Chapter Text
Roman had always considered himself a deeply compassionate person.
Generous. Charming. Kind-hearted.
Which was precisely why he did not immediately throw himself out the apartment window when Patton clasped his hands together excitedly and announced:
“I think it’s time we got you guys back out there!”
Across the living room, Virgil looked up from his phone with the exhausted caution of a man spotting danger in the wild. “No,” he said instantly.
Patton blinked.
Roman pointed accusingly at Virgil. “See? That tone right there? That is the tone of someone with unresolved emotional issues.”
“Says the theater kid who monologues while ordering coffee.”
“I’m expressive.”
“You’re exhausting.”
Patton gasped softly, like this exchange was somehow proving his point instead of actively disproving it.
Next to him on the couch, Logan adjusted his glasses with the terrifying calm of a man about to weaponize organization.
“You are both currently single,” Logan said. “Statistically speaking, the likelihood of finding suitable partners increases with active participation in social opportunities.”
Virgil stared at him. “Logan,” he said carefully, “that sounded dangerously close to a threat.”
“It was a factual statement.”
“That’s worse.”
Patton scooted forward excitedly. “You both deserve someone amazing!”
“I already am someone amazing,” Roman informed him.
Virgil snorted.
Roman narrowed his eyes. “Excuse you.”
“You called yourself amazing with your whole chest.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Confidence is attractive,” Patton said supportively.
“Thank you, Patton.”
“Overconfidence, however,” Logan added, “is often correlated with poor decision-making.”
Roman put a hand over his heart. “The betrayal. In my own home.”
“You missed your share of rent this month,” Virgil muttered.
Roman ignored him with dignity.
Unfortunately, ignoring problems had historically never worked around Patton.
“I already have ideas!” Patton announced brightly.
Virgil sat upright so fast it was almost concerning.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“PATTON.”
Logan calmly opened his laptop.
Virgil looked horrified.
“Why is the laptop out?”
“I’ve compiled compatibility metrics.”
Roman made a small strangled noise. “Why,” he asked weakly, “would you say that sentence to another human being?”
— ✦ —
The first blind date happened three days later.
Roman should have known it was doomed immediately.
For one thing, the café specialized in “minimalist artisan beverages,” which Roman was fairly certain meant tiny cups and emotional damage.
For another—
“So,” his date said enthusiastically, “I collect antique spoons.”
Roman blinked.
Across the café, seated at another table with his own blind date, Virgil made direct eye contact with him and immediately started choking on his drink.
Traitor.
Roman turned back slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said politely. “You collect… spoons.”
“Yes!” the date said brightly. “Mostly eighteenth-century European pieces, but I’m branching into restoration work.”
Virgil’s shoulders were shaking violently now.
Roman narrowed his eyes at him. This was karmic retribution. There was no other explanation.
Because while Roman had apparently been sentenced to Spoon Enthusiast, Virgil’s own date had arrived twenty minutes late and immediately launched into a passionate explanation of cryptocurrency.
Roman knew this because he could hear phrases like “decentralized finance” drifting across the café every few minutes.
Frankly, both of them were suffering.
Roman’s date leaned forward eagerly. “Would you like to see pictures?”
“No,” Roman said instinctively. The date blinked.
Roman smiled desperately. “I mean— yes. Obviously. Please continue.”
Across the room, Virgil silently mouthed: coward.
Roman mouthed back: suffer
Virgil flipped him off beneath the tablecloth.
Their dates noticed none of this.
“Here’s a rare silver serving spoon from 1792—”
Roman contemplated arson.
— ✦ —
Later that evening, Virgil sprawled face-first across Roman’s couch like a casualty of war.
Roman handed him a mug of tea with the solemn respect one offered the dying.
“How bad?” Roman asked.
Virgil lifted his head just enough to glare. “He asked me what my long-term financial goals were.”
Roman grimaced. “Oof.”
“I said ‘survival.’”
“That’s valid.”
“He laughed.”
Roman sucked in a sympathetic breath. “Oh, that’s rough, buddy.”
Virgil groaned into the couch cushion. Then, muffled: “How was Spoon Guy?”
Roman stared at the ceiling. “He showed me polishing techniques.” Virgil wheezed.
Roman pointed threateningly. “You are laughing at my trauma.”
“You deserve it for calling me dramatic last week.”
Roman gasped. “You hold grudges.”
“Constantly.”
And somehow, somehow, this became routine.
— ✦ —
The second date was arranged by Logan.
Which should have been warning enough. “Your previous pairings may have lacked sufficient intellectual compatibility,” Logan explained over breakfast.
Virgil eyed him suspiciously. “Those words mean nothing good.”
Roman sipped his coffee. “I, for one, am excited.”
Virgil stared at him. “You literally cried after Spoon Man.”
“I was overwhelmed emotionally.”
“You threatened to fake your death in the bathroom.”
“That was strategy.”
Two days later, Virgil stumbled into the apartment looking haunted.
Roman looked up from the kitchen island immediately. “Oh, you’ve got train eyes.”
Virgil froze. “…what does that mean.”
“It means Logan set you up with someone who enjoys infrastructure.”
Virgil pointed at him accusingly. “They talked about railway systems for two hours.”
Roman winced. “Naturally.”
“I know things now, Roman.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I know which countries have the most efficient public transportation.”
Roman placed a hand over his heart. “My condolences.”
Virgil collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “He brought charts.”
Roman made the sign of the cross. “That man wanted to present at you.”
“He DID present at me.”
Roman bit his lip hard enough to stop himself from laughing. Failed immediately.
Virgil threw a cushion at his head.
— ✦ —
Patton’s matchmaking strategy, unfortunately, operated on vibes.
This was significantly more dangerous.
“I just think you two need people who appreciate your creativity!” Patton explained happily.
Roman should have run. Instead, he ended up seated across from someone named Star who wore three scarves indoors and referred to silence as “a capitalist construct.”
At one point, Star stood abruptly beside the table and announced:
“This next piece is called The Agony of Existing Online.”
Then they hissed at the ceiling fan for a full minute. Roman clapped afterward because panic had overridden self-preservation.
When he got home, Virgil was already in the kitchen making instant ramen. One look at Roman’s face and he started laughing.
“No,” Roman warned.
“Yes,” Virgil said immediately.
Roman pointed dramatically. “They performed grief at me.”
Virgil nearly dropped the kettle. “They what?”
“They said my aura lacked narrative consistency.”
Virgil made a strangled noise halfway between a cough and a scream.
Roman slumped against the counter.
“And before you ask — yes. There was interpretive movement.”
“Oh my god.”
“They hissed, Virgil.”
Virgil leaned heavily against the counter, openly crying with laughter now.
Roman glared at him with all the dignity of a deeply betrayed prince.
“You are a terrible friend.”
“I am your best friend.”
— ✦ —
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somehow the blind dates only got worse.
Roman met:
- a man who referred to himself exclusively as an “alpha empath”
- someone who spent forty minutes explaining why animated movies were “inferior storytelling”
- a food critic who insulted Roman’s choice of pasta before appetizers arrived
Virgil endured:
- a guy deeply committed to taxidermy
- a man who believed caffeine “blocked spiritual frequencies”
- someone who tried to recruit him into a startup halfway through dessert
And after every disaster— without fail— they found each other afterward.
Sometimes at home. Sometimes through frantic texts. Sometimes through exhausted phone calls at midnight.
Sometimes by sheer cosmic coincidence. Like tonight. Virgil spotted Roman immediately across the restaurant. Roman, unfortunately, spotted him at the exact same moment. They both froze.
Roman’s date was talking animatedly with their hands. Virgil’s date was explaining NFTs. Neither of them looked remotely alive.
Virgil slowly lifted his water glass. Roman mirrored the motion solemnly. A toast to mutual suffering.
Five minutes later, Roman stood up and headed to the direction of the bathroom when he accidentally (on purpose) tripped.
The crash echoed through the restaurant. Several people turned.
Virgil stared at him. Roman stared back meaningfully. Understanding dawned instantly.
Virgil shot to his feet. “Oh my god, Princey, are you okay?”
Roman clutched his ankle with Oscar-worthy commitment. “I think I twisted something.”
“You should sit down.” “I am sitting down.”
“Right. Sorry. Panic.”
Their dates looked alarmed. Virgil was already beside Roman now, one hand hovering near his shoulder. “We should get you home.”
Roman nodded gravely. “Yes. Tragic. Such pain.”
Virgil bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. Because Roman was absolutely committing to this.
“Can you walk?” “With courage.” Virgil snorted.
Roman’s date blinked. “Wait, do you know each other?”
There was a split second of silence. Roman and Virgil looked at each other.
Then simultaneously: “Roommates”
Another pause. Virgil narrowed his eyes. Roman narrowed his right back.
Something passed silently between them. Something dangerous.
Then Roman groaned dramatically. “My ankle worsens.”
Virgil grabbed his arm immediately. “Right. Medical emergency. We’re leaving.”
And somehow, somehow, they escaped.
The second the restaurant doors closed behind them, Virgil burst out laughing.
Roman doubled over beside him, clinging to a nearby railing.
“Oh my god,” Virgil wheezed. “Your face—”
“You called me Princey.”
“You started dying theatrically.”
“You supported my performance.”
“You committed to the bit!”
Roman straightened with visible effort, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
“We are incredible under pressure.”
“We’re horrible people.”
“Also true.”
They started walking.
The city air was cool around them, evening traffic humming softly nearby.
Virgil shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets.
Roman bumped their shoulders together lightly.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Familiar.
Which was—oddly dangerous, actually.
Roman sighed dramatically after a moment. “We have to stop them.”
Virgil didn’t even need clarification. “Yes, but they mean well.”
“Virgil. I was emotionally ambushed by an alpha empath.”
“That’s fair.”
Roman stopped walking abruptly. Virgil nearly walked into him.
“Oh no,” Virgil said immediately. “That’s your idea face.”
Roman pointed at him. “You hate blind dates.”
“Correct.” “I hate blind dates.” “Still correct.”
Roman grinned slowly. Virgil felt dread curl instantly in his stomach.
“We simply make ourselves unavailable.”
Virgil blinked. “…what.”
Roman spread his arms theatrically. “We fake date.”
Silence. A car honked somewhere in the distance. Virgil stared at him.
Roman stared back with all the confidence of a man who had never once encountered a bad idea he didn’t immediately adopt.
And the worst part?
The absolute worst part?
Virgil could already tell it would work.
“Oh,” Virgil muttered softly.
Roman’s grin widened. “Oh, you hate how good this idea is.”
“I do.”
“You’re considering it.”
“I hate that too.”
Roman clasped his hands together triumphantly.
Virgil groaned. “This is going to ruin our lives, isn’t it?”
Roman slung an arm around his shoulders dramatically as they resumed walking. “Probably,” he said cheerfully.
And somehow, despite every warning sign screaming in his head, Virgil found himself laughing too.