It’s easier to hate Deceit than Virgil thought it would be.
Compartmentalization, he guesses. There isn’t Janus anymore; there isn’t the side who taught him to breathe when he felt like he was going to break apart; there isn’t the snake who he helped when the scales wouldn’t stop spreading until half of him was consumed; there isn’t the kid he hid under the covers with, listening to whispers, grand lies about stories neither of them really know that well, to distract him from the shadowy monsters that surely lurk outside their small sanctuary.
Just Deceit. Just the side who kept him locked away until it was obvious Thomas needed him too much. Just the side he had walked away from an argument with – throat stinging from screaming himself hoarse – and didn’t look back at. Just the side he never knew if reached after him or not.
But that’s the issue, isn’t it?
Because there isn’t Deceit anymore, although the silver-tongued, snake-faced liar is more present than ever.
It’s Janus, now. Janus, once more.
Janus who pretends he doesn’t know what Patton’s talking about when he laughingly accuses him of eating cookie dough while they’re baking together. Janus who sits on the other end of the couch, coiled up with his feet under him as always, debating Logan on everything from maritime laws to public school reform. Janus who coaxes begrudging laughter from Roman with theatre puns and deadpan snark. Janus who, despite everything, is one of them now.
But that’s the issue, isn’t it?
As easy as it was to hate Deceit, it’s far, far easier to love Janus.
And Virgil can feel himself falling into the gravity of the other side, falling to his place, warm and familiar, by his side. He makes an extra cup of coffee – dash of milk, two sugars – without a second thought, only to stop and freeze. Virgil doesn’t like sugar in his coffee.
He leaves it on the counter and comes back to find the red print of Janus’ lipstick on the rim.
And none of it is new, but that’s the issue, isn’t it?
The lipstick. The high arch of his cheeks. The gentle shine of his scales. The mischief ever-present in those mismatched eyes.
Still Janus, but for some reason such details are clearer to Virgil, now; newfound recognition forcing old memories into sharp detail until Virgil realizes he’s been staring and blurts out some incoherent excuse and sinks out into his room to scream into a pillow.
Because, damn, has his (his what? ex-best friend? enemy? person who’s reluctantly on his side and he feels more comfortable and himself around than anyone because Janus has seen him through the times Virgil tries to forget and flashes that smile at him anyway?)– has Janus always been this handsome?
But that’s the issue, isn’t it?
Janus is here, and Virgil is starting to realize, with a slow, sinking sort of horror, he’s been in love for much longer than he thought.
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