Because now i have enough fics to have to compile them all in one place so there isn't much confusion. Watch me scramble to update this post like crazy. Links under the cut so this post stays relevant
•Oneshots:
Closed: The night after Deceit attempted to impersonate Patton, Virgil takes a hot shower to try and process seeing the other Dark Side again. Once he stepped out of the tub, though, somethings off with the room.
Colour: The three and only three times before the official “outfit change” Virgil wore color.
Late Night Pasta: Even after a few months of living with the main sides, he’s still getting used to the differences between his “family” and his famILY.
Flowers and Coffee Cups: In which Virgil works at the flower shop across the street from the café and accidentally obtains a crush on a cute artist who comes in to study flowers every week.
Hopeless: Virgil picks at every bump on his skin, and it only gets worse with his anxiety. The others start to notice.
Darkness: Anxiety’s Virgil’s journey from where he is today and where he was lost was a long, difficult, and dark one that all started with one thing: Darkness.
Virgil’s Old Notebooks: (technically not a oneshot) The highschool group of the famILY are all over at Virgil’s house because of either just hanging out or they are doing a group project, and Roman find’s Virgil’s very large pile of notebooks.
Sick of Being Weak: Virgil gets sick and he tries to hide it. It doesn’t go well.
Blooming Roses: Logan shares a piece of information about Virgil that he found out from another source with the rest of the Sides. Things do not go as planned. (collaboration with @phandom-puppet)
Someone to Comfort: Three times Patton comforted Roman, and one it was the other way around. (written for the tsfanfic exchange)
empty: Logan’s tired of feeling useless, of always being so sorry, of not being able to let anyone in, of feeling so empty. So, he tests his last theory.
Voluntary Apnea: ap·ne·a | noun | temporary cessation of breathing, especially during sleep
Stargazing Lovers: Virgil was having a disaster of a day. That somewhat changed when he went for a late-night walk, bent on stargazing.
•Chaptered Fics:
-Early Saturday: Early Saturday afternoon, Patton is making breakfast when Virgil comes down into the kitchen much earlier than normal. He knows something is wrong with the other side right away, but he doesn’t know what or how to help. (part one, part two, part three, part four)
-Ivity and Anx Masterlist: Virgil and Roman hate each other to the core of their beings, but both become friends with a new stranger via the Sarrahas Project. Virgil takes to Creativity like Roman does to Anxiety, but they don’t know the true identity of the ones they are slowing falling for.
OOO WHAT ABOUT WILDER
his name was originally gonna be oliver and that keeps the same feel and- no. no it wont work. wilder entrances this image of a tough guy and my main character is. not that... to himself at least. hes really strong but like he doesnt believe it
Summary: Somewhere before Roman posted Psychic to YouTube, but after he and Virgil had their falling out, Roman goes into the studio to pitch a song.
Warnings: Mention of parental abuse (in passing), homophobia, music/music label, slight Roman angst
Word count: 4571
Pairings: Slowburn Prinxiety
A/N: im back from the dead! this was a chapter i had written after chapter twelve, but before @lovecrazyjennybear and i started writing chapter thirteen. this originally was gonna be chapter thirteen but that got scrapped for the actual chapter thirteen we had. i still like how it turned out, so i thought i’d post it! though, it does bring some continuity into question so just like. don’t think too hard about it, i guess? taglist at the end
masterlist
It was cold. It was usually cold in here though, so that’s precisely why he was wearing a jacket. But then again it wasn't a very heavy jacket, considering that if it was, it would be a pain to lug around once he got into the second room he was going to be waiting in. That room was warm. Roman didn’t mind it being warm in the recording studio; he assumed it was for the instruments and it wasn't too hot to harm his singing. What really bothered him was the coldness of the waiting room. Although, the label probably had it that way just to weed out the weaklings.
Prospect clients and interns would wait for their interviews in a room that was incredibly cold to see who could stand the shivering temperature. Whoever stayed the longest without complaining was the one with the most determination and would be considered to be hired. Or it could have been some weird method of punishment for Roman, considering this was the only room in the building that was cold, and even then it usually wasn't this cold. He hadn't been writing “quality songs” lately and soon would be forced to sing a song that was written by about ten different people. Roman swore he would never go that low in his career.
With that thought, Roman’s leg began to bounce. Whether it was from being cold or nervousness, a passersby couldn't tell. If you looked into Roman’s psyche, though, you could conclude that Roman was indeed very nervous. He was about to propose a new song to his producer, and he was scared. He had presented two other songs, one called “Vigilant” and the other “Gone Again.” He was writing about (surprise surprise) Virgil, and his producer did not take kindly to what seemed like love songs from a boy to a boy. Princey was as cishet as you could get, and Roman was not fond of it. Roman was also not fond of his producer’s blatant homophobia, but he was still here for some reason. (Oh right, the main reason was his Ma’s encouragement, her voice saying not to throw away his biggest shot).
Instead of keeping his gaze down by his bouncing feet, Roman took a moment to survey the room. He wasn’t the only one kept waiting, but that was expected. At a place as popular as this, there was always someone in this freezing waiting room. Off to the side on the very edge of the room was a teen in overalls at most a year younger than Roman. They were alone with their gaze locked on the floor, looking concentrated and fearful as they clutched onto a tan ukulele. An auditioner. Moving his head to the other side of the room, Roman caught the eye of a woman who seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She gave a polite smile and a tilt of her head, recognition flashing through her eyes. He returned the smile with a twitch upwards of his eyebrows in politeness before she tore her gaze away to the other, slightly younger, woman sitting next to her. They both were dressed in professional looking clothing with a purse and a briefcase respectively sitting by their feet. Job applicants.
“Ah, Princey, how nice to see you.” A voice interrupted Roman’s internal monologue, prompting him to look toward the exit of the room. Standing there in all her glory was Ms. Davidson. Her story was quite inspiring to Roman, and was really the only reason he could stand her. Despite the difficulties, she managed to build a career of producing for herself from the ground up. Her devotion to her job landed her in the most successful position at Vidomen Records, and you could tell by the way she held herself.
Her long blonde hair was slicked back and held in a high bun on the back of her head. Ms. Davidson’s professional appearance only started there, though. She was fully decked out in a woman’s suit, complete with the blouse, jacket, tight pencil skirt, and small heels. She held her head high, a signifying factor that she basically ran everything that had to do with music in the city. Roman was lucky to have been noticed by her. With a fleeting glance at the teen in the corner, he hoped that they would be noticed by her too.
“Afternoon, my fair lady,” Roman spoke in grandeur, standing up and doing an extravagant half-bow. This made the teen in the corner laugh and Ms. Davidson let out an exasperated sigh. He was well aware of her love-hate relationship with the royal, grandeur act of Princey, but she continued with her half smile all the same. The two women in business suits perked up as well. His job as Princey paid off in just that: making the room lighter and feel warmer than before.
“I see you have your guitar with you. You plan to play it?” The producer questioned with a inquisitive tap of her pen on the clipboard she carried. That thing was always on her person or by her side. Roman didn’t think he’d ever seen her without it before.
“Why, of course!” Roman made a show of turning around and grabbing the beat up guitar case, holding the neck of it to his chest. “My faithful companion will surely make the soothing, but none the less exciting, new song that I have prepared for you today, my liege.”
“Tone it down there, Princey. Let’s hear it.” Ms. Davidson responded with a tilt of her head backwards to the way she came. Roman knew she didn’t mean for him to turn down the act. In fact, he only smiled wider, picked up his case, and pulled himself up to his full height. It was nothing but putting on his best, most flamboyant self.
“Right away, Ms. You lead on.” Roman spared a wink and a smile to the nervous teen, who upon that final glance, looked much more comfortable. He steeled himself afterward, following Ms. Davidson out of the room, away from the cold, and back to where the warm recording studios stood waiting.
~•~
It took a bit of fidgeting, but finally Roman was settled comfortably in the recording booth. He had his ‘67 C-O-Classic Gibson guitar resting on his leg with headphones over his ears. He took a moment to run his left hand up and down the neck, then his right over the face of the body of the guitar. It was his grandfather’s guitar, the one he learned to play on by the same man before he died. Ms. Davidson had tried to get him to play a different guitar, a newer one with “better sound,” but he couldn’t give up the sentimental value of this one. Before him was a microphone with a similar one mic-ing the guitar. It was a familiar set up to when he first was recording demos, but those never made it to the public. He hoped with shaking hands that Ms. Davidson would accept this raw song as it was. He almost needed it to stay this raw.
Roman wouldn’t admit it, but he was beginning to fear for his career. The image of Princey was straying too far from its roots in Roman Prince, the guitar playing boy with too many feelings to keep inside of him. All his songs lately consisted of emotionless lyrics aimed to get into the heads of heartbroken teens. They tried to consul what may have been broken through what sounded like heartfelt words from a heartfelt boy in love. But every time he sang baby, his heart broke and voice cracked. Today, though, he would play directly from his heart and hope that it would be enough. Roman wanted to be enough.
“Okay, you good there Princey, my man?” the cheerful, slightly slurred voice of the sound mixer filled Roman’s ears as he heard it over the speakers inside the soundproof room.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Andre,” Roman liked the dark skinned man that usually mixed his songs. He was basically cool with anything, so it wasn't Andre he needed to impress. “Oh, and this is called When I’m Without, by the way.”
And then, Roman started playing a more complex picking pattern, his fingers on his other hand swiftly changing between chords. Soon after, his heart-wrenching, emotion filled voice sang out into the mic,
“When will you see that I care
When will I dream better ideas
When will you see that I am sorry
For everything, for everything
When will you learn my thoughts
When will I help your faults
When will all this be better than before?”
The musician paused before he went into the chorus, going over the chord set twice for a moment of just music,
“Or should I just lay here
Or should I just stay here
Wandering without
Wondering when.
“Without you here it's colder than before
Without your fear we could be warm once more
Without you now I’m so sorry
For everything, for everything
Without your care I am broken
Without our talks I am weak
Without me you must be better off.”
Roman paused again, waiting the same amount of chords before turning back to the chorus again. After, he sang the bridge and plunged right into the second verse afterward.
“Stay here with me
Until the night fades away
Stay until the night turns to grey
And midnight passes without a sound
And we only realize how long we’ve been on the ground
As daylight breaks.
“Laying here I have trouble
But going away there it will be
Staying here my heart wobbles
But going away there it will be
How do I say?
How do I say I’m sorry?
This isn't a break up
So why does my heart hurt so hard?”
There suddenly was a moment of quiet, the last chord plucked and note sung ringing in the air. It wasn’t long, but it was enough to make the listener take in the last line of the last verse. Just as quickly as the plucking stopped, it began again to take the chorus from the top again. Something was different about this chorus, though. The notes were held longer, as if Roman didn’t want to let them slip away into the unforgiving nothingness of the world.
“Or should I just lay here
Or should I just stay here
Wandering without
Wondering when.”
After Roman picked the last chord in unison, there was a long moment of pure silence. He let it ring out and touch the walls of the recording booth, much like the momentary pause before the last chorus, but it was somehow different. It lasted longer than the small pause and extended outward in last desperation to be heard. In this frozen frame of a minute, Roman looked around at who was in the room from underneath the hair that had fallen in his face at some point during his playing.
Andre was sitting still, the cross around his neck swinging slightly without its owner’s bodily momentum. His hands were still holding onto two different knobs on the sound mixer, but it looked as though he hadn’t made the move to change them in quite a while. His mouth was slightly open, brown eyes wide and staring at Roman. From where she stood in the corner, Ms. Davidson wasn’t fairing much better. Her almost always writing pen stood frozen in an upright position, as if she intended to write but forgot completely what her line of thought was. The finger’s that held onto the clipboard were doing so with a harsh grip. So harsh, in fact, that Roman was almost positive that he could see the whites of her knuckles. Her face was pure concentration, but the musician thought he saw a hint of remembrance behind the eyes that were staring at him.
Roman shifted his fleeting gaze again to see a new person standing in the doorway. His head perked up slightly when he saw the unexpected guest, but it was only out of pure curiosity. The man who stood leaning up against the doorpost was quite tall, but looked to be slightly shorter than Roman. He wore casual clothing, just a t-shirt and jeans, and his hair was a magenta-leaning purple. He was a stunning difference from Ms. Davidson, the collected professional who didn’t let her emotions get the best of her. He had a grin plastered on his face, and upon being noticed by Roman, he entered the room clapping. He said something to Andre, who broke out of his stupor and frantically fumbled to the other side of the sound board to turn on the mic so that the musician inside the sound-proof area could hear what was going on. The man leaned down over the long and bendy mic, taking it in his hands to get it closer to his face. Upon seeing this, Andre gave up his spinney chair to the man. He went to go find another one as the man started talking.
“Hey, Princey,” the man began with a large smile on his face. “Tell me more about this song of yours.”
Roman was certainly surprised when the unknown man asked to know more about his song. Ms. Davidson was still standing in the corner and made no move to interfere with the man who had taken over Andre’s spinney chair. She was glaring daggers, and her pen was moving again, but she made no attempt to dispel Roman’s confusion. Which he had a lot of.
Who was this man? How did he hear Roman’s song? How is he able to not upset Ms. Davidson into a lecture? What was he doing in the booth? Why did he want to know more about the song? Why did he call me by Princey? Did he not know my actual name? Why was his hair purple? How does he have the power to take over Andre’s spinney chair? That’s a power not even Ms. Davidson has.
The confusion was well put on his face, spreading across every feature. In his eyes and the way he squinted them, in his mouth and the way it pulled into a downwards half-smile. In his eyebrows and forehead and the way they scrunched up, with his nose and the way the nostrils flared, there was confusion.
“I have a feeling you have questions. Written all across your face.” The man moved one hand to gesture circles around his face on the last sentence. But yet another question asked: which questions should he vocalize?
“I apologize for my confusion. I don’t believe we’ve formally met! I would go shake your hand but,” Roman gestured to the guitar and the headphones on his head. “I’m a bit tied up in here.” He didn’t want to allude to the fact of how confused he was right now. He didn’t need this person to come in judging Roman, just as he was going to be judged for something else: his song. So he put up the royal, flamboyant façade of Princey. It would protect him. It always protected him.
“Oh! I forgot, we haven’t actually met yet, right. The name’s Thomas Sanders; I own Videmon Records.” The man, now identified as Thomas, spoke with a large smile on his face. Roman’s confusion dropped, several questions in his head being answered.
He’s Thomas Sanders, the owner of the record label, which meant he probably had a control center to see what songs were being recorded and where. It was most likely a way to keep him involved with the singers signed to his label, and he would check up on the ones he liked the most. Since he was the owner, that meant that he was Ms. Davidson’s boss, so she couldn’t lecture him if she wanted to keep her job. Andre relinquished the spinney chair because Thomas was the most powerful person here. The laidback sound mixer could have his job taken away if he didn’t do what Mr. Sanders wanted.
Wait.
Mr. Sanders? As in, the same last name as Virgil? As in, the reason why he was interested in the song was because it was about his son? A rush of ice cold fear traveled down Roman’s spine, replacing the flamboyant look with wide eyes and a pale face. Mr. Sanders, who did awful, awful things to Anxiety?
“You okay, Princey?” The voice coming over the speakers inside the booth asked in a very concerned tone. “You went all silent. You don’t have to be afraid of me! I’m probably the most laid back person here,” Andre snickered. “Well, beside Andre.”
“Oh, I, uh,” Roman’s grip on his guitar tightened. “My apologies if this is too personal of a question, Mr.… Mr. Sanders, but do you by chance have a son?” The musician managed to half whisper, eyes still wide and trained on the man’s purple hair. It was almost the exact same shade as Virgil’s.
“Nope! I can’t really have kids because…” He trailed off, giving an eye flicker to Ms. Davidson. “I do have a nephew though. I never get to see him anymore, but I’m pretty sure he still dyes his hair like mine.” Roman let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The possibility of the impossible still stuck in his mind, in the very back of his head where all theories about Virgil lived. He would take it out later, probably that night, as he lay awake in bed. But not now. Now was time for music.
“Okay, just… Never mind. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sanders!” Roman smirked, the Princey persona back on full force.
“Ah, cut it with that! Call me Thomas. Now, this song of yours is very powerful, raw. It suits your baritone voice amazingly, which is good because there’s too many tenor stars out there if you ask me,” Thomas laughed, situating himself on the chair. “I won’t ask who it’s written about, because that’s probably personal, but is it written from personal experience?”
Roman swallowed heavily, begrudgingly allowing his smirk to fall from his face. Instead, a sheepish look took its place. “Yeah. I uh, something recent happened and now I’m venting through songs like the good old days.”
Thomas’s lips pressed into a thin line, but it was quickly removed by another smile. His eyes shone with worry, acceptance, and understanding. It was nice to see that kind of understanding grace the face of someone who technically speaking, was his boss. “It’s a healthy coping mechanism, at least,” The man began, then leaned forward as a confused look spread across his face. “Why do you say ‘like the good old days?’ You write all your own songs, right?”
Roman’s blood instantly ran cold. Was this some sort of trap? An elaborate ruse to make me feel comfortable, only to chew me out for writing a song that didn’t fit the princely persona that Ms. Davidson and I have crafted? His mind was reeling with those implications. Did Ms. Davidson want to reprimand me for breaking my contract that badly?
Instead of voicing any of these thoughts out loud like an idiot would do, Roman’s gaze flickered from Thomas to Ms. Davidson, then back again several more times. “I mean, I guess I do…” he started, moving his hand from his guitar to scratch at the back of his head. “But my fangirls mostly want love songs from me, stuff they can relate to or think I’m singing to them, and upbeat stuff, and this isn't that? Nor was the last two songs I proposed?”
The change on Thomas’s face was almost instant. It flitted through what seemed to be the five stages of grief in less than three seconds, before settling on cool anger and frustration. The man’s eyes were hard, cold and raw with the anger stored there. His lips quirked up in a small smile, but not one of joy. With a clenched jaw, Thomas blinked once, then turned from facing Roman to Ms. Davidson.
The usually-put-together woman seemed to be falling apart at the seems. Her pen was loose in her hand, and her clipboard was limp at her side. Her usually straight poster had slackened, and her eyes were wide. It didn’t seem much of a difference, but Ms. Davidson was not one to put away her professional aura, even for a moment.
“Sharleen.” Thomas’s voice sliced through the silence that had stilled after Roman spoke. It was sharp as a knife with a cutting edge. “Why haven’t you approved his other two songs?”
Ms. Davidson tightened her grip on her pen. Or, Sharleen, apparently. The idea of a first name of his producer put Roman off-kilter. Even after working with her for so long, Roman hadn’t known her first name this entire time.
“They were, as Princey said, not the type of music we release for his Princey persona. They were like that one,” Ms. Davidson pointed to Roman with her pen. “Sad, slow, and quite honestly, depressing,” Thomas opened his mouth as if to rebuttal what Ms. Davison had said, but before he could talk, Ms. Davidson barreled on. “In addition to that, the first was a love song with male pronouns, and the second used masculine language to describe the lover who broke his heart. Princey is straight.” She said the word like she was throwing it out of her mouth, as if anything else would have been a complete and utter travesty.
That, apparently, was the completely incorrect thing to say, as Thomas stood from the spinney chair so quickly that it slid across the room and bumped into the wall. He put his hands together and pressed them to his lips. It almost looked as though he were praying, or about to do that ancient “BOI” meme. He took a sharp intake of breath before letting it go in an unamused laugh. “How many of his songs have you declined because of those two reasons?”
Ms. Davidson snapped her mouth shut, pursing her lips. Upon receiving no answer from Ms. Davidson, who apparently finally got it into her head that she said something wrong, Thomas turned to Roman. “Well? Roman? How many?”
Roman, both not ready to be caught in whatever fight this was and surprised at being addressed by his actual name, blanked for a second. His mouth was slightly agape, to which he immediately closed it upon realization. He started counting in his head, looking up to the ceiling to find his answer. After a few moments, he settled. “At least fifteen? Maybe more? Eight or so for the whole… masculine pronoun thing in the beginning, but don’t worry, I’ve learned to write my songs gender neutral. Besides, well, the last two I guess.”
Thomas looked ready to murder someone. Roman hoped it wouldn’t be him.
“You’re fired.”
“What?” Roman’s breath stalled in his lungs, his voice a barely-there whisper, his eyes wide at the man before him. His heart was breaking into a million different pieces, his dream shattering right before him. All he ever wanted was to write music, to sing and be heard, and now that apparently was being taken away from him.
Before he could get into any more of a spiral, Thomas’s eyes scrunched closed. “Sorry, not you, Roman. Forgot to turn away from you.” Thomas then proceeded to do just that, and turned away from Roman to face the other two beyond the glass. “Sharleen, you’re fired.”
“What?!” Ms. Davidson shrieked, dropping her clipboard to the ground. “You can’t fire me, Sanders. I made this studio what it is now. You’re lost without me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Thomas spit, the anger rolling off of him in waves. “This label was thriving even before you came along. I can thrive without you again. You know full well that I’m gay, yet you restrict my artists based on homophobia?” Roman took a sharp intake of breath as everything he knew about this studio crumpled around him. Videmon Records never was homophobic. It was Ms. Davidson. “I would rather fire Andre–who, by the way, is the best sound-mixer this label has ever seen–then allow you to continue working here another moment. You’re fired.”
With that monologue out of the way, Thomas turned back to Roman, not watching Ms. Davidson stalk out of the room. She bumped into Andre on her way out, the dark skinned man throwing his arms up in exasperation. Focusing back on the owner, Roman could see that his jaw was no longer clenched, and his facial expression was much softer now.
“I am so, so completely sorry that you had to see that,” He started, running his hand over his face. “I’ll be taking over as your producer, and we’ll see to your contract to change whatever homophobic and, creative-phobic? Sure. Whatever is stopping you from releasing songs like this one. I’ll make sure those are written out of your contract. And any other questionable things Sharleen had put in there.” Thomas paused again, hanging his head. “If I had known she was restricting you like that, I would never have allowed her to produce for you. To work here. Who knows how many other artists here that she saw over were bound like that. This is supposed to be a queer-friendly label. I’m queer, goodness gracious.”
Roman took several deep breaths in a row, following the pattern that Virgil had given him. “It’s alright. It's… It’s nice to know that Videmon Records wasn’t the one putting all that in my contract. Nice to know that the owner is gay like me.” Roman paused, then cringed in on himself. He had not meant to say that out loud. “I mean- well-”
“It’s alright if you are.” Andre’s voice pierced through the speakers in the recording studio. He apparently walked over to where Thomas was when Roman wasn’t looking. Andre had one hand on Thomas’s back, smoothing it up and down in comforting motions.
“Yeah, but, well,” Roman groaned, leaning back on his stool. “So many of my fans are girls. Like. The majority of them. I don’t think I could ever publicly come out as only liking guys without my career turning to shambles.”
“I…” Thomas stuttered, breathing heavily in a pattern that seemed similar to the one that Roman just used. “I’m so sorry that we’ve put you in this position. At the very least, you can come out as liking men, and I will no doubt see to it that your songs with he/him pronouns are green-lit. But that is… a conversation for another day. You’re here to pitch songs.”
“S..songs? As in plural?”
“Yes.” Thomas looked up to Andre and nodded his head. Andre nodded back before going to retrieve his spinney chair. “I would like it if you could play, at the very least, the other two recent songs that you pitched to Sharleen. I wanna hear them.”
Roman smiled, a true and genuine thing. It spread across his face in such a way his Princey smiles never could, full of joy and anticipation. He resituated himself on his stool, got his guitar in place again, and leaned into the mic.
i was going to post a particular fic, an original writing that i asked about posting to yall before (if you wanted it to be an original work or a fanfiction) but as i was changing the names i got hit with? inspiration? to write more of it? and expand on what i already had? so now im. not gonna do that. post, i mean. im gonna write more of it in its originality and hopefully use that as a wrecking ball to start my career as an author. because the magic system is both simple and original, the story is the same way, the world is new and interesting, and yeah i think i might actually be able to turn this into a book
Rain. Virgil loved it when it rained because of a multitude of reasons. When it rained, the sky was cloudy, and that meant that the bright, ever-blinding sun was gone. It was cold when water poured down from the sky, which meant that Virgil could wear his hoodie without any questioning. The sound of the rain pouring down on the roof and window were a comfort to him as well, which meant that his anxiety was at ease. Lastly, the rain produced a particular smell after it drenched the pavement, which was another great comfort to him about rain. Rain meant something to Virgil, and he certainly didn’t mind walking in it. He didn’t mind getting wet, getting cold, because that was just another reminder that he was, indeed, alive.
One thing that Virgil loved doing when it rained ever since he was a kid was jumping into puddles. Due to his anxiety that someone would be watching him and make fun of him for it, he didn’t do it often anymore. This didn’t completely stop him, however. Any time he knew there was no one else at home, he would go into the backyard and find the biggest puddle he could and jump in it.
Another reason he didn’t go jumping in puddles anymore was that he rarely wore his rain boots in public. He loved them, but they did nothing to help his anxiety. The black boots his best friend Patton got him had small purple rain clouds with lightning bolts coming out of them. They were a great match for Virgil’s personality, but not for his desire to not draw attention to himself. Virgil would only wear them out in public if he were out with Patton, as his rain boots were a generic bright yellow with a light blue clasp and sole.
Luckily for Virgil at this very moment, he was home alone, and the rain was pouring down harder than ever. He wanted to go and let out his childish side, but he couldn’t find his rain boots anywhere. He looked in every closet, cupboard, nook, and cranny to find the rubber shoes, but he was unable to. That fact alone made a weight of guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. Patton would be devastated if he found out that Virgil had lost the boots he gave him. The two always wore their rain boots out when they were together and it was rainy or wet. Virgil didn’t want to let him down, but here he was, unable to find what he was looking for.
Being the only person in the house that cared about cleanliness, he was usually the person who did all the cleaning. Virgil liked a clean house because an uncluttered space made his anxiety calm down. When he knew where things were, he was happy, but he currently did not know where his rain boots were. Therefore, he was not happy. Virgil didn’t understand where they could have gone. As mentioned, he was the only one who cleaned, so someone else wouldn’t have moved them anyway.
He knew that his anxiety would not help him in finding the boots. Virgil also knew that doing something repetitive like cleaning would help him relax enough to start thinking logically. He looked around for something that needed to be cleaned and noticed a couple of dishes still in the sink. With a sigh, Virgil got to work on making sure they were spotless. Once that task was complete, he felt calmer and level headed, so he began thinking of the last place he had seen the boots.
From what he could remember, the last time he wore them was when he went for a walk in the rain with Patton. Walks with Patton lead to puddle splashing, which usually leads to muddy boots. Where do muddy boots go? The garage. With that unclear memory in mind, he decided to attempt to find them in the garage.
After at least two hours of searching, Virgil found nothing. He looked everywhere in the garage from the high racks to the low crates. He could not, for the life of him, find his rain boots. At this point, Virgil had no motivation left to continue to look in the garage. The sun had probably set a while ago, so it was even colder in the non-insulated garage than before. To top that off, it wasn’t even raining anymore. Tired, stressed, unmotivated, and guilty, Virgil decided to retreat to his bathroom with his towel in hand.
With a sigh, Virgil turned on the water until it was nearly scalding hot. He then stepped into his shower, knowing full well that he would spend more time contemplating than actually showering. It was easy to with the water cascading down his back, and the darkness smothering his eyes. Virgil couldn’t bear to turn on the light, not when (in combination with other things) the night was so beautiful. He loved the night, the dark, so he reveled in it. The dark was where even he couldn’t see his own flaws.
After the water grew cold, Virgil stepped out, wrapping himself into his towel. Once he made it into his room, he noticed the clouds that once had covered the sky were no more. Without the heavy cover, the stars showed themselves to be shining brightly in the night air. Even though the puddle jumping was a failure, it didn’t mean he still couldn’t try and enjoy the day. The anxious boy could almost hear Patton’s voice in his head, saying that one bad experience doesn’t make an entire day irretrievable. Changing into black sweats, a black shirt, and his hoodie, Virgil made his way outside and towards a hill near his house to practice some Astronomy.
When he reached the peak, however, there was already someone there.
The person’s back was facing Virgil, clad in some sort of dark collared shirt. The figure turned around in an instant, probably in response to Virgil’s footsteps on the grass or his breathing that was becoming heavier as the seconds ticked on. The whites of the hoodie-clad boy’s eyes were astoundingly exposed, unblinking irises expanding tenfold at the star-lit face of the intruder of Virgil’s safe place.
The first thing that Virgil saw was the glint of the moonlight reflecting off of glasses. His first thought was of Patton, but when the light faded, Virgil tensed.
It was Logan. Logan Sanders, the biggest nerd who was top of Virgil’s class. The boy who never got below 95% on any assignment; the seemingly friendless tutor who no one ever saw outside of anything academic in nature. Logan, who usually was seen wearing some kind of formal attire, whether it be only a tie or up to a three-piece suit. This was the boy who expressed his few and far between emotions with his catchphrase “falsehood” screamed at the top of his lungs. Normally the accusation used to that caliber happened during a debate when someone would present a lie as factual, knowingly or otherwise.
Honestly, this guy was strangely calming to Virgil when he wasn’t fuming at other’s stupidity during an argument. He was calm, at least from a distance. Virgil never fully interacted with him before, keeping Logan and anyone else at an arm’s length. But Logan didn’t look down on people for not knowing something. He didn’t barrage people for not having the same understanding as him, instead helping the person see the problem clearer. He was a Logician, working on facts but never discarding emotions and experiences.
Virgil swayed on his feet, realizing that he had been staring at Logan for too long to be socially acceptable.
“You were in my Astronomy class last year, weren’t you?” Virgil blinked when Logan broke the silence. Logan took a small step closer to Virgil, tilting his head in curiosity.
“I… uh,” Virgil stuttered out, internally cursing himself. He made his feet take a half-a-step closer to Logan despite the churning in his stomach. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat, trying to ignore the tension in his chest. “Yeah.”
Virgil clenched his jaw, disappointment in himself growing for how lamely he ended that pathetic excuse for a sentence. Logan seemed to notice this with a blink and a relaxing of his shoulders.
“Logan Sanders.” Logan offered his left hand gently, keeping it relaxed and pointed downwards slightly. Virgil was grateful for the fact that his other hand was still in sight.
“Um. Virgil,” His left hand shakily escaped from his hoodie pocket. Virgil almost wanted to scoff at Logan introducing himself, as if they didn’t share a year-long course together the year prior. Then again, Virgil had no idea how people usually introduced each other. With a harsh blink and a cringe in on himself, the uneasy boy registered that he didn’t give his last name as Logan had. “Virgil Casey.” The two hands met in the middle of the space between the two of them, and clasped together gently for a handshake.
“Salutations, Virgil,” Logan released Virgil’s hand, taking a step back. One foot was still facing Virgil, but the other was pointed toward a telescope that Virgil hadn’t noticed before. His body was half facing the other boy, yet still slightly away from him. “I suppose you came up here to look at the stars as well?”
Virgil nodded, putting his hand back in his coat pocket. “If you would like, I’d be willing to show you some constellations.” Logan blinked at how fast Virgil’s head snapped upwards from its downward position at his words.
“I know some,” Virgil’s voice hardened as his words cut defensively.
“I didn’t mean to say you don’t know any,” Logan’s voice was low, the vibrations from his words a soft hum. Virgil didn’t notice that he walked close enough to Logan to appreciate the cadence of his voice. “I was merely asking if you would like to be shown some more?”
“Oh. Um. Sure?” He didn’t mean the last word to be a question, but that’s how it came out. Forever unsure of himself, Virgil frequently made statements sound more like questions. It was one of the many things he disliked about himself, come to think of it. Virgil wrapped his arms around his torso, clawing his fingers tightly around his jacket sleeves.
Logan motioned to his telescope in a way of invitation, nodding his head toward it with the gesture. “I have this positioned to be able to see Apus.”
Virgil’s feet (not clad in his rain boots, something that still made his stomach turn) moved without his consent until they stopped in front of the telescope. He glanced away from the man beside him, settling his eyes on the telescope. “To see what now?”
“Apus. It is the exotic bird, or the bird-of-paradise, in the sky. Its name is Greek for ‘without feet’ because the Greek people once believed the bird-of-paradise did not have feet.” Logan took half a step back from his machine, allowing Virgil to take his place in front of it. It was a beautiful device, the most beautiful that Virgil had ever seen. The base color was black, the metal dark yet shining in the starlight. It had accents of dark blue it seemed, though it was difficult to tell in the dark. There were also silver linings on the telescope, pulling everything together into beauty.
“Oh my fucking god,” Virgil stepped up to line himself with the telescope. He let some of his anxiety go, wishing upon himself smoother emotions. “You are such a nerd.” Virgil leaned in to look into the telescope.
“Roman seems to enjoy calling me that,” Logan commented, more to himself that to Virgil. While Logan and Roman weren’t exactly friends, they did have a friendly rivalry going in their English class.
“He’s a prep who rules the school. It’s almost like it’s ingrained into his DNA or something,” Virgil didn’t look away from the telescope, enjoying the star shape he’d never knew existed. “Any other stars you wanna show me?”
Logan enjoyed Virgil’s enthusiasm at learning about space. It was something he knew plenty of. The two continued to look at different constellations long into the night. Virgil sometimes asking to know more information than Logan first gave on a particular group of stars. Before either of them knew it the two had talked until it was nearly morning.
Logan was the first to notice the time. “I will definitely need to correct my Circadian Rhythm seeing as it is 5 am.”
“Fuck, is it really?”
“I would not lie about that. It appears that I need to return home in order to get ready to go.”
Virgil squinted his eyes in confusion. It was now early Saturday morning, so where did Logan need to go to? “Where are you going if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My family is taking a day trip to the museum.”
Virgil looked at him. “Well I think you’ll have fun. Especially since you like the history and science stuff.”
“I agree it should be enjoyable.”
The two waited in silence for many moments more, both reluctant to leave the hilltop. Unbenounced to Virgil, Logan was apprehensive to leave. He didn’t want to leave Virgil–the boy who yelled and hissed and hit back but shook with fear once it was over–alone in this secluded place when it was still nightfall. Virgil didn’t want to leave because of a similar reason, but also because of the time. In about an hour, the sun would rise, and seeing it’s rays slowly but surely peak over the horizon from way up here was the most beautiful thing that Virgil had ever seen.
That is, not counting that look in Logan’s eyes when he’s rambling about something he particularly enjoys.
“Are you coming?” Logan’s smooth, if not tired, voice pressed in through Virgil’s ears, causing him to remove his eyes from the horizon. The other had already packed up his telescope and was seemingly ready to leave the hilltop. Virgil’s heart plummeted. He was the reason he was still here?
“It’s a little early to leave, isn’t it?” Virgil said under his breath. He still didn’t want to return home. If he could, he would live the rest of his life inside this one moment.
“What do you mean?” Logan asked.
“It’s just… The sunrise is always a wonderful thing to see. The way the sky slowly changes colors from the darkness of night to the bright color of the morning is breathtaking,” He turned to look back at the skyline. “Don’t you want to see that?”
Logan just looked at Virgil for a few moments. He could see that Virgil truly loved the idea of watching the sunrise. It was also clear that Virgil didn’t want to go home, at least not yet. Why? Logan didn’t know, but he couldn’t leave the other boy up on this hill alone. With a quick look at his watch, Logan decided he could stay until the sunrise and not be late for the family trip.
“That does sound pleasant. I suppose we should stay for it.”
“Wait. Really?” Virgil asked
“Yes.” Logan put down his telescope case to further prove his point.
“Thank you,” Virgil started out, taking a deep breath before shifting to get comfortable sitting down on the grass. “When it’s past 5 am, there’s really no reason in going to bed anyway. Getting sleep messes with being able to sleep the next night so…”
“I take it you have sleepless nights often, then?” Logan countered as he sat down next to Virgil. Very close to him, Virgil noticed instantly. “That cannot be good for your health.”
“I try to avoid it, but it’s bound to happen.” Virgil put his arms around his knees, going silent as the faintest peaks of sunlight started to slide over the horizon. The sunrise was early today, he supposed.
The light was fascinating. It crawled slower than a snail’s pace, but it still lit up the sky as it did so. It grew and grew, creeping up and out of the hills with every passing moment. Soon, the grave the sun made for itself was opening wider, allowing a sliver of the sun to be shown. The sky had taken a golden hue near the horizon a long while ago, the gold rays of light infecting the dark navy sky and bringing it to life. It was a painfully slow process, but as Virgil watched it in silence with Logan by his side, he could never have asked for anything more.
The sun was up. It was now shining brightly just over the horizon. It hurt to look at now, but that wasn’t stopping Virgil. He still didn’t move.
“Is there,” Logan paused, swallowed, and shifted so he faced Virgil. “Is there a particular reason you haven’t departed yet?”
“Hmm?” Virgil hummed instead of giving a worded answer. He turned away from the cloud-obscured sun to look at Logan.
Logan’s lips were pursed, eyebrows tighter than before. It was odd for Virgil to see, especially since the boy’s face had been relaxed for the entirety of their night together. “You wished to see the sunrise. That seems to have ended several minutes ago yet you haven’t made any attempt to move.”
Virgil shifted to put his hands under his legs, sitting on the shaking fingers. “It’s just... peaceful up here.”
“It is.” Logan needlessly adjusted his glasses. There was a pause, then, slowly, “However… I believe that there is another reason.”
Air heavily released from Virgil’s lungs, blowing out of his nose as his body deflated. Even after only a night spent together, Logan was able to read him better than most others. Not including Patton (who’s gift of rain boots he had lost and hadn’t been able to find). He wasn’t sure that he could tell Logan the many reasons why he didn’t want to go yet. There wasn’t a specific one, really, but rather a list of anxieties weighing Virgil down to the hilltop. “Mom’s out of town on a business trip. I don’t enjoy being home alone.”
“And your father is out of town as well?” Logan’s voice barely lifted at the end, as if it were more of a statement than a question. That was a reasonable, logical thought. Most people assumed that their peers still had both parents, especially at this age.
Virgil’s eyes broke away from Logan’s form. They wandered back to the sky, then fixed downwards at his thighs. “My dad…” The words were heavy on his tongue. “He died a few years ago.”
His father’s death was a sore subject. It was something that he never talked about, even with Patton. The two had met after his dad’s passing, so Patton never knew Virgil with both parents at his side. Virgil was certain that Patton was still under the impression that his dad died when Virgil was a young child, not a struggling teenager.
Silence rang out into the night as if Logan was at a loss for words. He probably was, considering the odd breathing pattern coming from him. It sounded as if Logan was opening his mouth, then closing it again, several times. “I, well... I apologize, Virgil. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t know, Logan.”
The silence that had begun after Virgil revealed something personal persisted for longer. It wasn’t an uncomfortable, stifled silence like before. Actually, the silence was nearer to the comfortable calm when they watched the sunrise. However, after a fair few minutes, Logan broke the stillness. “Unfortunately, I do need to return home.”
Virgil’s head reluctantly straightened up, slowly turning to nod in confirmation. He hated that the wonderful time had to end. A squirming, crawling emotion slithered in his chest. What if he’d never have such an amazing, peaceful night again? And with someone was smart and kind as Logan? There would be an uneasy sense of finality in walking home now.
It felt as if the air knew that this was something that would never happen again.
Logan picked himself off from the ground, moving to grab his telescope case. Unbeknownst to Virgil, the blue-clad boy was deeply lost in thought. The previous night was one of the most pleasant and calming that he’d had in a while. The hilltop was perfect for watching the stars, which he knew. What Logan didn’t understand until then was how nice it was to find someone who was as passionate about astronomy as he was.
“Virgil?”
“Hmm?” Virgil hummed in response.
“I was wondering if you would like to join me up here again Sunday night? Or considering it is nearly six in the morning, tomorrow night. We are due for an eclipse and while they are very pleasing to see with the naked eye, they are absolutely astonishing to see with the telescope. And it allows you to see some of the stars that are positioned closer to the moon you cannot normally see due to the brightness.”
Virgil’s eyes widened at the invitation. Logan–intelligent, seemingly friendless Logan–had invited him to spend more time with him? This couldn’t be the same Logan he knew from school. He had to be possessed or overtaken by a ghost or something. There was no way that he’d want to spend time with anyone, let alone someone who was such a mess.
Noticing the panic that gathered in Virgil’s eyes, Logan reached out his free hand to gently touch Virgil’s shoulder. The action made the anxious one jump, tense, then relax in the span of a few seconds. He never would have considered that someone like Logan would want to touch someone like Virgil. Logan’s hand remained on top of Virgil’s shoulder, just under his hood.
“I enjoyed spending time with you, Virgil,” Logan offered a twitch upwards of his lips along with a softening of the lines around his eyes and forehead. “Our shared interest and easy-going interactions make me want to see you again.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Logan didn’t seem to mind that he had to constantly reassure Virgil of his anxieties. “I didn't realize that the night had passed because I enjoyed spending time with you. It’s rare to find someone with so much passion for something. You clearly love astronomy and wish to learn as much as possible. It’s refreshing actually.” The small smile never left Logan’s face.
Without realizing what he was doing, the anxious boy had wrapped his arms around Logan in a hug. When Logan didn’t initially return it, his thoughts started to get the better of him. He tensed, arms stiff but still around the boy who was practically a stranger. Why did he do that? Why did he think that was acceptable? Virgil probably just fucked up a good thing, didn’t he? Logan was merely being kind and he went and did something like that? He was such a dumbass.
Thankfully, a microsecond later, those anxieties were pushed aside slightly when he felt arms wrap around him. “Sorry,” Virgil said softly, wondering how that much of Patton had managed to rub off on him that he’d do something like that.
“It’s quite alright. I was just not expecting it.” Logan’s hands smoothed across Virgil’s back in a star pattern, as if he were drawing the shape. It was comforting, but the familiarity made tears begin to prick at Virgil’s eyes. His dad used to do that when he hugged his son.
Virgil blinked heavily. He tightened his grip on Logan, bunching the fabric of his shirt in his fingers. That level of hug lasted only a few seconds before Virgil loosened his arms. Both began to pull away.
“I guess, goodbye then?” Virgil mumbled, voice slightly wetter than he would have liked. It was slightly choked up, but thankfully Logan didn’t comment on it.
“It seems so.” Logan pulled his hands completely away from Virgil, their fingertips brushing for a moment. They stayed there, staring at each other, for a moment too long. Virgil cleared his throat, and Logan swallowed. His lips were turned upwards ever so slightly. “See you here tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Virgil shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. They were tingling for some reason that most definitely wasn’t anxiety. His mouth upturned into a smile to mirror Logan’s. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Logan echoed with a nod, then leaned down to pick up his telescope case. Virgil didn’t know when he had put it down. Both took a few steps away from each other with shuffling feet on the damp grass. Logan’s mouth parted, then quickly closed without further words. The four-eyed boy turned, let his feet begin to carry him away from (Virgil dare say) his newfound friend, before casting his head backward one last time.
The view he witnessed was incomprehensible.
Virgil stood just at the edge of the hill, teetering on the brink of disaster. The dim lighting of newborn sunlight didn’t allow Logan to see Virgil’s face in its entirety, but he perceived the most noticeable details. He looked calm, standing next to doom, face soft and blissful with the smallest of genuine smiles gracing his lips. The wind had picked up at some point, allowing the dark locks of the anxious one’s hair to float just so. His unzipped jacket was fluttering in the breeze as well. Jingles of the tiniest variety sounded from the zipper clinking against metal. The sun, partially blocked by clouds, shown vibrantly from behind. The rays that escaped the warmly colored sky protruded out from Virgil as a hollow of light.
“Goodbye, Virgil.” Logan found himself saying, breathless.
“Bye, Logan.” Virgil tipped his fingers off his forehead in a salute, his smile infinite in the sunlight. Logan turned away once more, his own smile growing exponentially, feelings in both of their chests swirling swiftly at the days to come.
video description: a tiny, tubby orange and white kitten is rolling around on a patterned blanket. someone approaches him with an appropriately small brush and attempts to groom him, succeeding in brushing his side and tummy but then having to field his clumsy attempts at smacking the brush. he is so cute it is criminal.
funniest thing would be if when Queen Elizabeth dies or steps down and Charles is all ready to assume the throne, here comes King Arthur, Excalibur in hand, sauntering back from Avalon like “oof what a nap! thanks for keeping the chair warm I’m back to be king again”
like, given that “King Arthur isn’t actually dead, he’ll be back to be King again someday” is, like, an actual aspect of the legend and a thing that a lot of people purport to believe, has anyone ever actually tried it? showing up to buckingham palace claiming to be Arthur Pendragon, The Once And Future King, and assume the throne? does the british government have a protocol for checking whether someone claiming to be King Arthur actually is? does parliament have a secret picture of the Real Excalibur kept under lock and key, only viewed if someone claims to be King Arthur, that they can use to confirm or refute the identity of alleged Kings Arthur? if not, how do they deter every jackass with a sward from pretending to be him? does filing a false King Arthur report constitute treason?
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