Virgil knew something was wrong the moment Roman stopped talking. That alone was suspicious. But Roman also kept glancing at him, smiling to himself, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. It was unnerving.
»Why are you smiling like that?« Virgil asked, eyeing him from across the room. »That’s your I have a plan smile. I don’t like it.«
Roman clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. »I’m offended. This is my I have prepared something lovely and you will appreciate it smile.«
»Those two expressions look identical,« Virgil said flatly. »It makes me feel like I’m about to be murdered.«
»If I were going to murder you, I’d make it dramatic,« Roman replied and gestured grandly toward the barstool. »Now. Please be seated.«
Virgil stared at it. »Why.«
»Because,« Roman said, already herding him forward, »you look fantastic on elevated surfaces.«
»That is the worst reason you could’ve given.«
Nevertheless, Virgil sat. The barstool creaked under him as he folded his arms, posture defensive by habit. Roman hovered nearby like an excited stagehand.
»Okay,« Roman said. »Close your eyes.«
Virgil snorted. »Absolutely not.«
Roman placed a hand over his heart. »Virge, honestly, do you think so little of me?«
»Yes.«
»Rude.« Roman leaned closer, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. »Just trust me. No funny business. Scout’s honor.«
»You were never a scout.«
»Still an honor,« Roman said quickly. »Eyes closed.«
Virgil sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, but he shut his eyes. »If you try anything, I will leave.«
»Duly noted,« Roman said, already moving away. »And deeply hurt.«
Virgil listened as Roman moved around the room—footsteps, the soft scrape of furniture, the faint clink of something glass. There was a rustle overhead, then another and the unmistakable sound of balloons bumping into one another. Virgil shifted on the stool, nerves crawling under his skin.
»This feels like a setup,« Virgil muttered. »And why do I hear balloons?«
»No reason!«
»That was not convincing.«
Music started playing—low at first, then clearer. Virgil frowned. It was familiar. Not loud or flashy, just a steady, atmospheric track he liked to put on when his thoughts got too heavy.
Roman knew that.
There was the faint scent of something sweet in the air. Vanilla. Chocolate. Something richer underneath.
This was… taking a while.
»How long—«
»Patience, my dark and stormy friend,« Roman interrupted, voice bright but oddly tight. »Great reveals require suspense.«
Virgil waited. Seconds stretched. He counted his breaths, grounding himself, trying not to imagine every possible way this could go wrong. Roman hummed loudly, far too cheerfully, as if volume could erase suspicion.
»This better not be another prank,« Virgil warned. »I don’t have the energy for theatrics today.«
There was a pause.
»It’s not a prank,« Roman said, softer than before.
Virgil frowned, but before he could respond—
»Okay,« Roman said. »You can look.«
Virgil opened his eyes—and froze.
The room was unrecognizable. Purple and black balloons hovered near the ceiling, light catching on their surfaces. Colorful banners crisscrossed the walls, and right in the center hung a sign that made his chest tighten before he could stop it.
Happy Birthday, Virgil.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe...
