Chapter Text
The jovial beeping of Virgil clocking out felt terribly out of place compared to the pain crawling up his ankles and the hollowness of his soul. Virgil barely managed a goodbye to his coworkers as they all left, finally closing The Drunken Ship for the night. He’d worked there for the past five years, using it to get him through college to graduate with a mechanical engineering degree. Though apparently it wasn’t doing him any good as he’s continued to serve customers and wait tables. But it was close enough, and he earned enough to pay his half of the rent.
Virgil shrugged on his hoodie as he began his walk home. It had originally been just a plain black hoodie, but after years of wear and tear, Virgil had learned how to sew patches to cover any tears. Virgil loved the thing and how the purple gave him a pop of color.
It was also incredibly warm. Virgil shivered as the night wind blew with a surprising strength, zipping up his hoodie and shoving his hands in his pockets. It was nearing the end of March. Trees already began to regrow their leaves and added a pop of green back into the city. The weather couldn’t decide whether it wanted to commit to the warm temperature, so everyone lugged around a jacket with them even if it was sunny out.
As Virgil walked, he tried not to draw any attention to himself. While the street he lived on was typically quiet, Virgil had to walk down a street that was almost entirely made of bars and clubs which meant there would be more people and a bigger chance of Virgil getting himself into trouble. He kept his head down and kept moving. Drunk girls flirted as he walked past—obviously unaware of how gay he was—which was usually all that would be all that happened.
Not tonight though.
Virgil sighed with relief as he walked past the last club with its line out the door. He thought he was in the clear when a man with an uneven buzzcut and a mask covering the bottom half of his face rounded the corner. He was twitchy and, once Virgil got closer, mumbling to himself. Virgil tensed and prayed the guy wouldn’t look at him.
Just as they passed each other and Virgil thought he was in the clear, a harsh voice shouted behind him. “Hey! Hey, you! Got any cash?” Virgil tried to ignore it.
A hand landed heavily on Virgil’s shoulder, yanking him back. “I said do you have any cash?”
Virgil turned to face the man, who looked irate about having to repeat himself. His wallet felt heavier in his back pocket. Despite the grueling double shift, Virgil made the most amount of tips he’d made in a while. And there was no way in hell he was going to give a dime to this guy.
“No, dude.” Virgil said, trying to be chill and not upset the guy more. “I don’t have any money on me, sorry.”
The man gave him a shove. “That’s bullshit. Show me your wallet.”
Virgil held his hands up. “Look, I already said I don’t have anything, so back off.”
The man put his hands to his head. Moonlight glinted on the silver gun in his right hand, and Virgil felt his feet cement to the sidewalk. “I said give me you fucking wallet, man!” The man screeched, pointing the gun at Virgil with shaking hands.
Everything slowed, and it was like Virgil’s head had been plunged under water. Panic constricted his lungs only allowing short, quick breaths. The man kept yelling while getting closer and people still in line for the club finally noticed the commotion. Virgil couldn’t get himself to surrender his wallet; he couldn’t move; he couldn’t think. Then there was a metallic click.
Tears blurred his vision. “N…no.” He gasped out like he was drowning.
An engine roar reverberated off the sides of the alleywall—a jarring yet nostalgically familiar sound that dragged Virgil back to reality. The two snapped their heads toward the alleyway, being almost blinded by headlights of a yellow motorcycle. It revved once then twice then shot out of the alleyway aimed right at the attempted robber. Startled, the man scrambled out of the way and booked it down the street.
The biker screeched to a stop in front of Virgil. Now that he was closer, Virgil could see his helmet matched the yellow of his motorcycle. The motorcycle itself had snake scale detailing and obviously custom built. Virgil tried to picture how it was made, but before he could get anywhere, the biker lifted off his helmet.
Virgil did his best not to stare. Half of the biker’s face was covered in a burn scar. His bleach blonde hair did little to hide it. He also had a ton of piercings including snake bites, an eyebrow, nose ring, and three on each ear. “You okay?”
It took Virgil a second to stop trembling enough to speak. “Yeah…I’m good. Thanks for the save. Killer bike by the way. Is that a Yamaha R1?” He said, sinking into the familiarity of mechanics.
The biker raised his pierced eyebrow. “Yeah, it is though it’s got a couple modifications. You know bikes?” He said, his
Virgil nodded. “My dad owned an auto shop and whenever I wasn’t doing homework, Dad taught me everything there is to know about every kind of motors on wheels. I even got a degree in mechanical engineering.”
The biker smiled though it looked more like a smirk. “What’s a mechanical engineer doing as a waiter? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, building cars or engines or something?”
Virgil huffed. “I’ve tried, but the job market's been shit in that field. Nobody’s willing to hire a fresh out of college kid. Being a waiter at The Drunken Ship was the only job I could get.”
The biker clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that checks out. It makes me glad that my job's a lot more… freelance.”
“Really? What do you do?” Virgil asked.
“That, dear friend, is classified.” The biker said, his voice shrouded in mystery.
Virgil scoffed lightly. “Sure it is. And who said we were friends?”
“I did. I don’t often meet motorcycle enthusiasts outside of my circle, and it was pretty badass how you faced that robber.” The biker said, swinging his leg over his bike and turning in his seat to fully face Virgil. “The name’s Janus. Like the Greek god, not librarian.”
“I would call freezing and almost getting shot badass.” Virgil said, picking at a loose string attached to a patch on his elbow. “I’m Virgil. Like the poet. My mom was very into literature.”
Janus laughed. “Oh, you must’ve had a worse time in high school than I did.”
Virgil grinned, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, a lot of the jock-types took to calling me ‘Virgin’ which was so creative. I just can’t even imagine how they came up with changing the last letter of my name.” He said, letting sarcasm flow through his words.
Janus winced sympathetically. “Damn, that’s rough.”
Virgil shrugged, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “I got to prove them wrong in college though.”
Janus cackled, wiping a small tear away. Virgil couldn’t help but laugh with him. His college experience wasn’t all that exciting with most of his time being dedicated to acing his class, but there were one or two nights he could spare for some fun. He’d even managed to get into a relationship that lasted six months though it ended terribly and Virgil hates his guts now.
“Do you need a ride home?” Janus asked, shifting his helmet from one hand to another.
Virgil looked the way he needed to go, trying to calculate how much longer his walk would be. As he thought of home and his bed, Virgil let out a big yawn. “You know, yeah, I do.”
Janus held out his helmet. “Here, I don’t have another one. We won’t be going too fast cause you’ll need to give me directions and I don’t exactly have the funds to pay for your medical bills.”
Virgil grabbed the helmet and slipped it over his head. He wasn’t thrilled Janus didn’t have any protection, but Janus seemed to have a lot of experience riding a motorcycle so he tried not to worry. Virgil swiftly got onto the back of the motorcycle just like he used to with his dad years ago, lightly holding onto Janus so he wouldn’t fall off. Janus took off down the road at a steady speed, probably no higher than 40 miles an hour.
Virgil’s heart thumped with giddy excitement. It had been years since Virgil had ridden on a motorcycle. He used to have one, but sold it to help pay for college. Some days he regretted that decision more than others. The way to his apartment was one more block down then a left before they arrived.
Janus’s engine rumbled to a stop as they stopped in front of the apartment complex. It was a decent enough place that was nice enough to live in, but expensive enough where Virgil would worry about paying rent some months. Virgil quickly got off the motorcycle and handed Janus his helmet back.
“Thanks for the ride and for saving me. You didn’t have to do either.”
Janus shook his head and offered a leather gloved hand. “No worries, it was nice to meet you.” Virgil took it, and the biker had a surprisingly firm handshake. When Janus took his hand back, a slip of paper stayed in Virgil’s hand. “That’s my number. If you’re interested in meeting other motorcycle enthusiasts, give me a text. If not, we should definitely get coffee sometime. Anyway, I gotta get home to my boyfriend before he gets too antsy. See ya, Virgil.”
Virgil watched Janus—helmet secure on his head—fly down the street at an impressive speed, the roar of the engine lingering in the air. He sighed as Janus disappeared around the corner, stuffing the slip of paper into his jacket pocket. As he trudged up to his apartment on the fourth floor, Virgil wondered if he should reach out to Janus. His best/only friend and roommate, Logan, was always telling him that he needed to make more friends—hypocritical coming from him but Virgil never felt like pointing that out.
Once Virgil got to his floor, he gave the broken elevator a glare. Virgil had gotten more exercise in the past month than ever because maintenance had yet to fix it, and he hated it. He barely passed PE in high school due to lack of participation and adamantly refused to join Logan in his twice a week workouts. Virgil hated sweating and hated being out of breath even more; it made him feel like he was dying.
Virgil let his shoulders relax as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it up on one of the hooks by the door. He expected the apartment to be mostly dark with Logan working a typical 9-5 and having a bedtime of 9pm, but a small light in the kitchen caught Virgil’s attention.
He poked his head into the kitchen. Sitting at their small kitchen island, Logan nursed a mug of tea while reading the science fiction book Virgil had gotten him two Christmases ago. Logan only ever read something other than nonfiction when he had something else on his mind.
“You alright, Lo?” Virgil asked quietly, trying not to scare his only friend to death.
Logan’s head snapped up instantly. His usually put-together straight black hair fell into his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Strike two. Something was up. “You’re home later than usual.” Logan grumbled, bringing his tea up to his lips in a vice grip, the label rocking outside the mug.
His tea—Chamomile tea. Strike three. Something was definitely wrong.
“Yeah, I…uh…got caught up at work.” Virgil said, scratching the back of his head. He glanced at the oven clock, almost gawking at how it was 1:14 AM.
Logan’s hawk-like eyes narrowed. “Virgil, we have been friends for nearly six years. I know you’re hiding something, and I didn’t spend the past hour worrying if you’d be home for you to not tell me the truth.”
Virgil winced, taking a seat next to Logan. “I almost got mugged on the way home from work.”
Logan stiffened and turned to look over Virgil. “Are you alright? And what do you mean ‘almost’?”
“Kinda, I mean he pointed a gun at me but it never went off cause this biker guy, Janus, showed up out of nowhere and made the guy run away.” Virgil bit at his thumb nail. “He saved my life. I was totally frozen, honestly it might've been an anxiety attack but I dunno.”
Long arms wrapped firmly around him. Virgil gladly sank into the embrace, hugging back twice as hard. The two stood holding each other under the kitchen lights in silence.
“Thank you for waiting up for me. I’m sorry for making you worry.” Virgil mumbled, pulling away.
“It’s no trouble at all, Virgil.” Logan said. As he moved to put the mug in the sink, he added. “You should get to bed though. It’s late.”
Virgil scoffed. “Maybe for you grandpa. It’s one A.M., the witching hour! Perfect for the likes of me.” He said, heading towards his room.
“That’s not when the witching hour is!” Logan called after.
Virgil grinned to himself as he shut his room’s door. He flopped onto his bed before remembering he was still in his work uniform, changing out of it, begrudgingly washing his face of all the day's grime and makeup, and finally reflopping back onto his bed. As Virgil scrolled, he thought about the phone number in his jacket pocket. Should he text Janus now? Was he expecting him to?
Riddled with anxiety, Virgil forced himself to get out of bed once again and snatched the slip of paper from his beloved jacket. He punched in Janus’s number as a new contact—one of the few non-family members in his phone—but paused at sending a message. What should he say?
Virgil attempted about five different beginnings before landing on a question that had been tugging at him since Janus dropped him off.
What did you mean by meeting other motorcycle enthusiasts? Is there like a club or something?
Virgil set his phone aside, not expecting a response until tomorrow. Just as he tugged his blankets close, his phone buzzed and lit up. He snatched it back as his mind cycled through every possible reply that mostly summarized to Janus thinking Virgil was a loser and a freak.
Not a club exactly
But there’s a meet Friday night at midnight if you’re interested
Virgil’s heart pounded with excitement. He hadn’t been to anything like that since high school when he and a bunch of other kids with motorcycles would take them to the outskirts of the city and race them in an empty field. Though it was illegal, Virgil secretly hoped it’d be something similar.
I’ll be there