When Jude said-
"Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest, with black hair as iridescent as a raven’s wing and cheekbones sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart"
and then proceeded with "I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe."
Like, Yeah girl, you ObVioUsLy 'hate' him.
You can only lie to other people. Trying to deceive yourself is sheer folly. In an era when all things are uncertain, you should at least be able to have unconditional trust in your loyalty to yourself.
"Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff" (The Saga of Tanya the Evil #8, by Carlo Zen)
Deceit finds him in record time after the video. He’s barely finished rising up into his own room, the camera isn’t even cold in the living room, Thomas has yet to even move from his shocked, stock-still position when Virgil left, but Deceit is there already. Waiting. Always waiting for Virgil.
And he knows, oh, he knows just what the others would say if they were to see Virgil this way. They would be disgusted with how easily he falls into the other’s arms. They’d be horrified by him burying his face into the liar’s neck and clutching at him like he might crumble beneath Virgil’s fingertips. They’d be nauseated by Deceit’s reaction: a soft cooing noise in Virgil’s ear, a hand cupping the back of his head gently, fingertips stroking a steady path down his spine.
“I t-told hi-im. I to-old T-th-tho-”
“Shh,” Deceit soothes. “I know, I know. I felt it.”
Virgil hiccups, sobs. His breath is hitching too much in his chest, oxygen isn’t getting to his brain, he’s going to hyperventilate but does that even matter anymore, does he even matter anymore, now that Thomas knows?
No, he doesn’t matter anymore because now Thomas knows and everyone will hate Virgil and he’ll have to leave and then he’ll only have Deceit and Deceit probably hates him for leaving in the first place and he’ll leave too and Virgil will be all alone in the dark.
“I will always leave you,” Deceit lies to him. “Always.”
“N-n-n-no,” Virgil denies, sure of it. His breath is hot on the other side’s neck. He’s created a moist, disgusting little cave between his own face and the other’s neck and he tries to pull away, sure Deceit must be uncomfortable, he must hate this, being so near to Virgil, God he’s a wreck and now he’s messing up Deceit’s clothes, oh good just another reason for Deceit to hate him like there aren’t enough already-
Deceit’s hand on the back of Virgil’s scalp tightens, though, and his other arm locks like an iron bar against Virgil’s back, preventing him from moving too far away. Deceit keeps up a stream of shushing noises and he guides Virgil’s face back into the crook of his neck. He makes an encouraging murmur when Virgil’s hands lift and clutch, white-knuckled, at his collar. He threads his fingers into Virgil’s hair and strokes, heavy handed and grounding.
“You shouldn’t remember your counting,” Deceit says.
“I can’t-can’t-”
“I won’t help you.”
Deceit runs through the paces with him, four-seven-eight, four-seven-eight, four-seven-eight. The first time Virgil can’t even get passed three seconds before he has to let go of the shallow breath he’s holding. It takes a long time before he can let it out without his chest hitching painfully and Deceit has to start over again. But finally, over half an hour later, Deceit gets to eight and Virgil’s lungs deflate obediently.
Virgil doesn’t try to move away again even when his panic starts to receed down his throat, curling in a familiar, uncomfortable coil at the base of his stomach. He drops one arm to hold himself around the waist, bearing down like the pressure will alleviate the ache that’s all in his head. His other hand still holds Deceit’s collar, but loosely now. The other’s grip has not relaxed.
Deceit waits him out.
“He hates me, Dee,” Virgil whispers into his old friend’s skin. Deceit hums a denial.
“He doesn’t,” Deceit rebukes. Virgil feels more than sees him shaking his head when Virgil jerks against him. Grief wells up, clogs his lungs and stuffs his nose until Deceit grips him even tighter. “I’m going to drop the lying for a second, Virgil. Trust me, Thomas doesn’t hate you. No one hates you.”
“You hate me,” Virgil says in a small voice. Deceit huffs and the warm puff of air on Virgil’s ear tickles in a way he remembers from when he was small, just newly formed, and Deceit used to carry him in his arms.
“I could never hate you, dear. Where would I be without my little stormcloud?”
“But I- I left.”
Deceit’s chest expands slowly against his own as he sighs. “You flew the coop. That’s what kids do. And all in all, I guess you could have picked worse places to land than with the Light Sides.”
Virgil’s blank for a while after that. Deceit seems comfortable rocking them both slightly, humming under his breath, a pleasant rumble under Virgil’s cheek. He’s always tried to be patient with Anxiety; God knows Virgil always required a lot of patience to deal with.
“But even if you don’t hate me,” Virgil points out lowly, “doesn’t mean Thomas doesn’t.”
Logan would probably tell him to stop giving in to his Cognitive Distortions. Deceit just brushes his hand through his hair again and lets up enough for Virgil to pull his face away from his neck finally. Deceit hooks a finger underneath Virgil’s chin, waits until Virgil is comfortable meeting his mismatched gaze, and arches an unimpressed eyebrow.
“You think that if I, one of the worst parts of Thomas, don’t hate you,” Deceit clarifies, “Thomas himself will?”
And wouldn’t it be so nice, Virgil thinks, to believe him? Wouldn’t it be a balm on the tear in his chest that refuses to close, the black hole beneath sucking all the light and hope out of the world? Wouldn’t it stop Virgil’s bleeding heart in its tracks if he could simply take Deceit’s word at face-value and know- not pray, not wish, not plead, but know- that Thomas will accept him no matter what?
But Virgil is Anxiety. He is fight or flight. He is an aspect of self-preservation at its most base sense. And Virgil knows that if a threat were to linger so close to him, disguised as a friend for so long, he’d never hesitate to tear it out of his life. To burn out every memory of it, to rip his goodwill for it to shreds and drown out the rest.
And so he can’t fault Thomas for readying himself to do the same to Virgil.
“Lie to me,” he asks. Deceit blanches, for the first time seeming out of his depth. Virgil has never asked this of him. “Please lie to me.”
“Virgil.” Deceit warns. His features are more pointed now, his scales more highly detailed against his skin. He always gentled himself when Virgil had panic attacks but now, wary as he is of this new request, he is in sharp definition. The yellow of his slit eye gleams in the dark of Virgil’s room.
“Lie to me!” He tries to make his voice demanding, sure, authoritative. He tries to insert some reverberation into it, give into his darkness if only to find this small comfort. His fingers clench around Deceit’s collar again, but all he succeeds in sounding is broken.
“You don’t want this.”
“Please,” Virgil whispers. “It’s- it’s all I have.”
Deceit sighs. He releases Virgil, takes a step back, draws himself up to his full height. He sweeps the hat off his head and sheds the bright gloves. Virgil closes his eyes as a sob hitches up under his ribcage again.
When he opens them again, Thomas is only inches away, smiling softly at him. It makes his airways close. He gulps down more tears. Wet warmth still trails furrows into his cheeks.
“Don’t cry, Virge,” Deceit says in Thomas’s voice. He cups Virgil’s face with Thomas’s hands, wipes the tears away with Thomas’s thumbs, smiles with Thomas’s eyes and mouth and dimples. “It’s okay. I love you.”
Virgil closes his eyes, leans into the hands that he wishes were true, and tries to trick himself into believing. Just for a little while.
