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When the sky turns grey and the wind turns chilly, it isn’t hard to guess where he’ll find Virgil.
Roman tosses on his coat, grabs one of the umbrellas by the door, and heads out across the grounds. As he goes, he glances up and finds himself smiling as he looks up at the rolling storm clouds.
Virgil has once described a stormy sky as a bruised sky. When expressive bursts of purple bloomed in the form of heavy clouds, painted like the dusting of fingertips across powdery blue flesh. The air would feel cool and thin, as though it were shocked, and then become heavy and wet with the weight of unshed tears.
And he claims he’s not a poet.
He shakes his head, focusing his attention back on the ground, lest he trip over an errant root and send himself sprawling. He treks across the hills until he reaches the one overlooking the rest of the valley.
There you are.
Virgil sits under a sprawling tree, one left curled under him, the other propping up the notebook in his hands. The breeze catches the baby hairs about the curve of his face, playfully sending them dancing as his pen moves back and forth. His blazer, thrown over his shoulders earlier, is spread beneath the tree, meant to offer some forgiveness from the uneven ground.
The ribbon in his hair flutters as he notices him, turning and smiling with one hand aloft in a wave. He waves back, climbing the hill to stand next to him.
“You look like an aesthetic wallpaper,” he says, tilting his head, “like, right out of a dark academia mood board.”
He laughs. “What, with my leather notebook and everything?”
“I think the university should use you as part of their promotional material.”
Another laugh, louder and as clear as a bell, before he tugs him down next to him. “You can talk, Rich Boy Who Looks Like A Walking Ralph Lauren Ad.”
“I’ll have you know I am not wearing any Ralph Lauren right now.”
“Right now.”
He swats at him halfheartedly and flops down onto his back. As he stares up at the sky, he finds himself chuckling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was thinking about you and your bruised skies.”
Virgil rolls his eyes. “Look, I was running on exam fumes, okay?”
“No, no, I liked it.” He shifts, hand under his head. “Little poet.”
“Fuck off.”
“Language.”
“English.”
Another soft huff of laughter as he turns to look at him, silhouetted against the dark clouds. He slips easily back into his focused writing zone, frowning sightly as he carefully takes the words swirling around his head and sends them down his arm, through his fingers, and onto the page, his lower lip drawn between his teeth.
Every now and then, he’ll lift his gaze, staring off into nothing, no doubt wresting with the words that don’t want to organize themselves the way he wants them too.
He finds himself still smiling as he looks at him, a sudden and almost hysterical giggle threatening to escape. And then it does, rolling over his tongue and out whise Virgil hears it.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, I just like you.”
A pretty pink flush touches her cheeks and ears. “Oh my god, you’re such a sap.”
“But I’m your sap.”
“You’re a goddamn pain in the ass, that’s what you are.”
“At least I’m—nope. Not gonna finish that sentence.”
“Yeah, you shut up and let me work.”
“Yes, sir.”
This is why he wants to be out here with Virgil. To watch him as he scribbles in a notebook more precious than gold as the storm clouds roll overhead. To see the parts of him he doesn’t want the rest of the world to see because he thinks they’re unlovable and to prove him wrong.
And because he loves him, he truly does, and he…he…
…he’s finished writing. The notebook is closed. The pen is tucked into its bindings and his hands are closed atop it. He’s staring off into the valley again.
“Virgil?”
“Mm?”
“You okay?”
He turns to look at him and oh, it’s one of those moments.
“Hey,” he murmurs, sitting up and scooting a little closer, “hey, honey, what’s wrong?”
He looks at the ground, fingers toying with the binding of the notebook. “I don’t know.”
“You give yourself too many emotions again?” He nods. “You want some cuddles?”
Virgil honest to god pouts up at him with his eyes all big and he sighs fondly.
“Powerful weapon, those big puppy dog eyes.” He settles back on the ground, opening his arms. “Alright. C’mere, honey.”
It’s a bit of a struggle to get comfortable around the tree roots, but they manage. Roman’s mouth ends up near his hairline where he can give him as many kisses as he wants, one hand brushing the hair away from his face.
His hands keep bunching and unbunching in the fabric, twisting with emotions that aren’t his. He pulls him closer, nuzzling into his hair the way he likes.
“You can let it out, honey,” he says softly, “it’s okay. I’m right here.”
“You’re really warm,” he mumbles in a small voice.
“Yeah? You cold, honey?” He starts to reach for his blazer. “You wanna put this on?”
“No,” comes the quiet whine of protest as he pulls away, “just wanna cuddle.”
“You just wanna cuddle?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay, honey, we can cuddle. Shh—hey, hey, it’s okay, I won’t leave, I’m right here, see? You got me.” He settles into his hold. “I’m right here.”
When that seems to soothe him, he loses his eyes and breathes in the damp air. It’s getting to be a little colder now, the breeze whipping up around the hilltop. It smells of petrichor even though it hasn’t rained yet.
They fall easily into a doze there, on top of the hill, curled around each other as the storm clouds pass overhead. Roman’s hand cups Virgil’s shoulder and head protectively, his other arm wrapped about his waist. Virgil snuggles into the crook of his neck, his hair gusting about in the breeze.
Eventually, a drop lands on Roman’s cheek.
“We should head in soon,” he murmurs, unwilling to rouse him too much, “but we can cuddle at home too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, honey, come on.” He coaxes him up and indicates the notebook. “Don’t want that to get rained on, right?”
He reaches out and clutches the sleeve of his jacket as they start down the hill. “Will you…stay?”
He smiles and wraps his arm through his. “Right here, honey.”
They don’t end up needing to open the umbrella, shutting the door behind them just as the rain starts to pour. Roman tosses his coat and Virgil’s blazer over the hooks and toes off his shoes.
“Come to the kitchen, I think we’ve got hot chocolate left.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, honey. C’mon.”
Virgil’s fingers find his sleeve and he smiles, wrapping an arm around his little storm cloud as they make their way to the kitchen.