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It’s 3 am, and Virgil is standing in front of Remus’ room.
This is in no way an ideal scenario, for so many reasons Virgil almost can’t count, the first of them being that he’s standing in front of Remus’ room, trying to will himself to go in.
Three times now he’s turned and made it all the way through the hallway before closing his eyes and dragging himself back to the door. The door itself is a tacky radioactive green, slashed and slightly bent out of place, with something Virgil doesn’t want to examine too closely dripping from the handle. There’s a brown-ish sludge slowly seeping from underneath the door, too. It’s all very unpleasant, and profoundly Remus.
It is, maybe after Deceit’s room, the last place Virgil wants to set foot in ever again. But— desperate measures, he thinks to himself grimly, and nudges the door open with his foot before he can work himself into further panic. He doesn’t knock; even if Remus probably already knows he’s there, it’s always better not to give him any heads-up.
Virgil steps into the doorway and immediately ducks. Part of it is habit; he’s been in Remus’ room and around Remus enough to have a finely tuned sense for his bullshit; the other part of it is simply reflexes. As a needle whistles past his head and embeds itself into the door frame behind him, he thanks himself for that instinct. Enthusiastic clapping comes from inside the room, and Virgil straightens up to see Remus staring back at him.
He’s hanging upside-down from some sort of— contraption, which Virgil refuses to look at closely. There’s blood smeared all over him, and he’s clutching a bunch of teeth in one hand and eyes in the other, dangling from their optic nerves. Virgil really, really doesn’t want to know.
“Why, if it isn’t my favorite emo!” Remus shrieks and wiggles a bit, causing the chains he’s hanging from to rattle. “Finally decided to ditch those good-for-nothing uptights and hang out with your old pal, huh?”
Virgil bites back a scathing remark, because he’s here with an objective. He digs his nails into his palms and breathes in and out before staring back at Remus, who is looking at him with an amused expression, eyes glittering.
“I can’t find Roman,” he says, cutting straight to the chase, and Remus’ face goes blank for a split second before he goes back to grinning even harder. His teeth are razor sharp, and there’s too many of them. Virgil bites back the urge to bare his own and hiss.
“And I give a shit, because?” Remus pops one of the eyes into his mouth and chews on it. Virgil is glad he has a strong stomach.
“I don’t care if you give a shit or not,” Virgil says. “I just need access to your part of the Imagination. I can’t get into his.”
Remus chortles, choking into the mess of eye tissue in his mouth and spitting out a lot of saliva.
“Oh, Virgil, you’ve always had a wonderful sense of humor,” he says, mimicking wiping a tear. Virgil glares at him. “Ooh, the serious look. This really has your panties in a bunch.” He grins at Virgil and his teeth are stained red. “Never thought I’d see you, of all people, chasing after Roman. And so late at night, too. Scandalous! What will everyone think, Virgil?”
Virgil doesn’t have time for this.
“Listen,” he growls, and his voice comes out echo-y and reverberating. Remus leers at him from where he’s hanging. “I don’t care about whatever freaky shit you have to say. I need to find Roman. Just— let me through, and you can go back to doing… whatever this is.”
Remus squints at him, smile gone a bit vacant, and Virgil doesn’t like it when Remus gets like this, because at least with the gore and the sexual innuendos he knows where they stand. A thoughtful Remus is far more unpredictable.
“You’re so worried,” he says. “And for what? This is what Roman does. He goes to be dramatic and lick his wounds like a prideful little puppy with its legs broken. He’s always been like this. He'll come back and you'll regret all that wasted energy.”
The smile is fully gone from Remus’ face now, and something curdles in Virgil’s stomach.
“It’s not the same, though,” he rasps out. “No one has barely seen him since— then,” the wedding, “and he’s not creating. He hasn’t been out or in his room in weeks, which means he’s been off in the Imagination doing God-knows-what, and I seem to be the only one who gives a shit!”
And that’s not fair, is it? Because the others care, of course they do. Patton cares so much, and has been so worried about Roman, but Patton is struggling himself right now. And Logan is— well. Their relationship is so fraught, Logan is so withdrawn, Virgil can’t really blame him for this, even if he does, a little bit. And not to mention Janus— Deceit, being all chummy with Patton, slowly coaxing Logan into conversations and chess matches and discussions and— It makes Virgil so angry, but as much as it pains him, Deceit makes Patton happy. He makes Logan’s mask crack, drawing out the personhood behind. Virgil can’t do any of those things, because as time has proven time and time again he’s not actually good for anyone, so he limits himself to snooping around and making sure Deceit isn’t hurting them.
Roman, though. He’s been all alone, and Virgil’s clumsy attempts at reaching out have been laughable at best. And now it’s been weeks since seeing even a hair of him, and even after Virgil basically broke into his room to find it empty and dusty, he hasn’t been able to follow him into whatever part of the mind he’s gone.
Hence Remus. Virgil is kinda grasping at straws by now.
“That’s cute, Virgil,” Remus says, and Virgil’s hair stands on end. “And you know what, you’re right! I don’t give a shit.” He shrugs at Virgil, suddenly all movement, like what can you do. And Virgil— well.
He grabs Remus by the hair and pulls, and the chains break under the force. Remus lands hard on the floor, teeth going everywhere, and he oofs.
“Why, Virgil,” he almost purrs, and flops around on the floor to stare at him. There’s blood running down his face now, and two of his own teeth have been knocked out. He’s grinning again, though. “Never thought you’d like it rough.”
“Enough,” Virgil booms, and it’s loud enough that it sweeps through the room like a shockwave.
“I’m a screamer, too,” Remus quips, but he looks a bit more settled now. Virgil stifles a sigh.
“Just— Remus, please,” he grits out, and hates every second of it. “He’s your brother. Just let me try to find him.”
“Much of a brother he is,” Remus snorts, but he gets up from the floor and fixes Virgil with another quizzical look. It has always given Virgil whiplash, the quick switch from loud and awful to quiet and analytical.
“It’s not like you’re any better,” Virgil bites out, and Remus shrugs at him, not denying it. Then he reaches for the door of his closet and swings it open, and inside opens a yawning void, which pulls at and repulses Virgil on equal amounts. And then Remus shoves one foot inside and looks at him expectantly. He’s still clutching a fistful of loose teeth.
“Need a written invite?”
“What— you’re not coming with. This is not a field trip.”
Remus laughs at him, head thrown back, and Virgil knows he’s not winning this argument.
Remus’ side of the Imagination is everything Virgil expected and more, and it’s also not.
There’s a stench in the air, the sickly sweet smell of rot permeating the place, and underneath it the iron tang of blood. It’s an assault on all the senses, and as soon as they step inside Virgil finds himself disoriented, until Remus grabs him by the back of the neck like a cat and cheerfully starts dragging him forward.
They pass an insurmountable amount of horrors. Gory scenes flash before his eyes, and impossible creations as well. A snippet of a figure standing close, human but unsettling in that it’s not-quite-right. They pass a forest that seems to be made entirely out of body parts. Virgil hates to admit it, but he knows that without Remus to pull him forward he would have lost track of himself in this funhouse of horrors.
And then the air starts changing, and the scenery too, becoming less oppressive and dark, but at the spot where Roman’s side of the Imagination should start, green and vibrant and full of spark, it kind of just… trails off. There’s a hard cut into nothing. Virgil and Remus stand at the edge, side-by-side, and look at the depressing white that bleeds out into an expanse of nothing.
“Well, his sense of style has really gone down the drain,” Remus breaks the silence, and Virgil tries to breathe past the panic that has wrapped itself like a vice around his ribcage. It’s so, so wrong.
Virgil steps forward, and his feet meet solid ground, even as there’s nothing but white underneath him. Remus is right next to him as he does, and Virgil doesn’t question it. Something has gone tight around Remus’ eyes, and his mouth is flat. The grip on his morningstar is like a vice.
They walk for what feels like ages. After a while, the horizon of Remus’ Imagination fades out, and they’re just surrounded by white, so clear it hurts Virgil’s eyes. He tries to breathe in tandem, and for once in his life is reassured by the presence of Remus next to him, who is focused and determined in a way he rarely is.
And then, after a lifetime of walking, they spot him. It looks like nothing at first, a speck of color in an endless expanse of white, but then it unfolds into a shape, sprawled on the ground, and then Virgil is running at full speed, Remus right at his heels.
Roman is a splash of red on white, and for a long moment Virgil thinks he’s wearing crimson clothes, until he realizes it’s blood. He curses and reaches for Roman, who is laying lax and broken, and doesn’t react when Virgil carefully taps his shoulder, and then his face.
“Fuck, Princey, come on,” he hisses, and carefully drags Roman close, resting his head on his lap and surveying the damage.
And there is a lot of it.
His clothes are soaked in blood, and the smell is so pungent it makes nausea rise up in his throat. There’s slashes in his arms, in his torso, even in his face. It’s like he got into a fight with a tiger and lost.
God, Virgil hopes it’s not that. He doesn’t know what he hopes it is.
He strips off his hoodie and makes an effort to stop the bleeding, futile as it is. It’s not like he’s going to bleed out, it doesn’t quite work like that, but— it’s wrong. It hurts, to see Roman like this.
“Who,” comes from up next to Virgil, and he turns to see Remus standing very still, his grip on the morningstar painful. His eyes are fixed on Roman, and he looks— Virgil can’t tell. He looks furious. There's something else mixed in too, an odd sort of grief.
“I think we both know who, Remus,” Virgil says, and he’s suddenly very, very tired. “Would be great if you refrained from bashing Roman's head in. I don't think he needs any more injuries right now.”
Remus stands there, too still, almost trembling. He looks lost. Virgil can relate.
“Come on,” he says, because they’re sitting ducks. “We can take him to his room. It’s better than— whatever this is.”
Remus, for once, doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say anything, only stares at Roman with intense eyes as Virgil picks him up like he’s made of feathers, and then he wordlessly flicks his wrist and a door bleeds into existence next to them, red and sparkly. Virgil doesn’t bother asking.
Roman's room is somehow even more depressing than the big empty blankness, in the sense that it's empty and ordered. There's no papers lying around, no half-written scripts, no wisps of poems and lines scribbled on scraps of paper when the inspiration strikes. There are no swaths of fabric for sewing new costumes, no splatters of oleum and acrylics and canvas tossed around the floor. It's all dull, void of creation.
He lays Roman on top of the bed, as gentle as possible, and then he buries his face in his hands and bites back the urge to scream. A clinking sound makes him look up, only to see Remus scattering his remaining teeth all over the floor. Virgil glares.
“What? You can’t tell me this room doesn’t need a bit of color. Though I guess he’s already kind of adding to that himself.” Remus bends down and swipes a spot of blood smeared on the floor, and then pops his fingers in his mouth. “Syrupy!”
Virgil, blessed with the curse of many years of practice, tunes him out as he starts shoving open desks and drawers and effectively wrecks Roman’s room. It’s not like there’s much to wreck anyways.
He turns his attention to Roman, sprawled on the bed, pale and cut up. There’s blood soaking into the bedsheets now, turning the bright red into a deep maroon. Virgil manages to wrangle Roman out of his sash and jacket, task made easier by the fact that his clothes are practically in tatters, and he curses when he sees Roman’s torso in full glory. There’s a slash that goes from his hip to his shoulder, in diagonal, and Virgil can see the fat and muscle at the edges. He tries not to gag.
Then he startles as something heavy lands next to him in the bed, and he turns to see Remus standing next to him, a bottle of— hydrogen peroxide? upturned into his mouth. Virgil holds eye contact with him as he kind of— guzzles the disinfectant, and then turns to look at the first aid kit that landed next to him.
“It was in his bathroom,” Remus gargles, mouth full.
“Great,” Virgil says, queasy. “Thanks.”
It’s a very well-stocked kit, he realizes after rummaging in it for a bit, and that knowledge sits heavy on the bottom of his stomach. He digs out some saline solution and gauze, and then sits and tries not to throw up as he cleans and bandages Roman’s wounds as best as he can.
Logan would do this better, he knows. Would know how to tighten the gauze properly and how to be methodical and efficient. But there’s a million reasons why he can’t ask Logan. Or Patton. Or—.
“Lotta good it’s done him,” Remus says from where he’s now chugging Betadine. His teeth are pointed and stained iodine-yellow. “Your little light-side family.”
Virgil clenches his teeth and opens his mouth to retort.
"R'mus?" Roman's voice is so small and tired Virgil doesn't even process it at first, and then he turns and sees Roman's eyes are half-open, glassy and unfocused. "Remus, is that you?"
It's like watching a transformation in real time. Remus is all made of edges and jagged pieces, and they all soften as he sits next to Roman and puts a hand on his arm.
"It's me," he says, voice subdued. "And Virgil, too."
"Virge?" Roman turns his gaze on him and Virgil nods at him, anxiety crawling up his throat at how lost and defeated he looks. "What..."
"We found you," Virgil says, and there's a steady anger that's been building in the pit of his stomach as he bandaged Roman. "Bleeding out all over nothing. Roman, what the fuck?"
Roman flinches, and Virgil instantly feels like an asshole. Remus gives him a sharp look that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
And then Virgil feels a familiar tug at the bottom of his stomach, and at the same time Roman springs up on the bed. When Virgil reaches to push him back down he struggles, gaze clouded but desperate.
“No, I need— Thomas—” He looks so afraid,
“You’re not going anywhere like this, Princey,” Virgil says, trying for his best soothing Patton impression, and pushes Roman a bit harder until he’s lying back down. Some of his cuts are bleeding again.
“But Thomas—”
“Won’t die if you don’t show up one time.”
“No, I have to— I’ve already let him down so much—” Roman pleads, and Virgil can taste bile. There’s fury licking at his fingertips.
“You have not,” he says, voice echoing, and it’s loud enough that Roman seems to listen and quiet down a bit. “You haven’t, Roman, I— fuck.” He pushes back his bangs, frustrated. He’s not good for this, he doesn’t have the words. “God, how did we let it get this bad?”
Roman seems to have lost any remaining fight and is curling up into himself, eyes wet and mouth trembling, and Virgil itches to be able to fix any of this.
Then the tug comes again, more insistent this time, and he grits his teeth. He looks at Remus, who has one hand over Roman’s arm and is already staring back at him, and a moment of understanding comes between them. Virgil feels, more than at any other time, the weight of all the years spent together, for better and for worse. He knows Remus, Remus knows him.
So he snaps his fingers and then he’s standing in Thomas’ living room, Remus next to him on Roman’s usual spot. Patton and Logan stare at Remus owlishly, and he catches sight of Thomas grimacing, but Virgil is immediately fixated on Deceit, standing in between Patton and Thomas.
“Um,” Thomas says, eyes wide. He’s standing in penguin-patterned pajamas, hair a mess, and Virgil has to tamp down on simultaneous bouts of worry and fondness. “I was trying to summon Roman? No offense.”
Remus, morningstar in hand, dangerously wide smile, blinks at Thomas innocently.
“Dearest Roman is—”
“Unavailable,” Virgil echoes, and everyone startles.
“Virgil,” Thomas breathes, all worry, at the same time that Patton half-shouts at, presumably, the sight of Virgil covered in red. Virgil looks down at his hands, stained with Roman’s blood, and bites back a gag. “What— what happened to you? Is that blood? Is that real?” He looks properly freaked out now. “Are you hurt, too?” He directs that at Remus, and Virgil watches as Remus blinks, smile fading into confusion. He can relate. Thomas is so genuine it hurts sometimes.
“Neither of us is hurt, Thomas,” Virgil says, and with a thought the blood is gone, even though Virgil can still feel the tang of iron at the back of his throat. And it’s not a lie, but it’s not quite the truth, of course—
“So you just decided to dress up for fun, is that it, Virgil? Halloween is still so far away.” Deceit looks at them both with his head tilted, eyes narrowed, and it prickles at Virgil, like needles burrowing underneath his skin.
“It’s none of your fucking business, is what it is,” Virgil bites out, because he’s strung-out and frustrated. Deceit raises one perfect eyebrow, nonplussed, even as Thomas and Patton make fretting sounds.
“That’s a little harsh, Virgil,” Thomas says uncertainly, eyes shifting between the two of them, and Virgil is— so tired.
“Maybe it is,” he says. “Maybe I should go back to being the bad guy, now that Deceit’s playing house with you all. Someone has to, right? You can’t say you’d be surprised, Thomas.”
On the back of his head, the rational part of him knows that’s not fair. The part of him that has worked with Logan to recognize distorted thought patterns, anxiety spirals, over-magnifications. But he’s just so damn tired. And Thomas still hasn’t looked at him quite the same since Virgil told him about his past, and yet Deceit is standing right there, like he just belongs, and Virgil can still feel Roman’s blood on his hands.
So he leaved them all there floundering and he sinks out and back into Roman’s bedroom, relieved to find him lying where they left him. Virgil sits down next to him on the bed and breathes for a moment, four-seven-eight, until his hands stop shaking and the knot in his stomach unravels, slightly.
“Y’look upset,” comes from next to him, and Virgil startles and turns to see Roman staring back at him, eyes half-lidded and tired but more lucid than before.
“It’s fine,” Virgil tells him, and then hesitantly reaches and cards a hand through Roman’s hair. Roman takes a shuddery breath and closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again they’re wet. “I— Princey,” he says, at a loss, and Roman gives him the most heartbreaking smile, like he’s still trying to put on a front, broken and bleeding in his bed.
“Do not fret,” he says. “I am—”
“Fine?” Virgil interrupts, and Roman flinches a bit. Virgil does his best to soften his voice. “Roman, we literally found you passed out and bleeding out in a void of nothing. Nothing about this is fine.”
Roman flounders for a moment, clearly trying to come up with an excuse.
“I merely— I—,” he stutters uncharacteristically, and then he deflates. “I lost,” he says, in a very tiny voice, and Virgil swallows.
“Were you even trying to win?” He asks gently, and Roman turns his head, like he’s ashamed. “Hey, no, come on, I’m not— it’s— well, it’s not okay at all, but you’re not, like. In trouble.”
Roman gives him a guarded look, like he’s expecting Virgil to suddenly jump at him like a B-movie villain and laugh at his face and then spit at him, which is fair, probably. Virgil pets his hair again in an awkward motion and a tear slips from Roman’s eye and falls into his pillow.
“What did Thomas say?” Roman ducks his gaze and curls in on himself even more, like he’s bracing himself for impact, and Virgil aches.
“Uh, well. He was kind of distracted, first, and then the conversation kinda got derailed, and then I left, so. You’re good, probably. I think Remus is dealing with it?”
“Remus?” Roman jumps, and yeah, that’s fair. “You left Remus to deal with things?”
“I— you know,” Virgil starts, face hot. “I wasn’t really thinking, okay, it was a split of the moment decision—”
“You don’t even like him!” Roman says, and he seems almost offended, but at least there’s a spark back in his eyes. Virgil makes a face at him. “Okay, what I mean is— you two have, you know. History.” He makes a sweeping gesture with one hand and almost socks Virgil on the face.
“History,” Virgil deadpans, and Roman looks a bit sheepish. Virgil sighs. “We do. But so do you, obviously. That’s why I went to him to find you.” Roman’s face turns puzzled.
“I— you did? But that’s not— he wouldn’t…”
Virgil sighs. There’s a headache steadily building.
“He basically dragged me through his part of the Imagination to get to you, and trust me, I am not repeating that experience any time soon,” he says, and Roman grimaces in agreement. “I don’t— you two clearly have a, uh, complicated thing going on, but. He obviously cares, man.”
Roman laughs at that, an ugly, bitter thing, and Virgil clenches his fists.
“He shouldn’t,” he says, and he curls up on himself, arms around his knees. He looks so defeated, all his big persona and air gone. “You shouldn’t either, and the others already don’t, so—” He laughs, and it’s empty. Virgil doesn’t know what to do.
“Wow, Roman, I didn’t realize you’d lost those last remaining brain cells of yours,” comes from the middle of the room, as Remus pops in from thin air. He’s no longer covered in blood and is, for some reason, drenched in a blue liquid that smells like bubblegum. Roman stares at him, shame and resignation swirling in his face clear as day. He doesn’t quip back, and Remus is clearly thrown, his smile dipping for a moment.
“You took your sweet time getting back,” Virgil says, and Remus’ grin sharpens again.
“Well, they all had so many questions,” he says as he wanders to the bed and plops himself on Roman’s other side, the two of them flanking him like some misshapen form of guardians. He produces a glow stick from somewhere, cracks it and sticks it into his mouth. Roman doesn’t even twitch at it. “Thomas seemed very upset, it was funny,” Remus informs Virgil, talking around the piece of plastic in his mouth. His teeth are covered in fluorescent yellow. Virgil swallows down the rising sense of guilt.
“Thomas,” Roman blurts out, like he’s suddenly remembered something, and manages to throw the covers back before Virgil wrestles him back into the sheets. “No, let me, I— He needs me!”
Virgil shares a glance with Remus, who is looking at Roman like he’s a 3D puzzle and he’s putting together the pieces.
“Roman,” Virgil starts, trying to go for placating and probably landing far from it, but Roman seems even more distressed.
“No, I— I’m fine, I can— I’ll do whatever he needs me to, I promise, I’ll be good—” He’s speaking through tears now, breath hitching, and Virgil makes a distraught noise.
“Roman, that’s not—”
“It is!” He shouts, face wet and voice trembling. One of the cuts on his face is bleeding again. “I know I’ve been useless and— and bad, but I can be better, I can prove it to all of you—”
Crack.
Roman’s rambling is miraculously stopped by Remus cracking a lightstick right next to his ear. He giggles and then offers it to Roman. It’s bright pink, and has spikes on the top and the sides. After a moment, Roman takes it, hands shaking, and holds it in front of him.
“I think that one’s detergent flavored,” he adds, and Roman scrunches up his face in distaste.
“You need to stop putting weird shit in your mouth,” he grouses, and Remus cackles.
“That’s what he said,” he winks with both eyes, one first and then the other, and Virgil and Roman groan simultaneously.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Roman says, but he’s actually laughing a little bit, shoving at Remus when he tries to plant his feet on Roman’s lap, and then letting him do it anyway.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Remus tells him, plainly, and cracks another glow stick between his teeth. This one bleeds radioactive green and smells faintly of mint.
“Oh, what— You’re an idiot!”
Virgil sits back and lets the bickering wash over him. It’s like life has been breathed back into Roman, and he’s flushed and animated as he tries to duck out of reach from Remus’ wandering hands. Some of the cuts are closing without him realizing, and Virgil lets out a slow breath.
Then there’s a loud knock at the door and the three of them freeze in place, Remus pulling at Roman’s ears as he elbows his brother in the ribs. Thomas’ voice rings clear outside the door, and Virgil watches, resigned, as shame and guilt trickle back into Roman’s expression.
“Roman?” Comes Thomas’ voice, tentative and soft, and Roman visibly flinches. “I— hey, buddy, you there? I know it’s been a while, but— well, we’re kinda worried? And I don’t want to force you to do anything if you’re not ready, but…”
Roman is staring off into the door’s direction, hands clenched and mouth tight, and looks like he’s debating internally what to do. Virgil doesn’t think he should have to make that choice, and apparently neither does Remus, because the two of them jump up from the bed simultaneously. Roman startles and opens his mouth and Remus shoves another lightsick into it, red this time.
“Shh,” he stage-whispers, one finger in front of his mouth. “Let daddy and daddy do the talking.”
“Please never refer to you or me like that ever again,” Virgil says, and then they both make their way to the door. Remus slots himself into it, back against one side and feet diagonally across the threshold, and Virgil stands right in the middle. They share a look, Virgil trepidatious and Remus sharp and mischievous, and he opens the door.
Thomas is right there, hand mid-air to knock again. He’s still in pajamas and has a God-awful bedhead, and Virgil spares one fleeting thought for whatever dilemma had him up at 3 in the morning.
And of course, he’s not alone. Patton is glued to his side, wringing his hands together in consternation, with Logan a bit further behind. And there’s Deceit, next to Logan, face neutral and perfectly poised. Virgil grits his teeth.
Thomas blinks at the two of them.
“Oh.” His gaze switches from Remus’ lean across the door to Virgil’s tense posture. “I was expecting…?”
“As little Virgil said,” Remus grins, and then laughs when Virgil kicks him in the shin. “Roman is unavailable right now. Sorry! Try again later.” He smiles beatifically as Thomas narrows his eyes at him and Patton splutters.
“Virge,” he says, turning his big eyes on Virgil, and he crosses his arms. “What’s going on, kiddo? I— is Roman okay?”
Virgil flounders, sharing a glance with Remus, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Dreadfully convincing lie, Virgil,” Deceit drawls, and suddenly he’s much closer, slotted between Patton and Thomas. Virgil bites back bitterness at the ease in which he lets Patton reach for him, a split-second touch on his arm.
“Did you forget when I said it’s none of your fucking business?” Virgil bites out, and Remus wolf-whistles. Deceit’s mouth tightens, just a sliver, and Virgil feels a shameful twist of satisfaction at getting any reactions from him.
Thomas frowns at him, though.
“Virgil,” he starts, tone careful, like he’s talking to a spooked animal, and Virgil bristles. “Look, I— I know you two have some history. But maybe you could try being, um, a little more civil?” And oh, isn’t that rich. Virgil isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or throw up. He makes a little disbelieving sound.
“Maybe you should ask him about our history, ” he grits out. “And then you can tell me to be civil again.”
“I— guys, come on,” Patton intercedes, looking upset but with a determined set in his eyes. “We’re here for Roman.”
“Indeed,” says Logan, adjusting his glasses and discreetly trying to peer behind Virgil and Remus into the room. “It is becoming clear this is not a matter to be left alone.”
“That’s a funny new development,” Remus pipes up, and looks at Logan with sharp eyes. Logan purses his lips. “You all seemed very comfortable leaving it alone until now.”
"That's not true!" Says Patton, indignant. "We were just— giving him time. We all needed some time."
Remus hums, disbelieving, and makes a show of filing down his nails. He's using a long, vertical sander to do it.
"Remus," Deceit says, something indecipherable in his voice, and he looks at Remus like he's searching for something. Remus looks back, unflinching, and Virgil is struck by the bizarreness of it all. Deceit and Remus are not a piece set, but they’ve worked together for as long as Virgil can remember, and even when they’ve bickered it’s never been like this, with Remus’ startlingly clear vision digging into Deceit. Virgil and Remus against him.
“J,” Remus says, cheerful as ever, and does not budge. The corner of Deceit’s mouth grows tighter, and Virgil wonders.
“This is ridiculous,” Logan says, and takes a step forward. “I don’t understand what the two of you think you are accomplishing with this, but I ask that you reconsider and let us in.”
“Roman doesn’t want to talk to you, Specs,” Remus says, and stares Logan down, unblinking. Logan stares back, unimpressed.
“I would hear it from him,” he says, and takes another step forward. Remus uses the leverage he has to push himself up and stand on the doorway, in front of Virgil. He doesn’t budge. Virgil wonders fleetingly if this is going to end in a fistfight, and if he should let it happen or not. And then—
“Let them in,” comes a weak voice from inside, and everyone startles. Remus and Virgil turn to look at Roman, lying back on the bed. The sheets are rustled like he’s tried to get up and failed, and there’s something defeated and resigned in his eyes. When Remus and Virgil don’t move, he smiles a little. “There’s no point in delaying this any longer. Just— let’s get it over with.” He waves, a mockery of his typical grandiose gestures, and Virgil bounces in his heels, upset. He shares one last look with Remus, who doesn’t look happy either, but— there’s something pleading and tired in Roman’s expression, and he can’t say no.
“Don’t pull any shit,” he hisses at Deceit, and then steps back inside and in the blink of an eye is sitting next to Roman again, who jumps a bit.
“Dear Lord,” he says. “I always forget you can do that.”
“What— oh!”
“Oh, Roman.”
Virgil turns to see Thomas and Patton cross the room and crowd close, even as Roman lowers his gaze and seems to shrink into himself. Patton reaches out and cradles Roman’s cheek carefully, and Roman flinches. Patton looks heartbroken.
“Roman,” Thomas says, and places a hand on his knee, very slowly. “What happened?”
Roman can’t even hold his gaze. He drops his eyes down to his lap, where he’s bunching up the sheets in his hands, and tightens his lips.
“Merely an accident,” he says, and tries for a reassuring smile. No one needs Deceit to point it out as the lie it is.
And Deceit himself is standing behind Patton and Thomas, next to Logan, and for once he looks completely lost, wide-eyed and afraid. Roman flinches harder when he spots Logan and then him, and his tremulous smile dies down.
“Roman, darling,” Patton says, with such care that it makes Virgil’s throat close up. Roman shakes his head, and Patton turns his eyes to Virgil and then to Remus, questioning. Virgil clears his throat, and thinks well, it probably was time for an intervention. He hopes Roman doesn’t take it like a betrayal.
“We found him bleeding out in the Imagination, and it was all gone by the time we got there, but.” He shrugs. It’s not too hard to imagine what happened. Roman’s shoulders hunch even more.
“You and Remus found him?” Logan asks, head tilted.
“Virgil needed me to get there,” Remus chips in from his place back at Roman’s side, one arm looped around Roman’s. It’s weirdly protective.
“I asked for his help,” Virgil clarifies, and gets four blank looks in response, which— yeah, fair. “I— listen, I just noticed Roman wasn’t around, like, at all, and I broke into his room and he wasn’t there either—” (“You did what!” Roman squawks. Virgil’s face warms.) “I got worried.”
“And you asked Remus for help,” Logan says, and the unspoken and not us echoes in the room. Virgil crosses his arms and stares at him.
“Yeah, Logan,” he says, irritated. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t fucking talk anymore, seeing as you’re all— Deceit’s new best friends.” He hates the words right after they come out, hates how needy and jealous they sound, and hates himself for being so bitter. Logan blinks at him.
“Virgil,” Patton says, looking somehow even more heartbroken, and that’s just great, Virgil thinks, he’s managed to hurt almost everyone in the room in one fell swoop, without even trying.
“It doesn’t matter,” he tacks on. “I needed Remus to get me through his side of the Imagination, and then we found Roman, and the rest—” He gestures around and shrugs.
“Is history,” Deceit mumbles. He looks thoughtful.
“Roman, I’m so sorry,” Patton says, and his eyes are wet and big and sincere. “I didn’t realize— I thought you needed time to be alone, but I didn’t think to check—”
Roman is shaking his head, still not making eye contact.
“It’s not your fault, Patton,” he says, in that soft, mild tone that Virgil is starting to despise. “I— really, it is fine. It’s not a big deal. It won’t happen again, I’ll be better.” He looks at Thomas as he says the last sentence, and Thomas looks upset almost to the point of nausea.
“Princey,” Virgil cuts in, voice as soft as he can make it but still sharp. “Making up monsters so that you can get the shit beat out of you without fighting back isn’t okay.” Roman looks so ashamed to have it put into words. Virgil reaches for his hand, gently untangling his grip on the sheets, and laces their fingers togethers. “I know it’s— I know hurting yourself feels right in the moment, or like it’s what you deserve, but it’s not.” He clears his throat and squeezes Roman’s hand, terribly uncomfortable, but— he needs Roman to get it. His arms itch beneath his hoodie.
A few tears slide down Roman’s face and Patton swipes at them tenderly, cradling Roman’s face in both of his hands, and that’s what breaks him. Patton makes a soft, wounded noise and tugs him closer, careful of the wounds, carding a hand through his hair and letting him cry. Virgil stays put, cradling Roman’s hand in his own two, and he can see Remus leaning into Roman’s side, tucking his face in his neck. Thomas is rubbing his knee and making a comforting noise.
Logan and Deceit, meanwhile, are standing close to Virgil’s side of the bed, wide-eyed and clearly uncomfortable. Logan makes eye contact with Virgil and suddenly looks very, very tired.
“I didn’t realize,” he says quietly, and Virgil snorts without any mirth.
“None of us did,” he mumbles, rubbing circles into Roman’s palm. He looks at the circles underneath Logan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Logan. Before. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You were upset, and lashing out,” Logan says, his voice gaining back a bit of his usual confidence. “I do not hold it against you.”
Virgil has to clench his teeth in an urge not to cry. There’s already too many people crying in this room, Virgil can’t start making things about himself as always, but— God.
“You probably should, L,” he says, voice hoarse. “You should really hold a lot more shit against us.” Virgil startles as a hand lands on his shoulder, and Logan’s eyes are soft as he looks down at him.
“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I do not think I wish to. We all clearly have a lot to work on, but this is not one of the things that hurt me, Virgil.” He hesitates for a moment, and carefully cradles the back of Virgil’s neck. Virgil feels like he might cry, actually. “I believe this hurts you more than anyone else.”
And Virgil looks past his shoulder to look at Janus, who is clutching his hat in his hands and staring at Roman, not even listening to their conversation. His stomach twists in knots. He misses Janus, he admits to himself. Despite everything. He wants Janus to look at him with the warmth he offers Patton, the interest he displays at Logan. With the genuine passion he showed to Roman, back in the courtroom.
This is not the time for uncomfortable personal truths. That time is, preferably, never. So he ducks his gaze from Logan’s knowing eyes and turns back to Roman, who is pulling back from Patton’s shoulder and patting at his damp eyes.
“This is completely wrecking my complexion,” he jokes, voice wobbly, and Virgil snorts. “I, ah. Sorry about that, everyone.”
“None of that,” Patton says, very firm, and Thomas nods.
“Yeah, Roman, you don’t have to apologize for what you feel, buddy. We really haven’t been treating you right, and I really am sorry.” Roman shrugs, dismissive, and Thomas squeezes his knee. “I know an apology doesn’t fix all of it— hell, it may not fix any of it, but I swear to you I’ll do better. I wanna fix this, Roman.”
The clock ticks to five before Patton shepherds them all out of the room with a steady hand, because Thomas is swaying on his feet and Roman is having trouble keeping his eyes open. Remus stays, pressed next to Roman in the bed like he’s going to disappear if he doesn’t. Virgil doesn’t say anything about it, just gives him a small nod.
And then he’s standing outside, and the weight of everything that just happened is suddenly very heavy in his shoulders. He lets himself slide down the wall in the hallway until his legs meet the ground and he curls into himself, elbows on his knees. Is he gonna be okay? He hears Thomas in the background, and someone else says something reassuring. Virgil claps his hands over his ears, everything too much, too loud. His skin feels too tight.
He feels it as someone sits next to him, with enough space not to crowd him. Patton, probably, because he’s good like that. Or Logan, quiet and attentive in all the important ways. He takes a shuddery breath and focuses on counting, on keeping his mind blank, until he stops feeling like he’s going to crawl out of his skin.
Then he lifts his head from his hands and Janus is sitting right there, head tilted back against the wall, one leg bent underneath the other. He’s still holding his hat in one hand, and his hair is curly and soft without it. It’s the most relaxed Virgil has ever seen him, and it’s painfully deliberate. Virgil hates that it works.
Janus sighs as Virgil startles, pressing himself back against the wall. He tilts his head, scaled side turned towards Virgil, and looks at him through a half-lidded golden eye.
“I thought you were Patton,” Virgil says, for lack of anything else. The corner of Janus’ mouth quirks in a secretive little smile.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, airy, but Virgil sees the truth in it in the way he fidgets with the clasp on his cape. “Patton and Logan are working out some final things with Thomas, they should be back in any moment. It seemed… unwise to leave you alone.”
Virgil bristles.
“I’m fine,” he says, and Janus raises an eyebrow. Virgil scowls. “I can take care of myself, okay?”
“I would never imply otherwise,” Janus drawls, but there’s a slight softness in his eyes. “I really do mean it, Virgil. You have come very far.”
Virgil bites his tongue, and then thinks fuck it, might as well. Today can’t get much worse, as far as humiliating heart-to-hearts go.
“Then why not act like it?” He bunches up his hoodie in his hands, squeezing and releasing, letting the pressure ground him. “Why not just say it? Why all the backhanded comments, and keeping me on my toes?” He takes a shuddery breath and leans his chin in his arms. “It’s so hard to feel sure about anything around you.”
Janus’ mouth twitches downwards and he turns his hat in his hands.
“I thought you needed a push,” he says, reluctantly. “I thought— well, I told myself I was helping you become something else. What Thomas needed.” Janus looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Virgil wonders if being so truthful hurts him, or if it’s simply the vulnerability of the situation.
“You might have been right,” Virgil mumbles.
“Maybe,” Janus concedes. “But recently I have found myself wondering whether or not there could have been a different way.”
“Patton made you develop a moral compass, huh?” Virgil feels the corner of his mouth quirk, and Janus makes an offended face at him.
“I would never,” he says, hand in his chest, and Virgil notices he has his gloves off. Something blooms in his chest, seeing Janus bare himself as much as he can to offer an olive branch, in his own way. Virgil might as well try to return the favor.
“I—” The words get stuck in the back of his throat, and he bites the inside of his cheek, frustrated. Janus looks at him with poorly-veiled concern.
“Virgil, I know it will take time, if you’re willing to— rebuild bridges, if you will. You don’t have to say anything else.”
Virgil makes a frustrated noise, because now he decides to be considerate.
“No!” He blurts out and then flushes. Janus raises his eyebrows at him. “I— ugh. It’s fine, it’s not— I know I don’t have to, I just—” He shoves his face in his hands. “I missed you, okay?” His voice comes out muffled, and he braces himself for laughter, or mocking, but none of it comes. When he peeks back at Janus, he’s fully turned towards Virgil, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Virgil chews on his lip. “Even with everything, you— I don’t know, you were my— we were close,” he says, stumbles on the word friend, and feels his face heat under all the eyeshadow and foundation. “I miss you,” he says again.
“Virgil,” Janus says, soft as a breath, and Virgil is crying all of a sudden, ugly and embarrassing. Janus makes an alarmed sound and scoots closer until he’s kind of— hovering, hands raised above Virgil’s arms but not quite touching. Virgil lets out a wet laugh.
“You’re really bad at this,” he hiccups, and Janus frowns at him, even though the worry doesn’t leave his face.
“Well, excuse me for not being perfectly versed in dealing with crying people,” he grouches, and tentatively sets a hand on Virgil’s arm. “Are you— should I get Patton?” He frets. Virgil chokes back another laugh even as he shakes his head no.
Janus looks completely out of his depth, and Virgil almost feels bad for leaving him floundering like this, except that all of a sudden it’s all crashing down on him and he has to focus to breathe, trying to choke back the tears.
“S-sorry,” he manages to get out. “I’ll be fine, just—” He waves a hand a bit, hoping Janus takes the hit and fucks off.
Instead, Janus gets this weirdly determined look on his face, and all of a sudden Virgil is being held.
It’s a little uncomfortable, because Janus is awkward and stiff even as he wraps his arms around Virgil. And even though he’s cold to the touch, the contact sends sparks all over Virgil’s body. Virgil makes a very embarrassing squeaking sound and then melts, dropping his face into Janus’ shoulder at the same time he falls back so that Janus is pressed even closer, practically sitting on top of him.
“Shh,” Janus soothes, voice stilted but warm. “I have you.” He runs a hand through Virgil’s hair and Virgil shudders and clutches harder at him. And it’s like the floodgates are open, or Virgil’s brain-to-mouth filter is shot to hell, because—
“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” he whispers into the crook of Janus’ neck, stuttering over the words. “I mean, I get it, it’s me, but—” He takes a shuddery breath and hiccups again, and feels Janus’ hand on his back tighten.
Janus pulls back a bit and Virgil can’t quite stifle a whine, but all he does is lean back enough so that he can look at Virgil, eyes intense and searching. He cups Virgil’s face with one cool hand and Virgil shivers, leaning into the touch.
“Virgil,” Janus whispers, and brushes his thumb over his cheekbone. “There’s no world where I wouldn’t want you.” His eyes are glinting, and Virgil can’t handle the eye contact, so he closes his eyes and lets Janus press their foreheads together. Virgil breathes, in-and-out, slowly matching their breathing. Janus keeps a hand on his cheek and the other tangled in his hair, and it’s so much contact after so long of so little that Virgil feels overwhelmed. He never wants it to stop.
Eventually Janus pulls back, though, and Virgil lets him go without protest, even as he curls his nails into his palms to keep himself from reaching back. Janus doesn’t go very far, though, only leans back and sits himself more comfortably in what is basically Virgil’s lap— and if that thought doesn’t make his face warm— and yawns. Virgil snorts and then grins at Janus’ disgruntled look.
“Past your bedtime, huh?”
“It’s well past anyone’s bedtime,” Janus grumbles, and rubs at his eyes. He looks very sleepy now with some of his walls down, soft and vulnerable in Virgil’s hold, and Virgil wants to reach out and covet him.
“Hey, are you two still up— oh!”
Virgil startles, and so does Janus, both tensing until they make out Patton’s shape in the hallway, Logan trailing behind. Virgil relaxes, safe running through his mind, until his brain registers the teasing in Patton’s smile and the pink flushing Janus’ human side and he thinks ah shit.
“So I see you’ve both worked out your differences,” Patton says, barely biting back a grin, and then honest-to-God winks at Virgil. Or at Janus. He can’t tell. Janus is taut as a string, but still has a hand perched on Virgil’s shoulder.
“A little,” Virgil rasps out, and winces at how rough his voice is. Patton’s expression melts into concern like snow in a sunny day. “Don’t make that face, Patton, I’m— fine.” Patton crosses his arms and gives him his patented I Know You’re Bullshitting stare. Virgil sighs. “I am, really, I— Janus helped me out.” He mumbles the last part, and pretends like he doesn’t see the delight that blooms in Patton’s face, the pleased shock in Janus’ expression at hearing Virgil say his name.
Patton bounces on his heels, clearly biting back his delight, and claps twice.
“It is pleasing to see you two closer,” Logan pipes up from behind Patton, and Virgil can feel the blush crawl back up his face.
“You don’t have to say it,” he mumbles, and ignores Janus’ rumbling laugh as he gets up and offers Virgil a bare hand to pull him up. Logan gives him the rise of an eyebrow, but Virgil doesn’t miss the pleased tilt of his mouth.
“I am simply stating facts,” he says. Janus gives him a half-lidded look, steps next to him and adjusts his slightly crooked tie with deft fingers. Logan’s mouth closes with a click.
“Sure you are,” Janus smirks as Patton laughs at the look on Logan’s face. His ears are tinged pink.
“Come on,” Patton says, and loops an arm through Janus’ own, tugging him closer. “I know if we all go to our rooms no one will get any sleep, so we’re going to have a sleepover and pile up on the couch.” He raises a finger to Logan as he opens his mouth. “And you’re gonna like it.” Logan closes his mouth again, looking bemused. Virgil snorts under his breath.
Maybe it will really be fine, he thinks for once, and lets Patton curl a hand around his own.