Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello!!! I thought I'd throw an idea out there :3 So I absolutely love god aus, but obviously you don't have to do that, just a thought, I'm just thinking of Janus or Virgil suffering in some way and Roman doing something to protect them, since they're always the ones comforting him? Might be fun to switch it up If you do decide to do this have fun! If not no worries :3 :3 – anon

It's the same as it always is. Candles knocked over and his books scattered on the floor. At least they didn't rip any pages out this time.

Virgil sighs, crouching down. He sets his basket on the ground and focuses on making sure none of the pages have creased beyond repair. A few of the books landed on their splayed pages and he winces at the marring of the fading ink, but for the most part, everything looks to be intact. He gathers them to his chest and begins to rearrange them on the small plinth, careful to keep the covers turned toward the flames to reduce the risk of fire. When the books have been arranged just so, he picks up the candles too and reaches into his pocket for his flint and steel.

Out of the many shrines in the city, it's always the ones down at this end that constantly get ruined. Possibly because it's closest to the busy end of the alley, more likely because these gods do not carry the worship of the state. These are the ones that have smaller sects, no grand churches or temples or holy sites, and so they are the ones that require more constant upkeep. Virgil doesn't mind. He has an agreement with some of the people that worship the gods at neighboring shrines. He lets them know when the altar's been ruined, they let him know when his has been. Granted, he's not the only worshiper around here, but he is the most predictable.

At some point, he'll sit back and wonder why it is that this one is the one that seems to be destroyed most often, but that's something he can wonder when his fresh food from the market is not in danger of being swiped by cunning little mouths.

2.

He gets word that the statue on the cliffside had been defaced, and he packs a small bag to take with him. The path is lined with old rocks laden with moss and cracks. Small flowers take root and grow along the edge of the stone steps. At the top of the cliff overlooking the water, there is a circle of stones around the statue. Virgil winces at the crude glyphs painted over the statue's face, hands, and the book it holds aloft.

He sets down his bag and fetches the rag and water. The types of soap he would typically use to clean this are too harsh for the old limestone, and even the water he tries to use sparingly so he won't damage the statue's features. Wind and rain have worn away the details, leaving only the vague outline of a mouth, open in speech, a nose, and kind eyes watching the story weave itself together. As he works, he can help glancing behind himself every so often.

Was this a place where stories were told often? Was it only for special occasions?

Is there a more special occasion than being alive?

The words drift back to him and he smiles, turning his attention back to the statue. As he works, he tells the little stories of being alive. About the cats that run through the alley, begging for scraps. About the new merchants that have come to sell their jewelry and all the other stalls had seen fewer customers that day. About the new recipe his friend had tried and how good it had tasted. Small stories. Short stories. Stories that make up the patchwork of a life.

He wonders if that was the sort of story that would make it into any book, no matter how insignificant. He cleans the statue's hands and wonders if it would be willing to hold such a book.

3.

These were originally sung.

Virgil turns the page in the old book and squints at the faded words. It had been a chance find by an old friend, a book from ages long past that only Virgil had wanted in the end, for he was the only one who could recognize the god's name. He'd taken the fragile thing home wrapped in a cloth and thin string of twine, unwrapping it carefully by his own tiny shrine and reading by the light of the candle. There were words he didn't recognize, words he had no idea how to pronounce, and stories woven in tongues he could never hope to understand.

You could say, then, he was shocked when the thought that they were to be sung occurred to him.

What for? They didn't match any meter or pattern of any song he recognized, nor did he have any inclination as to what the tune was supposed to be. And even if he did, that was no guarantee he'd be able to sing it. No one had ever had the courage to say he was very musically inclined, let alone be able to sing songs of a god that had not been breathed since the book was last opened.

Still, now that the thought's occurred to him, it's almost impossible to get out of his head. So, he starts humming. No melody, not really a rhythm either, just reading the book and letting it decide when he should change notes. He just reads and hums and does his best to let them wash over him. Even if he can't understand it, maybe he can feel what it might have been like to hear them sung.

The candles flicker a little as the sun sets. The book doesn't look as though it's any different, but slowly it occurs to Virgil that he shouldn't be able to see as well in this level of light as he had when the sun was still out. He glances at the candles, then back at the book, and turns the page. Sure enough, the words stand out as easily as they ever have…in fact, they might be a little bit clearer.

He continues humming with a smile on his face.

4.

'Your god should be your focus, your life, your purpose. You should devote your life to theirs, as they have spent their existence to ensure you have yours.'

A lot of people like to talk about their gods like that. There is one house of worship that Virgil journeys past every moon devoted to a dark god—he's not exactly sure what the god's powers are, nor what domain he represents, all he knows are the black tentacle-like tattoos the acolytes wear and the fact that the god, apparently, prefers blondes. Every time he passes, he sees one of the priestesses surveying the courtyard—as if she were its ruler, not the god the temple was devoted to, but her— and the way she looks at him makes him hold his cloak a little tighter around his body. As though he were doing something wrong by not wearing his worship of his god on his skin as brazenly as they did.

Others talk about their gods. All the time. Every sentence, every little thing that happens, is because of their god. The rain, the sun, the harvest, the storm, the way their neighbor smiled at them this morning, the way a bird came and landed on their roof last night. Everything was attributed to some divine message, leaving no room for the quietness of life to breathe. Virgil feels exhausted just imagining that—what would be the point of being so controlling if you didn't have the time to breathe and enjoy the security of it?

And then there were those that thought he didn't worship. Not that they frowned upon him for it, but sometimes the way they talked…as though he couldn't understand what it was like to believe in a higher power. As though he didn't have the discipline to worship, as though he didn't have the faith. As though the shrine in his house didn't exist, as if the hours he spent writing his own story in a leather-bound notebook he'd saved every coin for wasn't worth it, as though he didn't believe.

But his worship isn't for them. It's for him, and his god, and that was enough. And if he arrived home to find a small pot of ink when he'd thought he'd run out yesterday, well, that was between him and his desk drawer.

5.

The thing about stories is that they're meant to be shared. Virgil is many things, but a man with a large group of friends, he is not.

In some ways, he is content not to share his worship. There's something unique, he's found, in storytelling. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of stories they read, or the types of stories they tell. Even if you don't believe so at first, over time, if you hear enough of them, you get to know that person quite well. Virgil is not keen on being so known, not by the sorts of people that he would share this worship with. Because they wouldn't understand, he tells himself, or it wouldn't be fair. He would have to show them how it feels by lying himself bare, with no hope of whether they would understand and do the same.

But sometimes, sometimes he gets…lonely.

His home is small. Humble. His bed has just enough room for his clothes in a trunk underneath. His kitchen is barely more than a stove and a small set of cabinets. He has a tiny desk, crammed into the space under his shrine. He has a few things on the walls, one old bundle of cloth wrapped around his traveling gear in the corner by the firewood. On cold nights, he sleeps right by the fire, and even then, he doesn't feel warm enough.

In the pages of the books, he reads about the importance of companionship. That nights are cold and colder alone, that we were made to warm each other and there is no other warmth quite like it. Sometimes he curls up with one of them, just to read about it and imagine it. He thinks that might be his most poignant worship: a strange yearning, a longing that worries itself into his bones and makes him ache tenderly. His is not a god that values pain and suffering, but he thinks his god might have a soft spot for wanting.

He does not doubt, but he would like to see for himself. Just once.

+1.

There is a man outside his door.

He opens it, a little stunned. Partly because there is no reason for someone to show up as his door unannounced, and partly because this stranger is sublime.

He invites the stranger in, belatedly, and sheepishly offers to cook. It's around that time of day anyways, and he has a little extra of the nice meat from the butcher because he did them a favor last week. The stranger smiles, thanks him, asks if Virgil needs help. Virgil shakes his head and offers the good chair, the one that doesn't creak when you sit on it, and carefully pours a cup of mead too. The stranger takes it and thanks him again.

Virgil tries to keep himself focused on the cooking, but he can't help glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to see what the stranger does. He spends a fair amount of time looking around, at the fireplace, at Virgil's desk, at the shrine, but mostly, he's watching Virgil. To the point where Virgil just starts talking, just so that it makes a little more sense as to why he's being looked at so by someone so… so.

The stranger listens perfectly. Laughs in the right places, hums in the right places, asks questions and offers comments when Virgil pauses for breath. Virgil asks questions of his own, and receives vaguer answers, more cryptic answers, though all delivered with some secret smile like there's a joke the two of them share. When the food has been eaten, Virgil expects the stranger to tell him who he is, or what he's doing here, but nothing comes. Instead, the stranger helps him clean up, and when Virgil says that it's alright, he's capable of doing it, please, make yourself comfortable, wanders toward the shrine. No small lump appears in Virgil's throat as the stranger reaches out to take one of the books.

Do you know, I think you're the only one who tried to sing them.

And Virgil…stares. Because no one should know that. No one does know that. The only way this stranger could know that is if…if…

His eyes widen. The stranger looks at him with a soft smile, and then the book is set down and Virgil's suddenly backed against the wall with that soft smile so, so close.

Oh, God.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like music.

For you, Virgil, you can call me Roman.

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Okay but the idea of mismatched pairs on the surface but actually fitting pairs when you look deeper in the worship universe is making me unwell. Patton or logan worshiping remus(possibly privately for whatever reason) is now stuck in my mind. – anon

It’s funny cause I was thinking about requesting a fic with Roman being flirty, but life stuff happened and I kept forgetting. Then you posted “Worship” lol. I loved it! And the ending especially got me excited. I was wondering if you would be keen on writing another chapter? With more of the, as you put it, “weird flirting between god and mortal but roman’s definitely flirting” lol. Plus some hurt/comfort (you are so amazing at writing it). Idk if you were already planning on continuing it eventually, but I wanted to request just in case. No pressure though ofc. – anon

Ok so I know it's not even been a week but I absolutely LOVED worship so much, the worldbuilding was so much fun and if you're interested in writing more I'd love to see more of how Roman and Virgil would interact with each other? 👀 Maybe with Virgil getting hurt by one of the vandals while trying to clean up a shrine and Roman coming to his aid or something like that? Whatever you think would be interesting xndjkdkd – anon

He comes back from fixing the shrine and forgets that there is someone else in his house. He stumbles, stutters, still unsure of how to properly address his god, the god who closes his cabinet and smiles at him, before his gaze lands on Virgil's scraped hands. His expression promptly falls to something akin to annoyance and Virgil is quick to hide his hands behind his back.

Any apologies or placation he might attempt to make are cut off by a quiet but firm instruction to sit on the chair. He sits, because his god commands and he obeys, but the hunch of his shoulders does not prevent him from seeing the slight twitch in the brow as his god turns back to his cabinets.

He's forced to crane his neck back when his god takes a seat in front of him, on the table, no less, one leg propped up to make another table of his thigh. He holds his hand out and Virgil places his own battered hand there as if in offering, only for his eyes to widen as a damp cloth—a warm damp cloth begins to clean the blood and gravel from his scrape. Any protest is shushed with something that could be fondness as he's treated with a quiet care that takes his breath away. He goes to clench his other fist to relieve some of the akin tension building up in his chest, only to remember that yes, that one is scraped too.

Be still, his god murmurs, it's alright. This will not hurt for much longer.

Virgil doesn't know what to say, so he settles for a deep nod and tries to hold as still as possible. His god hums, thumb idly stroking the uninjured part of Virgil's hand.

Will you tell me what happened?

A story. He pays tribute to his god with stories. He is no wordsmith, but he has practice being honest—although it is one thing to write in the safety of a notebook and another to speak such words aloud, but this is his god. Who better to speak to?

And so he tells him of the shrine, of the alley, of his habit of walking through just to see if it needs to be fixed, and of not dodging quickly enough to avoid the wagon and falling on the rough part of the street. His god listens, a touch of irritation still in his brow, until Virgil beings to apologize for letting the shrine get ruined and he shakes his head.

I am not angry that my shrine was ruined, he says softly, I am upset that you were hurt.

2.

One of the first things he had worried about was how much his god knew.

Surely it was one thing to write down his worship, another to practice reading in front of the shrine, but the thoughts—the thoughts he was having, surely—surely—

His god was not a god of thought crime, he knows. He has spent many a horrified evening pondering over the practices of some of the other gods, terrified of what it would be like to have to police one's thoughts so closely when there was nothing that could be done because a mind would think the way water would flow, but still, he worries.

His god had caught him slamming his notebook shut with a guilty expression and caught him by the hand too, softly asking what ails him in such a gentle way that it had made him tremble. He had stammered out something about not knowing how to do this, how to navigate his relationship with his god and his relationship with his god, when his god had chuckled and shaken his head.

I hear the stories you wish to tell me, he had said, nothing more, nothing less. Yes, those stories are not always just the ones you write or the ones you read, but your thoughts are your own, Virgil. I would not take what you would not willingly give.

And that had assuaged him somewhat, because it was difficult enough to deal with someone else in his home, let alone a sublime someone else, let alone a sublime someone else who was also his god.

But there are moments when Virgil cannot help the way he looks at him, how his god talks to him, how he touches him softly and says things like I am upset that you were hurt, and he cannot help it. He cannot help the way he feels or the sort of story he wishes his god would help him write, but he knows that is not how this works.

He does not notice the way his god looks at him too.

3.

Do you wish you had more worshipers?

The question comes out before Virgil has a chance to consider whether or not it might be rude, but his god does not seem to take offense to it. Rather, he laughs and runs his hand through Virgil's hair, warmed by the late afternoon sun as the breeze blows it the wrong way.

I have my people, I am content with that.

Worship, his god tells him, is not so simple as filling a vessel with water until it laps at the rim. Worship is complicated, something he couldn't understand even if his god were the most accomplished wordsmith in the cosmos. Worship comes in many forms, many shades, and is not so easily broken down into individual people. There are some gods that do rely on large groups of worshipers, he says, but those gods are often vast and infinitely complex within themselves. Other gods require very specific forms of worship and can only be reached by one type of devotion.

I'm not a fan of those, his god admits, they tend to…worry me.

Do you talk about this?

His god laughs. Not with them.

But gods like him, his god says, are content with little ways of belief. Faith is not something that comes naturally, and neither is hope. Neither is compassion, neither is kindness. All are skills that can be practiced, honed, chosen, and there is more power in choice than there is in blind allegiance. For gods such as him, there is no limit on what worship is or is not enough.

Besides, his god says, carding his hand through Virgil's hair once more, you clearly do not know what your worship feels like, if you worry about me not having enough.

4.

His god has a brother.

He spends a good few moments trying to figure out whether that means he has to start worshiping him too, before remembering that isn't how that works, and then he just waits to hear what his god will say next.

It had started with a conversation about the other gods in the city. Well, no, perhaps it had started with his question about more worshipers, when his god had asked him quietly if he felt as though he were alone. HE had said no, his worship was his to practice, and his god had smiled as if pleased by some secret thing. And then he had asked if his god was alone, and, well…

So. A brother.

A Chaos God, his god had said. A god that thrives on the raw creative potential of the cosmos, a god that inspires change. Change as the language of Time, as the language of Life, as the language of Existence Itself. There were many types of worship for such a god, some benevolent, some…less so.

Virgil knows a little bit about that. There are not many dark gods in the city, but that does not mean there are none. The dark god with the tattooed acolytes comes to mind, of the young girl with the red hair that had mysteriously vanished near his temple and had never been seen again. He worries for a moment if this brother is another of the dark gods here, but then there is a hand on his arm.

My brother does not follow the same codes of morality that mortals do, he says quietly, so do not trouble yourself with trying to puzzle them out.

He accepts it as an answer, the same way he can read a story with a character who is not a good person, but a good character, and listens to his god talk.

He wonders if this is the first time someone has thought to ask about it.

5.

It's a bad habit.

He is sure his god would come up with a better way to say it, or at least some way that would make it sound a little less unhealthy, but there is something pleasant about reading a painful story. Stories are meant to be vehicles to emotion, to experience, to life, and there is no part of life that is entirely without pain. And Virgil never intends to read stories that are only pain, no, but the pain…the pain is a part of it.

It is the feeling of walking home through the freezing rain and the rush of relief of stepping inside his warm, dry house. It is the ache of falling over with a bruise and coming back to treat it tenderly with a cool cloth. It is the tug in his chest as he cries and the breath of relief when it is over. It is the push and pull of being alive and there is something wonderful about it, but there is also something cold that he can never quite shake, even when he decides enough is enough.

But he has forgotten that he is no longer alone.

His god is not there when he arrives home, and so he forgets, but when he has finished reading his painful story and begins to make ready for sleep, his door opens and suddenly there is his god, looking at him with such a soft expression that he has no idea what to do. Especially not when there are warm hands cupping his cheeks, a gentle voice in his ear, and then the softness of his bed against his back.

You should have told me, his god whispers, I would have come sooner.

He stammers, mumbles, he does not know why his god feels this way.

You are hurting.

I—I did that on purpose.

His god looks at him, then, and he knows he does not need to explain his painful story habit to his god, but then his god is leaning down and wrapping his arms around him as though he intended to become another blanket and breathing soft words in his ear.

I wish you had told me, I would have been here to soothe the hurt once it had run its course. You do not need to suffer in the name of a story, Virgil.

+1.

Virgil wakes and believes he's still dreaming. Because there are fingers toying gently with the hair at the nape of his neck, lips dragging softly over the warm skin of his forehead, and a low hum in his ears. He sinks into it, wondering what sort of dream this will be, a soft noise leaving his throat. A thumb brushes over his cheek and a pair of lips follow it, lingering on the sensitive spot just below his eye.

Easy, a voice whispers as he lets out another noise, easy…I have you.

He…recognizes that voice. He cracks his eyes open only to startle at the sight of his god's face mere inches from his own. He jerks back, eyes wide, only to be held fast.

Shh, shh, shh, Virgil, it's alright, don't panic, his god hushes, still soothing the skin on his face, you're alright. You were having a nightmare, do you remember?

No. No, he does not remember. He remembers soft touches and gentle words and a slowly growing sweet mist in his head and chest. His god smiles when he mentions as much.

I couldn't bear to see you so afraid and hurt, so I…helped. I only held you, Virgil, I give you my word, but—oh…oh, dear…

For Virgil had begun to cry. And his god held him close, whispered comfort in his ear, and he could only feel ashamed that he had made his god feel as though he needed tending to like a frightened child. He tries to apologize again, but his god hears none of it, shushing him with fondness and kissing his forehead.

You are worthy of stories of comfort too. That is why we are here, are we not? To comfort and care for each other? He dips to nose at the crease of Virgil's neck. Let me care for you now, as you have devoted your time to caring for me.

You're my god.

A soft chuckle. I do remember telling you that for you, I would be Roman. Do not think of me as your god right now, not while I dry your tears as I hold you in your bed.

R-Roman?

Yes, Virgil. Come, now, I believe it is far past time for you to allow yourself to be cared for.

Chapter Text

Hiiiiii Is it too soon to ask for another part of Worship? (<-- the silly who requested both the other parts) I'd love to see more of Roman and Virgils developing relationship, I'm also so intrigued about Remus if you wanted to expand on what he's up to? Does he have any worshippers? Or maybe he could meet Virgil and cause some (easily sorted) chaos? (Just throwing out ideas you absolutely don't have to use <3) Whatever you want to write I will GLADLY read it this au has me in a chokehold and I absolutely love your writing <33 – anon

1.

He has a nightmare. A nightmare so horrible he would wonder if it were a message from his god, that he need learn a lesson or know this pain or something, for all that he wakes up with a sore throat and a burning chest, tears failing to dry on his cheeks. But his god is there, Roman is there, wrapping arms around him and pressing kisses to his keening throat, his shaking shoulders, murmuring words of comfort and promises that he is safe.

Don't fret, he says, when Virgil tries to stammer out any word he can to explain, apologize, praise, do not fret, shh, hush, hush, just let me do this.

This turns out to be a lovely combination of soothing his frenetic mind with pleasant sensation and filling his ears with soft stories, descriptions of places meant to cradle and comfort and actions to compliment them. When he can bear to be apart from him for more than a few seconds, Roman brings him a cup of warm drink, holding it to let him ease his throat and soothe his chest. He keeps one hand on his bare back, skin to skin, words still murmured and pressed into the crook of his shoulder as he calms.

There is no cause for you to suffer like this, he whispers when once again, Virgil attempts to thank him, you are an ardent worshiper and a good man. There is every reason for me to care for you in this moment of distress.

The night is young, still, despite the violence of the nightmare, and Roman has no qualms about hoarding Virgil's vulnerabilities deep in its cloak of darkness. His voice never wavers, his words never slow, a gentle litany of soft sweet nothingness stories meant only to ease him back towards a more peaceful sleep. He spins tales of wonderful foods, of gentle skies, of kind touches and warm caresses that he mimics in kind across Virgil's palms, his arms, the slightly damp skin of his chest. He kisses his jumping pulse when fear seizes him once again, holds him close when he sniffles, promises to be here this time, every time from now on, that this will never happen again.

Why…why did it happen?

And here, Roman falls silent. I believe it was my brother.

2.

Remus, that is Roman's brother's name. The dark god, the god of chaos, the one whose motivations Virgil should not attempt to puzzle. And yet it is this same god that stole Virgil's night from him for…reasons he could not hope to fathom.

His god tells him that Remus is not a god of single-minded vengeance, that there is nothing so horrible that Virgil has done to earn his wrath. No sin he has committed to offend, no crime for which he must atone. Instead, his god remarks that perhaps his brother is bored, or wondering what it is that has stolen Roman's attention.

He's quite the hog for it, attention. Perhaps he is jealous of you.

A god, jealous of me?

Roman had laughed. Don't be so surprised at the notion, Virgil. Surely such a story is not altogether strange to you.

It is not, but neither is that fact reassuring. Most tales of gods growing jealous of mortals has the mortals suffering some terrible fate for daring to exist, even if they had no intention of sparking such jealousy in the first place. He thinks of the talented craftspeople cursed to some hideous forms for having such high quality of work, he thinks of the warriors enslaved with their wills broken beyond repair for having the courage to stand for what they believed in, he thinks of the innocent lives left battered and ruined for daring to draw a god's eye.

He does not want to spend a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to draw the ire of a god of chaos.

Roman notices his fretting, because his god knows how to read the stories people tell without realizing it and takes him in his arms.

My brother will not be the end of you, Virgil. That is not how your story goes.

3.

Virgil holds his book in his hands. It is the only thing in his house not drenched in a viscous green slime.

He sets it carefully inside his leather satchel, latches it shut, and place it on a rock high above the ground yet hidden underneath a nearby grove of trees. He steps warily into his house and pokes at the liquid with a stick. It collides with a sickening squelch and does its level best to suck the stick into itself.

Splashing it with water does nothing except wet the part of his floor still free of the slime. Trying to scrape it off with a shovel only loses him part of his coat and dents the shovel's handle where he tried to yank it free and slammed it into the door frame. Even a desperate attempt to set fire to the vacuous mass ends in failure, though perhaps that is for the best.

His god arrives to see him on his knees, staring hopelessly at the mess that his home has become, and for a moment, his face darkens. Without saying a word, he covers Virgil's eyes and something loud crackles next to his ear. When the hand is removed, the slime is gone.

I have to leave for a little while, Roman says that night, I must have a word with my brother.

Will you come back?

He softens, as he always does when Virgil worries. Of course I will, as soon as I can.

And what if…something were to happen while you are gone?

Roman's face darkens ever so slightly, but not at him. Not when Roman's gaze is directed at something over his shoulder. It will not.

How can you be so sure?

Why, Virgil, he says lightly with a tap under his chin, haven't you learned not to question your god?

4.

The bed is cold.

His house has never felt so large.

His skin has never felt so thin.

His chest has never felt so tight.

His notebook has never felt so heavy.

His words have never felt so feeble.

His stomach has never felt so weak.

His eyes have never felt so useless.

His worship has never felt so desperate.

5.

His notebook goes missing.

+1.

Wake up. Wake up, Virgil, shh, don't cry, don't cry, it's alright.

He thinks he's still dreaming again, with soft kisses on his cheeks and a hand tangling in his hair. He thinks the murmured words are some terribly tempting memory, designed to taunt him, until he hears the other voice.

You really are whipped for him.

He bolts upright.

There is Roman, already slipping his hands around his shoulders, fitting his palms to the curve of his back. And there is another figure, in dark clothes and bright green light, almost painful to look at, staring at him with such an intensity that it's difficult to hold his gaze.

R-R—

It's alright, Roman says gently, he's not going to hurt you. Nothing is going to happen to you.

He's all shaky. Do you do that?

Remus. Behave.

I could. But it's so much more fun if I don't.

Remus.

…

…

…

… irgil? Virgil, it's alright.

I think you scared him, Roro. The other figure steps a little closer, the light dimmed slightly. Virgil blinks.

Roman's hands are gentle, his voice back to the softer one he's been using for Virgil. Virgil leans into the touch, still watching the other god carefully. He tilts his head. The other god tilts his. He does it the other way. The other god laughs like crackling fire and tilts the other way too.

He's kinda cute.

He's very cute.

I see why you like him.

Two gods are discussing him as though he's a pet. He wishes he could say he didn't expect it. He swallows, lets Roman help him out of bed, and stands face to face with Remus.

Are you hungry?

Remus grins with a mouth full of teeth. Roman lets out a warning noise and they visibly shrink. I hear you have excellent bread.

Bread. He can work with that.