Work Text:
At this point, Virgil was pretty sure college students were incapable of having good days. As soon as you graduate high school, something sucks up all your delusions of adulthood, and you’re shoved into the “real world” with absolutely no prep. Well… if that were true Virgil would have had good days in high school. Has he ever actually had a good day? Were there any good days left for him? Did he even know what a “good day” was? There had to be days better than this, this could not be the peak of his good days. Oh God, what if it was?
He still had a class left before he could go back to the dorms for the night. He usually didn’t mind psychology, he’d chosen to take it for a reason, but the building was so far from where he was in Fine Arts and he was dreading the walk. Going from class to class was more exercise than any gym could boast. It was times like this he wished he had a car, not that anyone drove much on campus, but of those who did he was jealous. Florida’s winter heat stuck to his skin, lapping away any ounce of sanity he had left, as he trudged down Museum Road in an anxious spiral. He really shouldn’t be driving right now anyway, it was a wonder he made it to the psych building at all.
Virgil considered himself immensely lucky that today was a lecture; he didn’t think he could handle the social interaction that came with a seminar. The only person in his psych course that he knew was an old high school “friend.” He and Janus had gotten closer, misunderstandings were talked through and certain things were forgiven, but their conversation outside of the group was still brittle. Thankfully, Virgil had arrived just shy of tardy, and most of the seats in the hall were already taken. Janus was sitting in the back, as always, and he was chatting with someone next to him. He didn’t seem to notice Virgil walk in.
The professor entered the hall, stepping up to the lectern and switching on the projector, just as Virgil had slumped into an empty seat. The psychology professor wasn’t too bad, and she was infinitely better than the obnoxious grad student who ran the labs. She answered questions as well and as often as she could, she didn’t assign copious amounts of work, and Virgil couldn’t find many faults in her speech patterns, she was easy to understand. Nonetheless she was too chipper for his anxious brain at the moment, and as much as he enjoyed her class, Virgil tuned out most of it that day. It wasn’t like Freud was particularly good for one’s mental health anyway.
Every once in a while, Virgil glanced up at Janus, who was sitting attentively in his seat. The half of his face speckled with vitiligo was difficult to see in the shadows of the hall’s high ceilings. Even after all this time, and all the talks they’ve had, the foreboding presence of his high school “friend” prickled the hairs at the back of his neck. The day’s anxiety stuck in his throat like peanut butter, catching the air as he tried to breathe. Janus caught his eye and smiled at him. Like a light switch, Virgil felt like all the eyes of everyone in the room flicked to him, scanning his face and searching his soul, picking apart all the things that were wrong with him. Suddenly he was grateful for Janus’ hazel eye on his, the only speck of familiarity in the room.
The ninety minutes trickled by like molasses over potatoes, and the crowded room did nothing to calm his nerves. His skin was pimpled with goosebumps, his nails bit into the palms of his hands, and more than once Janus looked down at him with pinched eyebrows. When the professor clapped her hands, grinning as she clicked off the projector, and dismissed the class, Virgil hurried to stuff his laptop in his bag. The empty Google Doc had taunted him throughout, and he was more than happy to slam the computer shut and get the Hell out of there. Before he could do so however, Janus approached his desk.
His eyepatch caught the light, smooth, silver stitches shimmering in the lecture hall’s fluorescents. He was horrible, and beautiful, and as much as Virgil loathed having a conversation right now, the concerned spark in his eye that he’d grown so accustomed to was a comfort in his endless sea of angst and edge. He sighed and dropped his bag to the floor. Janus glanced at it.
“I’m sure that was good for your laptop,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Oh yes, I would never approach you without expectation. How could I possibly be concerned about your wellbeing?”
“You’re a dick.”
He sighed, and picked up Virgil’s bag, handing it back to him. Something shown through his many masks, like skin under tights, something sincere that made guilt begin bubbling in Virgil’s gut.
“Did something happen?”
“Just a bad day,” Virgil said, wanting desperately to leave. But Janus would never satisfy with something so vague. He tilted his head, and squinted his eye. It felt like needles under Virgil’s skin. “Seriously, that’s all it was. Not everything is an elaborate scheme.”
The sincerity twinged with hurt, and the translucent masks solidified.
“Fine then, kill a guy for being worried,” and he walked away.
Virgil finally escaped the hall, fresh air doing nothing to assuage his anxiety or guilt. It was tepid outside, at best. Maybe sixty something degrees? It made no difference, it was way too warm for November. He could barely stand it, walking in an anxious sweat all day, overcast humidity making it worse, and yet every wind that blew over his neck chilled him. Cold and hot at the same time, and just when he thought something was impossible. There was an obnoxious ringing in the back of his head that said, “Six impossible things before breakfast,” and he was inclined to believe it. Because how could it be possible to feel this bad when nothing had even happened to you? By all intents and purposes, the day had been perfect! The weather was decent for once, he only had two classes, the winter holidays were coming up… Nothing had happened that should warrant Virgil’s Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad day.
And yet.
It would have made more sense to go back to his dorm. It was significantly closer, and he could take a shower, change his clothes there. He wouldn’t have to move for the rest of the day if he went back to the dorms. But the thought of Patton’s face, worried like Janus had been, then hurt the same way because God forbid Virgil deal with his shit healthily, made him neasus. Not to mention that the idea of being stuck in a Florida dorm room for the rest of his day sounded like actual Hell. If he went back there, he wouldn’t be able to make himself leave. Fuck. He was going to throw up.
No he wasn’t. That wasn’t vomit in his throat, it was panic. He couldn’t go back, if he did he’d be trapped in a sticky, sweaty boys’ dormitory for the rest of his life. He’d never leave this stupid school, or this stupid state, he’d be stuck here with ultra-successful business students, all moving on and up in life, while he was in this Godforsaken dorm that stank of mildew and failure. He would never make it out. He couldn’t go there, where he’d longed to get back to since he left that morning, he could not. So he didn’t.
Fuck the twelve extra minutes it took, he sprinted past Pascal’s, where people no doubt saw him and thought he was crazy, all the way to the Third Avenue apartments. Mashing his fingers into the buzzer over and over again, he prayed that whatever entity had cursed him forgot about this hiding place, and that Roman opened the door instead of his brother. It was red knit that met his face when he was answered, he saw the vibrant colour and immediately fell into it. He was caught around his shoulders, Roman heaved in surprise when they collided, and he walked him inside the apartment, kicking the door closed behind them. Virgil wrapped his arms around Roman’s torso as he did this, and didn’t let go even once they were on the couch.
The twins’ apartment always smelled like spices: cumin, chilis, and cinnamon. Primarily cinnamon. It was Roman, mostly, that smelled like cinnamon. Virgil took a deep inhale from his chest, forehead resting between his pecs, just under his collar bone. A hand was on the back of his head, blunt fingertips scratching at his scalp, and he could feel the grease in his own, damaged hair. Roman’s body shook against him when he laughed.
“You need a shower, Virge.”
Virgil laughed too. If he didn’t laugh, he would cry, and he really didn’t want to cry right now.
“Yeah, I know, sorry,” he said, not crying. Roman squeezed his shoulders. He ran his fingers through his greasy, damaged hair.
“Why don’t you go take one? There should be a clean towel in there.”
He nodded into his chest. They stood up together and walked to the bathroom. Roman’s hand left his hair to turn the door knob. Grease smeared from it onto the metal, or maybe that was Virgil’s imagination. He’d made a habit of exaggerating.
You could tell which items in the bathroom were Roman’s, and which were Remus’. You could also tell that without Roman, the place would be absolutely trashed. Remus’ toothbrush was frayed to all Hell, there was dried toothpaste smeared on the cup that held it, and his towel had mysterious stains that hadn’t come out in the wash. Besides one bottle in the shower, everything else was Roman’s: makeup, hair, and skin care neat on the counter, nice bar of soap on the sink, pristine white towel on the rack. Inside the shower, Virgil knew, were at least three bottles and another bar of soap.
“Don’t use Remus’ shampoo, you might get an infection,” Roman said, “Otherwise, it’s all yours.” He squeezed Virgil’s arm, before leaving with a soft smile thrown over his shoulder.
Remus’ shampoo, he saw once he stepped into the shower, was actually a three-in-one with its lid broken off. The “soap” congealed around the snapped rim, in a way that could only be described as “as if someone had used the bottle as a fleshlight, and neglected to… wash it out,” and Virgil feared the probability of that situation. He didn’t touch it.
The water was hot, and Roman’s soaps smelled like mint and rosemary. Virgil could feel the day’s, week’s, month’s grime being scrubbed away. When was the last time he took a shower? Not since their last visit home, he guessed. The dorm bathrooms were Hell, and he didn’t need strangers seeing him so vulnerable (especially when he loathed the display so much himself). But the water rinsing down his legs was grey, and he could see dead skin catching in rolls against the hair there. He leaned his forehead against the wall, and let the water burn his back red. He breathed in the steamy air. He cried.
Virgil was in the bathroom far longer than he should have been, struggling over a stupid decision. He didn’t want to put his clothes back on. If he did, all the weight that he’d just washed off would be back on his shoulders. His clothes stank of anxiety and failure. Putting them on would make him dirty again, and he’d just showered. He sat on the closed toilet, head in his hands, and tried to reason with himself. This was stupid. Not putting his clothes on just wasn’t an option, unless he wanted to spend eternity in the Prince twins’ bathroom, which he didn’t. If Roman weren’t in the next room to hear him, he would have yelled in frustration.
Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. He wrapped himself in a clean towel from the cabinet, and did something stupid. Roman was in the living room/kitchen, sitting on the couch, Rent playing on the TV. He was humming Light My Candle, harmonising with Rosario Dawson as she taunted Adam Pascal. He hadn’t noticed the open bathroom door. So Virgil snuck into the room across the hallway. One hundred and one Disney posters, five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred playbills, plastered on an accent wall. On some of them, sticky notes with tally marks and character names. The shows Roman had acted in, and the roles he played. Virgil’s eyes caught on a few names; JD, Beast, Rapunzel’s Prince, and Angel stood out to him. Personal favourites of his, shows where he saw Roman truly transform on the stage.
From the cracked door, Today 4 U started playing faintly. He had to hurry. Under the mass of cardstock and wall tack, Virgil pulled a pair of sweatpants from the dresser. They would be too big, but he didn’t care. They smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent, they were clean and light and Roman’s. He pulled them on, and thanked God that the closet door was open already. The last thing his overattentive brain needed right now was the screech of shitty metal hinges. He yanked a t-shirt, University of Florida Theatre Troupe, from a hanger. Then back in the bathroom, he balled his dirty clothes to shove into his bag. Finally, finally, he walked to the living room, just as Mark left to fix Maureen’s sound equipment.
“I was starting to think you drowned,” Roman said, without looking up from the TV, “C’mon, you’ll miss the best song.”
“Really? The Tango Maureen is your favourite?” Virgil shoved his dirty clothes into his bag. He skirted the back of the couch, avoiding eyeshot as much as he could.
“I said ‘the best,’ not ‘my favourite.’ Two very different things.”
“Right, my mistake.” Okay Virgil, enough procrastinating. He sat down on the couch, a perfectly platonic distance from Roman, who finally turned to look at him. A surprised smile lifted his face, crinkling his eyes and softening his brows. He beckoned with one hand for Virgil to scoot closer. He did so. “Clingy much?”
Roman laughed, “Yes, because I’m the one who immediately hugged me as soon as they got here.”
His chest was warm and sturdy. Virgil would deny that he clung until the day he died, but Roman could definitely feel the way his hands twisted the fabric against his back in a tight grip. It had been a long, long day. “ The samples won’t delay, but the cabels- ” From where his head was tucked under his chin, Virgil could feel Roman humming along. The rise and fall of his chest underneath him, and the steady buzz of his throat soothed the torrent of anxiety that had built up throughout the day. Finally, Virgil began to relax.
A hand settled at the back of his head, and fingers combed through his newly washed hair. The movement wafted a lingering scent of Roman’s conditioner, and spicy cinnamon mingled with it from where Virgil’s nose was buried in his sweater. He inhaled deeply, letting familiar smells and comforting songs loosen the knots tied around his lungs. The hand in his hair scratched bluntly at his neck, and detangled anything he missed in the shower. Roman’s nails were perfectly manicured, trimmed and filed, unable to hurt if they tried. Fingers began to massage his scalp. If Virgil were a cat, he would have purred.
“This is weird. It’s weird. Very weird. Fuckin’ weird,” trailed off as Roman lowered the volume. The faint murmurings of Anthony Rapp and Tracy Thoms eased the room into a soft sense of security. Roman’s hand migrated to his cheek.
“About what happened earlier, are you okay? You seemed really out of it.”
Virgil sighed. He knew this conversation was coming, and after calming down, he wasn’t entirely adverse to having it. But Roman’s thumb, slowly rubbing his jaw, made it difficult to concentrate. He kept his eyes focused on the TV.
“I’m fine, Princey. Just had a shitty day.”
He felt an arm snake around his waist, and gently squeeze. Roman, above him, turned so his cheek was resting in his hair. The pressure was grounding.
“That sucks. Are you feeling any better now, Seasons of Angst?”
Virgil glanced down at the hand on his hip, and took it, twining their fingers together. He leaned heavily on Roman’s chest, and watched the movie through his eyelashes, exhaustion slowly creeping in. The soft knit sweater was kind against his face, and smells of comfort surrounded him. He squeezed Roman’s hand. Roman squeezed back.
“Yeah, I am.”