Chapter Text
Virgil was not spying. And he wasn't jealous.
… Well, Janus would be proud, wouldn't he?
Well, at least the first statement was true. What he was doing was much more pitiful than espionage.
Prowling in the Subconscious was not part of his habits. He knew that the neutral sides (Remy, sleep, and Saul, physical attraction) worked there frequently, but for the core sides and the Others, staying too long in the mist could be dangerous. Virgil had vaguely understood that the Subconscious was connecting somewhere with the Imagination, so that Roman (or Remus, as the case may be) could influence dreams. Maybe one day he would walk that far.
Virgil turned and looked at the two houses further down the otherwise deserted street. At first glance, they looked alike - or rather, they looked like Thomas' house in Real Life. But through the haze of the Subconscious, one could glimpse their differences. The neutral side’s was large (probably too much for just two people) and painted a… well, neutral, gray. The Other’s, and by extension Virgil's, leaned on the side, so decrepit and dirty one could hardly imagine anyone living there.
Virgil sighed. The most important thing was that Thomas was a good person, even if it sometimes made his life… difficult.
He turned again to the third and last house on the street. Colorful and futuristic and warm.
Welcoming.
He would have denied it with the ferocity and pride of a wild cat, but he sometimes did go and sit in front of the core side’s house, just behind the square of light that their window projected onto the grass, and peered inside. At night only, hidden from the occupants by the reflection on the glass.
That night in particular, one more reason for wanting to leave the unpleasant company of the Others spread across the cheek in the form of a long slash. But the want he felt was less difficult to deal with than the worry and grief and pain, and so there he was, away from the screams of Anger, the half-truths of Janus and… he didn't want to think about it, in fact, of Remus.
The comparison was almost laughable. The core sides were playing scrabble.
Of course, Logan was going to win. He knew it, which explained his smirk and superior demeanor. Roman knew it too, but he seemed less upset, less susceptible than Virgil would have imagined. He played valiantly, and dramatically (he was the only one Virgil could hear through the closed window), but without any real animosity.
The only person he's really aggressive against, a small voice whispered to Virgil, is you.
He clenched his teeth. Since he had started associating Janus with his negative thoughts, it was much easier to deal with them.
He doesn't know me. Not really, he replied. Just the facade I use to convince Thomas to listen to me. And he doesn't hate just me. There’s also Remus.
The voice died down, and he sighed. After the conflict he had just escaped, if his head got into it too, he was ready to duck out in the Subconscious.
He returned his attention to the core sides. After all, that was the purpose of his visit.
Patton also had to know that Logan was going to win (if only because he had almost boundless admiration for him). But nothing seemed to indicate that he cared. After completing his turn, he stood up and disappeared into the kitchen, soon reappearing with a plate of steaming cookies.
Virgil bit back a moan. Remus had molded all their food stash (again), and he was starving. Of course, he could have begged Anger for food, but after their argument he was more likely to receive another slap, or worse, than food. And Janus was too “everyone for themselves” oriented to really share… well, anything, really. Social construct and all that. And the worst part was, Virgil couldn't blame Remus, not really. Because if the mustached man couldn't help but make horrible things appear all day long, Virgil could only make creepy things appear.
Without taking his eyes off the ladybug-shaped butter cookie Patton was holding, he raised a hand and focused.
A swarm of mosquitoes gushed out. Virgil moved away sharply - knowing him, they would all be carriers of a fatal blood disease. He sighed as he watched them fly away.
Spying on the light sides calmed Virgil like few other activities could. But it was done at the cost of a wave of… No nostalgia, nostalgia involves something that one has already experienced. A wave of melancholy.
It was the rain that finally drove Virgil away. How charming, he thought as he stood up awkwardly. Weather to match my mood. The joke didn't clear the lump in his throat.
However, meeting Patton's stunned gaze proved to be very distracting.
The fool (optimist, whatever) had the window wide open, probably wanting to enjoy the smell of rain. Virgil was so stunned, not having expected this at all, that when the older motioned for him to wait before disappearing into the house, he obeyed without thinking.
The front door swung open, startling him. One of the reasons Virgil liked Patton, beside him always being cordial, was that Virgil couldn't imagine him hurting a fly. This made it easier for him to ignore the part of his brain that was scanning, every second of every minute, for potential danger (his radar, as he called it). His function. He was Anxiety, after all.
If it had been Roman, Virgil probably would have fled. If it had been Logan, he would at least have kept a distance. But it was Patton, kind, friend-shaped, sympathetic Patton, waving at him, with his good character and his butter cookies, and Virgil wanted so badly that sometimes he couldn’t breathe.
So he walked obediently to the door, and let himself be pulled inside.
The house was even more welcoming than he had imagined, warm, all in golden light and the smell of pastry.
“Did you know that the compound that causes "the smell of rain" is called petrichorium?” Logan asked from the living room. “And Patton, humans perceive this scent in infinitesimal amounts, no more than 5 parts per million, even better than sharks smell blood. I really don't think you need to open our front door for this...”
“But Logan, we have a visitor!”
Silence. At Patton's insistence (at this point he had accepted his fate), Virgil took off his wet boots and followed him into the living room, eyes downcast.
No matter how much he expected it, Roman's exclamation hurt no less.
“Him, visit us?”
“I was talking a walk,” Virgil lied flatly.
He had time to see Roman raise his eyebrows, more used to the combative aspect of Virgil, the one determined to save Thomas, than to this passive version, before Patton rebuffed him.
“I invited him, be polite Roman! We're not going to force Virgil to go home in the rain!”
"Good evening," Logan greeted, standing up. “I'll get the first aid kit.”
“Thanks Lolo.”
Virgil raised a hand to his cheek, to the wound he had forgotten was there. Patton gently grabbed his other, leading him deeper into the house, to the kitchen. The layout of the rooms, similar to Thomas's, and his own, helped lift some of his worries. He could get out quickly if need be. In the blink of an eye, he was sitting at the table, a plate of cookies pushed in front of him.
“He might be here to spy on us!” exclaimed Roman, who seemed determined not to take his eyes off the Other. “In fact, we're not even sure it's really Virgil. It could be Janus!”
Patton turned, a teapot in his hands and another argument at his mouth, but this time Virgil didn't need to be defended.
“It really is me.”
He hid a grimace under his bangs when the other two shuddered in response to his ‘demonic voice.’ He was about to apologize when Logan intervened.
“The vocal skills of the respective Others, whether Janus' forced mutism or Remus' focus, are indeed specific to their wearer, and cannot be imitated. Thank you for that assurance, Virgil.”
Ignoring Creativity, he proceeded to cleanse and bandage Virgil's cheek, who reclined a bit in his chair, but didn't object.
Despite himself, Roman seemed almost convinced. At no point did Virgil perceive any real fear coming from him (or Patton or Logan, for what it was worth), just mistrust. He tried, without real bite:
“That doesn't explain why he… you appear injured in our driveway.”
"Orange," Virgil replied in a low voice.
It's also because of him and Janus that I have the fighting spirit of an overcooked noodle right now, he didn’t add.
But it wasn't necessary. Roman could be belligerent, but he was also honorable; If Virgil didn't respond to his attacks, he wouldn't insist. Instead, he sank back into his chair (a complicated affair, all in gilding and red velvet) and only said: “The sword shaped cookies are mine.”
And as Logan moved back to put away his gear, Virgil returned his attention to the plate in front of him.
He could hardly remember ever wanting anything more than he wanted one of those cookies right now, and for a second, the pity he felt for himself seized him by the throat.
But at the same time, his radar was working overtime listing all the reasons why accepting a cookie would be the worst thing he's ever done in his not-quite-a-life.
- Maybe they were poisoned? A plan of the core sides to get rid of him?
- He was sure to make a fool of himself somehow, choke, put crumbs all over the place, etc.
- They would realize how hungry he was, and the shame would keep him awake.
- Patton didn't really want him to eat them, only offered it out of politeness, and the right thing to do was to refuse.
“I strongly advise you to at least taste them, they are fresh out of the oven.”
Logan, of course. The voice of reason, to the rescue. Virgil hurriedly looked up from the plate, to meet Logic's gaze, and read that he had definitely noticed his hesitation.
Problem solved: now, not helping himself would seem rude. Virgil grabbed a butter cookie with a slightly shaking hand and brought it to his mouth.
He let out a "mmh" of satisfaction, for once without being embarrassed. The rest of the baked good quickly disappeared.
Fortunately, Logan and Roman had been polite enough to pretend not to stare at him. Virgil accepted a cup of tea from Patton with an almost inaudible "thank you", before recovering:
"Thanks for everything," he whispered, his eyes riveted on the knot of the Morality cardigan. “The cookies are...” The best thing I remember eating. “Delicious.”
“Aww, thank you kiddo! I'll prepare a box for you.”
Virgil opened his mouth, ready to protest, but couldn't find the strength to do so. Instead, he warmed his hands over his cup of tea, grabbed a second cookie, and enjoyed the moment.
Roman had stories to tell, as unrealistic as they were (“Dreams, Logan! Dreams matter too!”), Logan wanted Virgil to take his side in a disagreement between him and the "right brain team”, and Patton absolutely wanted to invite him back.
And Virgil knew fully well that the memory of that evening would only make his melancholy worse and that, this time, he would be well and truly nostalgic. But, just this once, he ignored the thought and found himself imagining it to be a regular occurrence.