. The lights of his own home glitter against the white crystals. Virgil ducks under the strap of his duffle-bag and follows after his dad.
“Yeah,” he replies with a faint smile. “It’s just… good to be home. Merry Christmas, Dad.”
Patton smiles warmly back at him. “Merry Christmas, kiddo.”