id : a rendered digital drawing of virgil and vampire logan from the waist up, seemingly moving in opposite directions. virgil is at the front, with purple hair and cape, leather gloves, white shirt, glowing green tattoos and earrings, and holding a heavy leather book with a shining green gem in the middle. logan is behind them, holding a pocket watch in his gloved hand. he wears a long indigo cape with a high collar, held by skull clasps, a white puffy shirt and a red cravat. he has red eyes and dark hair, looking in virgil's direction with a smile that shows his fangs./end id
trying to go slightly less saturated but i'm actually quite happy with this one and so far it's my favourite for this week!
day 4 @analogicalweek : au and i happily dusted off my old vampire logan sketch and made virgil a necromancer (he accidentally stole my heart whoops) and @5-falsehoods-phonated really did a lovely story from that
Roman has lost twenty two jobs in the past three years, which is offensive on many levels. First of all, twenty two was a number that could only be divided by two and eleven, which is much worse than twenty eight minutes ago when he had lost only a total of twenty one jobs in the past three years.
Twenty two only ever brought bad luck.
Additionally, he had been fired from all of his previous jobs so that meant that he had technically failed twenty two times before. Roman was not a fan of failure, not a fan of other people (Virgil) knowing about said failure and lording it over him.
And, of course, there was also the fact that Roman was a grown adult and suddenly money was an issue when he wanted to not be evicted from his apartment. Or, you know, eat.
So when his brother picks up on the third ring, Roman knows that Virgil already is aware what he’s gonna ask.
“Again?” Virgil says instead of the usual “hello”. He sounds tired, worn out, but Roman gets the feeling its not really directed at him.
“It was an accident,” Roman whines, slumped over steering wheel of his car. “I swear!”
“That’s the second this month.”
“I can’t help it, Emo Undertaker.”
Which is a lie, because he definitely can help it and has helped it before. Roman is just bad at helping it. He thought he was doing well! He was really trying this time! He had managed to snag an editing job for a newspaper that required barely any talking to other people! He could make it through the day without actually talking to people and then there would be no issues other than his crippling desire to hold a conversation which was easily overlooked in the grand scheme of things--
But really, he should have guessed. No one, not even his absolute idiot of a(n ex) boss said “I’m gonna schedule you because you’re the only one stupid enough to say yes” to someone’s face.
Perhaps on his next resume he should title it Roman Prince, Psychic.
On the other side of the phone, Virgil huffs distantly, “No its my brother, Pat. He got fired again.”
“Patton is there?” Roman asks.
He can almost see Virgil cringe on the other end of the phone, “Uh yeah.”
Roman’s lips twist downward on his already not-great mood. “Virge, it’s been months--”
“I know!” Virgil says, “I know! There’s just some stuff we have to do first.”
“We?” The word is short on his tongue, bitter, leaving Roman’s tongue chasing down syllables for the empty space.
“Hey weren’t we talking about your lack of a job?” Virgil says suddenly.
“I do not want that creeper using you, Virgil.”
“Hey, Pat’s not a creeper.” Virgil says sounding more annoyed than Roman’s sure he has a right to be. “New rule, I don’t tell you to stop reading minds, and you don’t tell me to stop seeing dead people.”
“There’s a difference between seeing dead people, and seeing dead people Virgil.”
“Hey have you considered shutting up?”
“Look, he may be cute, but he’s been dead for twenty years--”
“Roman.”
“I’m just saying! He is old enough to be our dad, dude!”
“I’m hanging up.”
He does before Roman can say anything else. Roman flips his phone in his hand three times (a good number, Roman’s favorite) and senses the on coming text before it arrives. He twists his keys in the ignition of his car and listens as it rumbles to life with a story of the previous owner (Harold Johnston, who purchased it new, drove it for a while, hit two deer, and got four speeding tickets on before passing it on to his son who crashed it once in a drowsy driving accident that resulted in it being sent in a reused car dealership where Molly Keller bought it----).
By the time Roman makes it through the seven stop lights (three of which he squeezes through because Carl Smith is out jogging and pressed the crosswalk button at just the right time), there’s a message from Virgil in his inbox with a list of new places that were hiring.
It wasn’t that Roman has never thought about starting his own business, because he has. Many times, all the time. Every time he fell asleep. He imagined a cute little office off mainstreet: A psychic shop with charms in the windows that glowed at all hours, colorful draperies and scented candles that would make the shop float on mystery and otherworldness. He’d emerge from the back of the store in elegant clothes, like an ethereal being to startle any customers who dropped in, and he’d whip up a facade of a crystal ball, hide fans around the shop, and electrify the table in the middle of the room to sell the bit.
Roman has thought about starting his own psychic business before. But unfortunately, no one wants to be told things they already knew.
Which of course was the only psychic thing Roman can do. Read minds and see inner dreams with absolutely no ability to confirm them happening and-or not happening.
(And you only tell a person once that they’re getting a puppy for Christmas before you learn your lesson.)
To be perfectly honest, which Roman tries to be as he flicks on the lights to his apartment three times, Virgil would have much more luck maintaining a psychic shop. They’re almost opposites, if true opposites were a thing that exists.
Instead of reading thoughts, Roman’s younger brother hears murder stories. Instead of seeing dreams, Virgil sees dead people wandering the streets.
It made growing up and having friends a real challenge. If Roman had a nickel for every time Virgil had grabbed his arm with his cold fingers and looked him in the eye before asking if Roman could see the person in front of them, he’d have three nickels. Which wasn’t a lot, but there was something upsetting about hearing the complete terror in his little brother’s voice when he couldn’t tell the living from the dead.
The dead also like to talk to Virgil, like to hover around him because he gives off a shadowy aura that works like a drug on ghosts. It makes them feel a bit more alive, makes them more corporal, makes them more dangerous. And once they’ve had a taste, they come back for more, and more, and more.
Ghosts are good for getting information, but rarely good for anything else.
(Roman does not trust Patton. Not since Virgil told him the ghost had shown up, not since the last guy had whispered all the things he would do to Virgil if Virgil tried to leave or cut him off, not since Roman had put a hole in the hospital waiting room wall because that was his brother and he should have been there.)
Roman calls Virgil back just before dinner time after he had gone over the list (seven places, another good number) and it rings only twice before his brother picked up.
“What? No! I’m, uh,” There was a shuffling, a swear word, and a distant, “at the movies?”
“Right, I’ll pretend I believe that.” Roman says, “I was just checking the list. Your coffee shop is on here.”
“Yes, it is.” Virgil shifts the phone, “Remy fired a guy last week for purposely giving people regular coffee instead of decaf. I thought Remy was gonna kill the guy.”
“Are you sure you want me to apply there?”
There is a swatch and the telltale sound of a match lighting, and the phone shifts again, “I had an idea.”
Roman traces his fingers over the edge of his counter top, absently counting the corners, and grating his skin when it comes up even numbered. “Oh?”
(wrong wrong wrong. Its too short)
“Yeah, maybe you’ve been going about this all wrong. Instead of cutting yourself off from people, maybe you should embrace them-- ow!” Virgil makes a hiss and Roman guesses plops his fingers in his mouth quickly, “Fucking candles. I hate lighting matches.”
“Stop trying to raise the dead for a second and help your dearest brother understand,” Roman says. “What do you mean “embrace them”?”
His fingers slice the edge of the counter, four four four isn’t enough, is too much, its wrong.
“A customer came up to me yesterday and demanded a refund because I didn’t put whip cream her latte.” Virgil explains. “I was angry because she didn’t tell me that she wanted whip cream and its not like I can read minds-- and then I remembered my brother can read minds.” The phone shifts again, “Besides you love talking to people and don’t even try to deny it. That editing job was slowly killing you.”
Roman is quiet for a moment, because, really what is he supposed to say to that? Reading minds isn’t all that great, the same way as seeing their childhood cat that died seven years ago wasn’t all that great. But Virgil was also right: Roman missed talking to people, missed the days when he could show up without having to study for the “pop” quizzes and when he could do little magic tricks to wow his friends in between the classes.
And even if everyone thought his psychic abilities were just parlor tricks, Roman still misses the attention.
“I’ve gotta go, Ro,” Virgil says, “McDonalds nuggets get cold fast, and the dead don’t like cold food.”
“Picky, are they?”
“Very much so.” Virgil agrees, “Just send in an application. I’ll put in a good word to Remy, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure something else out.”
Roman’s fingers hit the corner of the counter again, for the seventh time and he flings them back like they were burning. “Right, yeah. Sure.”
“Bye, Ro.”
“Yeah, thanks, Casper.” Roman says and means it deeply.
Virgil ends the call.
Roman twists the phone in his hand three times as the call screen closes. The puzzle game on his phone is about two minutes 120 seconds from reminding him his game hasn’t been played yet today and wouldn’t play at all today if he ended up in the hospital waiting room because something his brother got food poisoning from McDonald’s--
Roman fingers tap the call button again.
First ring, “Ro?”
“Sorry,” Roman blurts out, “I-- am? Damnit! I really am sorry, Virge.”
Virgil’s quiet for a moment, but then he says softly, “I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Roman’s mouth snaps close. He ends the call and lets his brother go back to raising the dead on his Tuesday night where he is not going to get food poisoning. He leaves his phone on the counter and flicks the switch three times before leaving the room to go find his computer and fill out the online application.
***
Roman enjoys his twenty third job interview much less than Remy Dormire does. It lasts slightly less than twelve minutes, and by the end of it Roman is ushered behind the counter and given a brown apron (with a single hole at the bottom) and a nametag with his name on it.
(First name only, and it makes the back of his mouth taste like bitter oranges.)
Virgil gives him a rare smile on his way back out, and finishes making two drinks at once, and ships them off to the customers waiting patiently at the end of the counter.
It wasn’t quite the calm Roman was used too, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Thoughts flowed over Roman like a river, dangerous but exciting. He felt a type of connection to everyone in the store, a type of connection that came from understanding the blurbs and fragments that made up a consciousness.
It was strange to think that no one else felt like this, felt like they were touching and being touched in a way that was closer than physical contact. How could anyone not want to feel like this?
But how could anyone know what they were missing when they had never had such a feeling before in their lives?
He had tried explaining it to Virgil once, twice, thrice before. He wishes he could send thoughts the way he read them.
Roman leans over the other side of the counter watching Virgil pour coffee into a styrofoam cup, “You’re off in a minute right?” He taps the the dividing wall, “Wanna grab lunch?”
Virgil hums, his eyes flicking to the side just enough for Roman to guess who might be standing in the empty space.
Roman taps again, “Unless you and Ghost McGee already have fun plans.”
“They can be changed.” Virgil says, and slides the drink over the counter, “Logan!”
Roman shuffles to the side so a guy with glasses and a plaid button up can get his drink. “I don’t want to get in the way of your ghost time. And I definitely don’t want you bringing undead dilemmas to our lunch.”
“I don’t have--” Virgil huffs, “Patton has things to do this afternoon anyway.”
Roman frowned. “Things to do? The guy’s dead.”
Virgil scowls darker than usual. Actually now that Roman is looking, he notices that Virgil’s eyeshadow is a shade lighter than normal: as if he’s trying to make his skin look less pale by comparison. His fingers tap the dividing wall again as Roman narrows his eyes at his brother and tries to remember if he’s ever looked his drained after a night of summoning the dead for a ghost party.
“Five minutes,” Virgil says abruptly, “I’ll see you then.” He wipes the counter with a purple rag and then uses it to slide right away from Roman entirely.
Its a cheap tactic. Roman’s almost offended. The buzz of the cafe hums around him, through him, and causing goosebumps right down his spine. Its exciting, being close to people, almost exciting enough to distract Roman from the predicament of Virgil being cagey-er than before (which he hadn’t thought was possible). His knuckles tap the wall three times and he turns on his heel to settle into a chair for the next five minutes.
(Five was an okay number, Roman supposed. Seven was better, and Three was the best. But Five wasn’t an even number so it was something. At least, no one ever got cancer when he counted to five.)
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location: too little practice, not enough reason to need to. The process itself required a lot of focus and will power and it felt a lot like pulling out teeth (something he had done when he was seven and Virgil was five and he had lost two teeth in a row and it was wrong, and he couldn’t figure out how to explain it to his parents when they came to figure out why the doors kept slamming). Cutting out the thoughts that weren’t even in order, had no logical reasoning: in the span of a minute a person could go from thinking about a TV show, to thinking about the color of the tile floor, to the scent in the air, to a birthday present for a friend, to, to, to. And with multiple people? In a small space like this coffee shop? It was easier to stop a mountain slide than cut off one person from himself.
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location, but just this once he’s makes an attempt.
Roman’s never been good at singling out thoughts in a busy location--
Virgil is his brother, and so that means that Roman is obligated to figure out why he’s being cagey. Especially if he’s going to bring the moping to their lunch. And Roman’s absolutely not patient enough to wait five minutes to figure out what is causing him distress.
Virgil's thoughts feel exactly like him, Roman thinks. He's a little cold, a little clammy, a little crafty. His presence is like a cat evading capture by any means and when Roman was particularly bored as a child he used to chase after them, chase the feelings, and the scraps of emotions and impressions that sped by like he was actively running out of time to think them.
Virgil is thinking about coffee. He’s thinking about how to punch buttons into the computer they use for the register and how the person currently ordering is an actual idiot because they don’t serve a “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” because this store is not a freaking Starbucks, its either a “Vanilla Chai Tea” or a “Vanilla Latte” and fuck, Roman get out of my head before I send a Zombie after you.
So Roman blinks back seeing his brother at the counter, using that customer service smile to please the middle aged woman digging through her purse, but his eyes are dark when he shoots Roman his patented don’t-mess-with-me glare.
I said five minutes, fucking wait will you.
And Roman debates for a moment, less than a minute, just 21 seconds staying there in Virgil's mind that feels a lot like a sweater in the middle of the winter. But in the end Virgil’s mind moves on to the ingredients in a Vanilla Chai Tea and someone else and the girl in the corner has the top third song of the week stuck in her head on a loop and Roman is ever so easily distracted by the repetition of the three lines--
He falls out of his brother’s mind and back into the connective conscious of humans as a whole. There's nothing jarring about it. It's just simple acceptance, like the course of a river gently rolling over him.
If he closes his eyes it feels like safety and warmth and calmness.
The next thing he knows there's a shove as his shoulder that nearly nearly knocks him off the chair. Virgil's standing there, his hair sticking up from where he yanked off his visor and his mysterious purple eyes glowing with annoyance and irritation and a bit of worry.
"I've been calling you," He says, "Are you alright?"
Roman offers him a blinding smile, that most likely comes across dopey, "Absolutely, Graveyard ghoul!”
Virgil stares at him for a moment longer, mouth curled downwards. “Holy shit, just how socially starved are you? You look like you’re on drugs.”
Roman’s vision is a little blurry. He rubs his eye to clear it, and is surprised when it comes back with tears. Was he crying? “I’m perfectly fine!” He flicks away the tears, because honestly they’re happy tears, and they mean so much and absolutely nothing at the same time.
He gathers his stuff and stands up, (tall enough that he can count the three inch difference between him and Virgil), “Are we going to lunch now?”
Virgil keeps staring at him for a moment, and Roman can only glimpse fractions of impressions from him before his eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Fine. Yeah.” Virgil says, “I know just the place.”
****
“Really, this place?” Roman asks and almost can’t quite believe it.
Virgil, in all his brother loving glory, does not give him a response. Since he was the one driving he puts the car in park (“not this spot! Use that one!” “Is this necessary?” “Do you like your current car insurance number, Virge?”) and then kicks the door open with more force than necessary. In the car is a lot quieter than in the cafe, but Virgil spends the entire drive thinking of musical numbers rather than what is bothering him.
The only things that Roman learns from the twenty minute drive to a sandwich shop in the middle of the city is that, Virgil is really into The Guy Who Doesn’t Like Musicals for someone who doesn’t like musicals, and that he’s three times a better driver than Roman can ever hope to be.
“Why here, Virge?” Roman asks getting out of the car and stumbling around the edge of the trunk. His brother is already across the parking lot by that time. “We passed nine other shops on the way here!”
Virgil’s hand goes flying up and snaps close in a silencing motion. Roman thinks that its way more effective on ghosts than on living being that he can’t control, but he goes quiet anyway. Virgil huddles by the storefront glass doors turning his around with his hand to his ear-- is he seriously pretending to be on the phone right now?-- and is peering into the shop as inconspicuously as he can.
Roman is beyond confused.
Virgil takes a deep breath, and nods to himself apparently seeing whatever he was looking for. He grabs the door and then waves Roman inside quickly like he’s embarrassed to be seen with him.
“What is happening?” Roman asks.
“Just shut up and follow my lead.” Virgil says.
And proceeds to go up to the counter and order a sandwich like a normal person. Roman frowns at the implication that he doesn’t know how to order a sandwich from a shop. His fingers knock the counter (Ew the last customer did not wash their hands after using the restroom, ew, ew!) and he gives the tired sandwich maker a dazzling smile.
He looks a little old to be working in food retail in honesty. Much more Virgil and Roman’s age than the high school teenagers that are manning the cash register a few feet over. His eyes are gold and brown and very interesting to look at, along with with the dusting of concealer that is all over his cheek covering up something. His name tag is strategically missing in the moment but Roman doesn’t think it matters too much in the grand scheme of things.
The guys name is Dante Ethan Ekans. He’s tired. Overworked. Not paid enough.
He got a nice voice though. He keeps glancing between Virgil and Roman and Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. So much so that he puts way too much mayo on Roman’s sandwich.
Roman grabs a thing of chips and throws them on the counter at the same time as Dante the sandwich maker puts his carefully wrapped flatbread sandwich next to the register to be rung up. Instead of sliding to the back, Dante leans on the counter next to the sandwiches ignoring the high schooler ringing them up and grins at (a blushing????) Virgil.
“Back again, Raccoon?” Dante the sandwich maker says flicking his tongue out just enough to show off a tongue piercing. Its not something Roman thought could be attractive, but somehow he makes it attractive.
And if Roman can tell that from two feet away, Virgil’s hopeless as the target of such an action.
“Yeah,” Virgil says, “I mean- I just-- I wanted lunch.”
“I can see,” Dante says with a smile. “You’ve made a habit out of coming here for lunch. A guy has to wonder if thats the only reason you keep coming back.”
Roman looks at him, and then Dante the sandwich maker, and thinks he almost understands what is going on.
“Virgil, quick question….”
“I’ll buy you a cookie if you can hold your fucking tongue for three more seconds.” Virgil snaps out loud and then thinks so horrifically loud in his head that Roman resists the urge grimace.
Say it out loud. I dare you.
Virgil is glaring at him again. Dante is staring at him like he’s just now noticing that Virgil came with someone, despite the fact that the man made his sandwich. He pushes off the counter suddenly, with his eyes darting between Virgil and Roman and his thoughts becoming clouded with a sudden flurry of unhappy impressions then he clears his throat and hums a self dismissal.
“And Ice cream from the parlor on First Street.” Roman whispers quickly.
“Roman!” Virgil snaps.
“Deal or no?”
“I hate you.”
“What type of brother would I be if you didn’t hate me?” Roman says loudly without even looking at Virgil. Dante stumbles his steps towards the back. Roman thinks he glances back, but its so quick that Roman really only has the unraveling of the sandwich makers shoulders to take as assurance he was heard.
Roman leans towards his brother in a much, much lower voice, “is this why you’ve been distracted? Because boy troubles?”
“Shut up!” Virgil hisses back and elbows him.
“That will be $23.36.” The cashier says effectively keeping them from breaking into a brawl at the counter.
Roman taps his foot in a series of three while Virgil pays with a debt card and takes their sandwiches and drink cups to a table.
“He’s flipping amazing,” Roman says once they’re sitting and Virgil’s stopped blushing through his concealer. “What’s the problem?”
“Can you read his thoughts right now?” Virgil hisses back. He does a great job of flicking a piece of lettuce off his sandwich.
“Can I-- YES!” Roman presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am insulted you had to ask at all--”
“Just do it.” Virgil snaps and then folds his arms on the table and burrows his head into them without even attempting to eat his sandwich at all.
Roman imagines that Patton is floating over Virgil’s shoulder even if he can’t see the ghost. He hopes the ghost is as confused as he is, but he seriously doubts it.
“It shouldn’t be that hard.” Virgil mumbles, “He’s probably always thinking about him.”
Roman’s stomach drops for his brother, “A boy friend?” (He frowns at the needless separation of the words)
Virgil moans, “Worse.”
“He’s not straight,” Roman mumbles, because at least that much is obvious.
Virgil doesn’t give him a response, so Roman goes deeper. Dante’s thoughts are at odds with his actions, which throws Roman off when he goes to single them out from Virgil’s and the other workers and the small family that was eating across the dining area. Where he comes off as smooth and suave and absolutely sure of himself….
HOLY FUCK BROTHER DOES HOT RUN IN THE FAMILY WHAT THE FUCK--
...His thoughts are not. Roman chases the screaming through the astral plane with mild amusement. Even when the man is cleaning dishes in the back or checking bread or pacing the back, his thoughts are shouting with panic and he keeps coming back to the snapshot of Virgil at the counter. There’s fragments of emotions with it too, amusement, happiness, self embarrassment, as if he can’t believe he really called Virgil a Raccoon and Virgil let him.
Honestly with how much Virgil comes up in his mind, Roman can’t see why his brother isn't launching himself over the counter and dragging the sandwich maker to the freezer for an impromptu make out session.
Or at least he couldn’t.
Then Dante’s thoughts take a leap to the cook time on the last batch of bread, and then the clock, and then the current time and then--
“Dad!”
Roman’s head jerks as he lets go of the isolated thought process and comes back to reality. Virgil does not look up but half his sandwich is gone. Its looks very much like Virgil is throwing himself a pity party while Dante rounds the counter to catch a small child in a hug.
Its undeniably adorable. Roman’s own heart is melting at the sight. The kid can only be four at max, and he’s wearing a backpack almost as big as he is, with a spiderman theme. When the kid talks, he prattles on, and Dante listens to each word with adoration in his eyes.
“So he has got a kid,” Roman comments. He taps Virgil’s foot under the table, “Don’t tell me a kid is a turn off.”
“Roman, you know how I am with kids,” Virgil says. “I’m worse with kids than I am with adults! Which is saying something! The last living person I talked casually to called me a freak and threw a kickball at my face.”
“That was middle school, Miserable Mortuary.” Roman points out, and taps Virgil's foot again, “And if you remember, I beat the snot out of Alfred Hitchcockopolous for saying that. Not to mention, we are talking right this second.”
Virgil grunts sullenly, “Whatever. I’m still bad with kids. I give off that dark energy aura, remember? Give it an hour and Thomas will be running for the hills! There’s no way I could court his dad if he hates me. I’m not gonna drive that wedge between them.”
“You don’t know that yet! Have you talked to this Thomas?”
“And get labeled as a pedophile? No way, not happening.”
“Virgil,” Roman says pointedly (and taps Virgil's foot again), “I’m not saying approach the kid and offer him a joy ride in your crappy used silver Scion. You don’t have to even wait until Dante is out of earshot. Ask him about his favorite color.”
Virgil makes a rather pathetic noise in response. “It’s Dee. He hates being called Dante.”
Roman glances back at Dante the sandwich maker and Thomas the kid. Dante was getting him set up at a table by the counter where he could color in a cheap Star Wars coloring book. He hadn’t come in with anyone. Which was odd. It wasn’t like anyone would let a four year old ride the buses around town either. But surely if there was another parent in the mix they would have at least come in to see that Dante had received the kid, right?
Roman chews on his sandwich for a moment. His eyes are narrowed at his brother as the melody of thoughts roll over him. He’s seeing, feeling glimpses of something else from his brother something that’s making him even more upset than the whole Dad issue.
“What is it?” Roman says, because he’s terribly impatient for his brothers cryptic dance around thoughts.
“You know how I was busy last night?”
“Summoning the dead on a Tuesday?” Roman nods three times.
“Yeah,” Virgil says and drops his head again like a moody teenager. “Yeah that.”
Roman gets flashes of flash night from Virgil’s point of view: Patton kneeling beside him, McDonalds kids meals, too many melted candles, too many slight variations to the chalk circle, a long night. There’s an unsatisfied tinged to them, an unhappiness, a frustration and a nervousness.
It takes Roman a moment to work out what it means.
“Oh,” Roman says, “oh no.”
“Yeah,” Virgil bounces his head on his arms staring into his lap, “Thomas’s mother, Dee’s girlfriend, died in childbirth.”
The sandwich tastes foul in Romans mouth. Too much mayo and bad feelings from it. Virgil stuffs a chip in his mouth and crunches on it sadly.
Overall, it's not how Roman was expecting the lunch out to go.
"It's been four years though, right?" Roman tries, because even if Virgil and him give each other grief all the time, he never wants to see his brother unhappy. "He's definitely in to you, Vee. I have proof. He's moved on."
"That's not the issue," Virgil whines. His eyes flick over Romans shoulder where there's absolutely nothing there, which means that Patton the ghost is witnessing this exchange at least. "Ghosts are tricky businesses. For all I know, me dating Dee will cause a tremor in the afterlife and will bring a vengeful ghost down on the three of us."
"Isn't that an extremely rare occurrence?" Roman says.
Virgil huffs glaring to the side, "Not helping, Pat. And to answer your question, Ro, it is a rare occurrence. But I'm also a magical fucking beacon of dark energy that draws ghosts to myself. Do you really think that the odds are in my favor for this one?"
Roman squints at his brother, "Yes, I do? That is why I'm telling you to go talk to the kid?"
"I'm not going to talk to the kid," Virgil says stubbornly, "Not until I know I'm not gonna endanger him or Dee or… myself." He rubs the insides of his arms, and Roman gets flashes of an emergency room and his own fist in the walls. Neither of them say anything for a moment, and from the glassy look in Virgil's eyes, Patton chooses to be quiet too.
Then Virgil shakes his head and wards off the thoughts. "It's fine. Or whatever. Patton and I are going to do some deep research and I'll find a way to contact Marissa. If she gives me permission, I'll go ahead and talk to Dee again."
He wraps up the rest of his sandwich neatly and leans back in his chair facing the counter where Dante is replacing the produce selection. As if sensing him watching Dante's head tilts up and he winks towards Virgil with another snake like flick of his tongue piercing.
Virgil goes red in the face and stands up. "You know what, I'll be outside!"
Roman catches a glimpse of a dopey, stupid, lovesick smile on his brothers face and cant believe that hes not in a Hallmark movie. Really it's insulting now. This is drama gold and no ones even writing it down.
Dante frowns as Virgil flees the scene, and head to the back again with the clear intention to mope in his thoughts. Roman is left alone at a table, with half a sandwich. Which is fine! All fine!
Roman packs up their combined trash and saves the second half of Virgil's sandwich before he gets up and strolls across the restaurant to the trashcan near where Thomas is sitting. Once he throws his stuff away he stops by the table where the kid is sitting.
"Oh my lord!" Roman says, "Look at this magnificent art work! The colors, the lines, the texture! How very bold! Tell me artist, are you the one who crafted such intricate works?"
Thomas grins up at him bursting with joviality. "I am, mister! Who are you?"
"My name's Roman Prince, young artist!" Roman says, "I am trying to solve a problem that I think you can help me with."
"Me?" Thomas says, "What is it?"
Roman thinks that this kid would be very easy to kidnap.
"Well you see, my brother comes here quite often and he thinks your dad is very super nice." Roman explains the best he can, "He wants to be your dad's friend but my brother is very shy around people."
Thomas taps a red crayon to his lip, "He's that scary man that was over there, right? Dad talks about him a lot."
Roman smiles, "My brother talks about your dad a lot, too!" It's a lie, but really it's for a good cause. "I want them to be friends because they seem very happy together. How about I write down my brothers phone number and you give it to your dad for me?"
Thomas nods easily at the words, and then excitedly, "Then they can set up a playdate! Even if Mr. Purple is really scary, I think he makes dad laugh a lot. And Uncle Emile says laughing is good!"
Roman laughs at that. He scribbles out the numbers for Virgil's personal phone in red crayon on a napkin and gives Thomas a fist bump for teamwork. By the time Dante appears in the front again (with a cloud of suspicion and terror that a stranger is near his son) Roman gives him a cheery wave goodbye and is out the door.
(Virgil is lying in the middle of the parking lot just behind his car and asks Roman to run him over and put him out of his misery.)
(Roman does not run him over.)
(It does take twelve minutes to convince his hopeless brother to get off the asphalt and into the car for the ride back to Virgil's apartment.)
