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‘Roman!’ Virgil yelled. ‘Have you seen my hoodie?’
‘No!’ came the response, after a hesitation suggesting it was a lie.
Virgil huffed as he crossed the hall, looking for his boyfriend. He had lent Roman the hoodie a few days before, on an unseasonably cold day, and since then, he kept nicking it.
Reaching Roman’s room, he opened the door to see the prince, as expected, cuddled in the voluminous folds of the black-and-purple hoodie. Virgil had to admit, he did look cute – hair slightly mussed, strands falling into his eyes, the sleeves too long – so far from the put-together Prince everyone else saw, and so much closer to Virgil’s favourite prince: the adorable mess who spoke without thinking, just because he was so comfortable around him. It was a new feeling to Anxiety, and one that he truly enjoyed.
But that wasn’t the point right now.
‘You haven’t seen my hoodie, then,’ he snarked, staring directly at the unmistakeable patterns of his jumper.
‘Fine, Hot Topic,’ Roman grumbled. ‘But it’s not my fault your hoodie is incredibly cosy, nor that it smells like you.’
Virgil blushed a bit at his words – he still wasn’t used to his boyfriend’s casual words of affection – but tried to cover it with a frown. ‘Doesn’t change the fact that it’s my hoodie.’
‘Whatever,’ Roman pouted, thrusting the jumper back at him. ‘You shouldn’t have lent it to me in the first place.’
‘Probably not,’ Virgil replied, quickly kissing his boyfriend on the cheek as he left, pulling his arms through the soft purple fabric.
…………
The next day, Virgil’s hoodie was gone again.
‘Seriously?’ Anxiety muttered to himself. Clearly just taking it back each time wasn’t working.
He was going to have to get creative.
…………
Every time his hoodie went missing, Virgil waited until Roman was occupied elsewhere in the Mind Palace, talking to one of the others, getting food, or even working in the study they shared when Thomas needed them. Then, he would sneak into his room and steal an item of clothing.
He started small: a single sock, a plain T-shirt, a pair of shoes. But as the days went on and Roman failed to notice – he had so many clothes, making a dent was difficult – Virgil grew more ambitious. His favourite pair of trousers. His epaulettes, or ‘shoulder-thingies,’ as Patton called them. His Christmas sweater. Ultra-comfy pyjamas Virgil had borrowed before. Then – the pièce de résistance – the ruby sash he wore in videos.
That time, Roman noticed.
‘You’ve been taking my clothes!’ he cried, flinging himself dramatically through the door to Virgil’s room. ‘Why do you wrong me so, My Chemically-Imbalanced Romance?’
Virgil barely looked up from his book, too used to his boyfriend’s theatrics. ‘Take a guess. Why would I possibly decide to start stealing your favourite clothes?’
Roman rolled his eyes. ‘Is this all because of your hoodie?’
Virgil met his gaze, stony-faced. ‘Do I look like I wear anything else?’ He gestured at himself, letting Roman see his dark T-shirt, his black jeans, and exposed arms. ‘Unlike you, I don’t have a million sets of clothes. Plus,’ he added, ‘like you said… it’s really comfy.’
Roman huffed a laugh. ‘Okay, you win. I’ll trade your hoodie for my clothes.’
‘Deal.’ Virgil held out his hand expectantly. Having pulled it back on, only slightly distracted by how it now smelled like Roman, he flicked his fingers. A black Have the Courage to Exist flag lifted off the floor, revealing a neatly folded pile of red and white clothes.
Clothes in his arms, Roman made to leave, but stopped. ‘Hey, Virge?’
He looked up. ‘Whatup?’
‘Could I have something else that smells of you instead?’
Virgil raised an eyebrow. ‘Do I count?’
Roman’s answering kiss was confirmation enough of that, clothes forgotten by the door.