Work Text:
In Roman's very humble opinion, Virgil's timing sucks. It always has, especially back in the days when he was playing a very convincing role of an overachieving nuisance and lived to ruin each and every video with his remarks.
Or maybe this particular situation is about Virgil's lack of tact.
“I'm busy,” Roman says through his teeth, turning away.
“With what? Your drawing board that is so imaginary even I can't see it?” Virgil says. On most days, such words would be accompanied by a smirk so poignant it would be heard in his intonations. But it seems that Virgil is still very much on edge: the words sound harsher than... than Roman finds acceptable right now.
“I said I need to get back to work and I meant it. And you're interrupting. Didn't I hear you saying you wanted to go be 'cool' somewhere else?” With a snap of his fingers, a huge whiteboard appears in front of them, a pack of multicolored markers in a holder box. Roman turns his back on Virgil and faces the board, contemplating its size... and trying not to be intimidated by it.
“Who said I meant my room?” Virgil comes to stand by his side. “This is, technically, 'somewhere else', so...” He drawls out the last vowel.
Roman purses his lips. He isn't in a mood for banter. He isn't in a mood for company. He isn't in a mood, full stop. And Virgil, being the godforsaken anxiety, should damn well feel it.
And leave.
“No need to be this touchy. I just came to check up on you. The whole thing was a mess.”
Touchy? Since when the silence is being touchy? Roman grabs a red marker and takes the cap off. The popping sound of it is loud, and it's one of the things Roman came to associate with the start of work. Usually, it sends a swift chill of anticipation over his skin. Keyword: usually.
“Princey?” Virgil tries again, and this time his voice finally sounds... softer. And... oh gosh, damn, darn it—
Roman's hand shakes as he brings the tip of the marker closer to the board, right at the center. Go away, please, he thinks. You should not see it. You should not see me like this. The marker hovers some millimetres over the board. Please don't be so kind, he pleas.
Because he is dangerously close to breaking. And he doesn't know what word, what gesture will be the last straw before he—
“Roman...”
The marker falls, clanking loudly over the edge of the board.
There's a sharp intake of breath.
Roman sobs.
His face curls into an ugly grimace as he tries to hold back the tears. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but it's of no help: another sob escapes him, then a thin whine. Tears blur his vision, and his lashes stick together, and his face feels so disgusting and weird.
“He wuh-wuh-was right,” Roman forces the words out. "I wanted to win.” His throat constricts, a series of dry short breaths escaping his mouth. "Not just to— to get what I want and go for tha— that callback. I wanted to be in the right. I— I—”
Something cold comes to rest over Roman's nape. It makes him aware of how hot his skin is, how his lungs overwork, how his clothes seem too tight. The weight on his nape moves in gentle waves, and... Virgil's hand. It must be. His hands are always cold. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!
“I wanted to be in the right. To...” Three quick breaths. “To maybe, if it was the right way, to... for us realize it. And act on it. But...” He grits his teeth. Stop crying, stop, stop, stop! “It wasn't right. I made that judgment and I meant it. I'm not going back on my word.”
“Roman... listen—”
With a little more force than necessary, Roman slaps Virgil's hand away and steps back.
“I have a right to be upset!” he cries out, his voice breaking; he faces Virgil for the first time since all of this disaster has begun. “I have a right to be hurt! Even if I know that we did the right thing! I have a right to be upset at hours and energy I wasted! That was my— my dream, and I— I have a right to—”
The crying is ugly and loud, returning threefold, making a mess of Roman's thoughts and feelings and he's not in control and he must run away and hide and he doesn't actually have a right to be this way no—
Virgil's arms come around Roman's neck, a sure, tight grip, and bring him down, Roman's chin resting in the crook of Virgil's neck. The hoodie is oh so very soft and smells like it was washed just recently, clean and crispy, like comfort, like home, like—
Roman clutches at the fabric of the hoodie, encloses Virgil in his hold, feeling the heat of his back. His hands don't shake anymore, not with how painfully he clenches his fingers.
“Yes, you do,” Virgil says quietly right into his ear, his warm breath washing over it. "You have every right in the world to be upset. The right thing isn't always fair.”
Roman leans his head just a bit to the left, just enough so his forehead and temple are tickled by Virgil's hair. He tries to even out his breath.
“And maybe it's hard to think about it now, but... The opportunities will come. And you will take them. And you will be brilliant.”
More tears gather at the corner of Roman's eyes. But his chest, it's— He feels— He feels lighter. There's the weight of Virgil's arms, the desperate force behind it — and he feels lighter.
“Roman. I'm very, very proud of you. Of everything you've done today.”
Oh, that... This is... But...
With force, loathing to move from his position that brings him so much comfort, Roman lifts his head from Virgil's shoulder and tries to lean back enough to look him in the eyes. Virgil weakens his hold but doesn't let go completely, his arms still encircling Roman's shoulders.
“Even... now?” Roman asks, his voice small and raspy.
“Especially now,” Virgil says, no shadow of doubt in his voice. And his smile... That gentle thing full of love that he usually reserves for Patton — he is giving it to Roman. And the way it makes Roman feel, it's... better than he has ever imagined. It feels like... everything. Like something that might make going through any struggle worth it.
As they hug this time, a second time, it's Roman who leads, hugging Virgil tight, his thumbs rubbing quick lines onto him.
“Thank you... Virgil.”
Virgil just hums in response. He makes no attempts to move away. Roman exhales, relief filling all his body.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, beats in his head as they hold each other. I needed what you gave me, so damn much, even though I didn't know I needed it, even though I fought you on that.
And with his head so clear, it's much easier to believe in what Virgil said about new opportunities. About his brilliance. It doesn't feel like acid to think of what is lost. And the emptiness of the whiteboard doesn't scare him anymore. In fact...
“What are you doing?” Virgil says, his trademarked grumpiness back, as Roman manoeuvres them until Virgil's back almost leans on the board.
“I...” Roman says, grabbing one of the markers with one hand and wrapping the other arm more comfortably around Virgil, “am working, my dear stormy knight.” He draws the outline of a big square in the middle, then sections it into five more-or-less even pieces. Now, let's see...
A short pause. Virgil makes an mmhm noise. “And what? Do you need me right here for that?”
Roman stills his hand, the marker making a big dot at the end of the word he is writing, and looks at Virgil. Roman... doesn't know how to answer this. But his arm — almost involuntarily — tightens its grip around Virgil's waist.
Something in Virgil's face shifts, and then, before Roman can even register it, he turns around and moves to stand with his side pressed tightly against Roman, Roman's arm still holding him.
Virgil snaps his fingers. The sounds of a bass guitar, brazen and energetic, fill the room. He grabs a marker, a strict black one, and unclasps it.
“So... what did you have in mind, Princey?”
Roman beams.