Chapter Text
His headphones aren’t connecting.
Virgil’s tried everything. He’s turned them off, turned them back on, removed and rediscovered them on both his phone and his laptop, shut everything down and restarted them again…no change. Just the same error message every time. There was a problem syncing to this device. There was a problem syncing to this device.
He can hear a faint, crackling sort of static, slightly louder in the right port, when he puts them on—like they’re active, like they’re online, like they’re trying to connect—but something just isn’t working. He can’t tell if the problem is coming from the phone and the laptop themselves, or the headphones, or the Wi-Fi, or something else entirely—it seems strange that the issue would be occurring in both devices at the same time, but it wouldn’t be impossible. Maybe there was an update or something—or it could be a sign of an underlying issue that manifested in both of them at once—or a sign that his headphones are permanently screwed, that something had happened and they had actually kicked the bucket for good. But they aren’t even that old, he’d only had them maybe a little more than a year—or a little less, he wasn’t sure—
There was a problem syncing to this device.
A gust of wind rattles the glass panes above his bed. Virgil growls and fights the urge to throw something, to claw out chunks of his own hair. He shoves his laptop away and turns his headphones off, pulling them down to his neck. Slumping forward onto his desk, he buries his face in his arms and tries to block out the world.
Relax.
No headphones, no music. Okay, fine. No music means no distraction, no distraction he was banking on, no comforting dissociative resonance to lull the pounding of heart and brain into a calmer, more manageable rhythm.
Fine.
Virgil can feel every fiber of fabric in his hoodie’s sleeves pressing up against his skin. It’s too hot and itchy, smothering, but he doesn’t want to take it off. His right knee bounces frenetically at an on-and-off pace against his chair.
There’s a distant rumble of thunder above the Mindscape apartment. The lamp on his nightstand flickers for half a second, then blinks back to life.
There was a problem syncing to this device.
Virgil hisses and thrusts himself to his feet, grinding the legs of his chair against the carpet. Away. He needs to get away from his room—to find somewhere else less…dark and hollow and everything to clear his head. The shadowy walls are familiar, but right now they’re too close, too constricting. He needs out.
Virgil shoves open his door and makes his way down the hall. His chest is tight—when did his chest get tight?—and he forces himself to draw in a deep breath.
Relax.
There are voices downstairs. Voices mean people. People means something to distract him, something else from the thrumming in his head and the tightening of his ribcage. People mean something better.
Virgil descends the staircase, drawn to the sound, and finds himself in the living room. It’s dark outside, cloudy; and the wind’s still whistling, but it’s a lot more muffled here than it was in his room. There’s the smell of something sweet, something baking, in the air. Virgil sees movement in the kitchen, two shadows—Logan and Patton, he can tell from their voices.
It makes him feel better already, a little. He pauses for a split-second before opting to crash on the couch parallel to the kitchen wall. He can’t get too close. He’s doesn’t think he can talk to them right now.
There was a problem syncing to this device.
Virgil collapses onto the cushions and curls up with his head to the armrest, trying to drown the buzzing in his head with the voices. Logan and Patton are safe; they are warm; they are comfortable. They make him feel more comfortable in his own skin. The timbre of their words is idle, relaxed—there’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re fine.
Everything’s fine.
His chest hurts. His headphones dig awkwardly into his collarbone, and the plastic is suffocating. He groans in frustration and yanks them off, letting them clatter to the floor between the couch and the coffee table.
His hands are numb, he realizes, as he pulls them back—tingling with static. He clenches his fingers, trying to get the blood flowing properly again. His vision is going a little weird and wavery, and he isn’t sure if his hands are shaking or not. Maybe his whole body is shaking.
Stop it. Stop it. Relax. Everything’s fine.
There was a problem syncing to—
“Virgil?”
Virgil jumps at the familiar voice, cutting through the tumult in his head. A flash of panic, however irrational, stabs its way through his chest—he hears the sound of footsteps, closing the distance between the kitchen and the living room—nonono—
Logan steps over to crouch in front of him, concern in his eyes. He pushes Virgil’s headphones carefully to the side as he kneels down. “Virgil, are you okay?”
“Mmf…” Virgil manages a noise, taut and vague and half-muffled by the cushions. He feels it thrum with a distorted rumble in his chest. No.
Logan seems to understand. He always understands. His expression softens a little, his eyes still worried, and he leans back as if to analyze.
“Is it all right if I touch you?” he asks, his voice low. Virgil bites out another noise, moving his head against the pillow in a jerky nod.
Logan takes his hand, squeezing it gently. The sensation overrides the numbness in his fingers, breaking through the fuzz of pins and needles. It’s grounding.
Logan’s voice continues, quiet and steady. “I’m right here with you. Focus on your breathing. In for four…”
The ritual is familiar. Logan counts, guiding him patiently along. Logan tethers him and helps him breathe, slow and gentle and patient—even now, even though they’ve both gone through this so many times, even though it’s still happening, even though he should be better—
“—Virgil, Virgil.” Logan squeezes his hand again, pulling him back. “It’s all right. Stay here with me. I need you to focus on your breathing.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, closer this time. Virgil screws his eyes shut, huffing a shaky breath, furious at himself. He tries.
In for four…
There was a problem syncing to this—
It’s okay. Hold for seven…
Out for eight…
Slowly, it starts to get easier. Logan keeps counting with him, and he feels the knot in his chest unwind as he follows along and breathes. He hears footsteps at one point, and a quiet, inquisitive voice, which Logan assuages away with a similarly soft reply.
Virgil breathes, and after a few minutes he starts to feel better. He heaves a sigh and finds with a vague sense of relief that it only trembles a little. He squeezes his hand around Logan’s.
“Mmm,” he manages, testing his voice. It works with him, fortunately, and he doesn’t feel it distort anymore. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Logan nods, that glimmer of worried attentiveness still in his eyes. “Take your time; there isn’t any rush.”
Virgil resists the urge to groan. God, he’s a mess. Logan’s words trail off, but Virgil can hear the unspoken questions in his tone.
What happened? Do you know what brought this on?
Virgil sighs again. It's bound to come eventually, so he might as well get it over with.
“M’ headphones.” Virgil gestures limply with his free hand to the device by Logan’s knee. He feels bad, now, for letting it fall to the ground. “Won’t connect.”
“I see.” Logan purses his lips, and Virgil can almost visibly track him putting the pieces together in his head. “And you were out with Thomas a significant deal in the last few hours…”
Virgil closes his eyes. “Mm-hmm.”
Logan sighs. He traces a circle into the back of Virgil’s hand with his thumb. “I understand. It’s been an exhausting day, and I imagine the stressors began piling up.”
“Mmm…”
It sort of seems like Logan wants to know more, but he restrains himself for the moment. New footsteps round the corner from the kitchen, and Virgil opens his eyes. His gaze wanders over to see Patton coming to stand close to the armrest, a look that’s soft and similar to Logan’s on his face. He stoops to run a warm hand through Virgil’s hair.
“Hey, kiddo,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry it’s hard today. We’ve got cookies in the oven, and they’ll be ready in four minutes if you want some.”
Virgil manages a smile, through the post-panic crust and exhaustion on his face. “Thanks, Dad.”
After another minute or so Virgil sits up, letting Logan help him. He rubs his eyes, not caring about his makeup—it’s probably mostly long gone, anyway—and takes a deep breath. Logan summons him a blanket.
The wind has died down, he can hear, outside. Patton’s moving away, now, and Logan’s talking to him again, but Virgil doesn’t really pay attention. He tries to push away the lingering discomfort and sink into their familiar presence, but he can’t fully unwind the knot of dread in his stomach.