Conditional
Title: Conditional
Word Count: 4373
Summary: High School AU. Virgil has bad news that he doesn’t know how to break to his dads. Especially Logan. Familial LAMP/CALM, paternal/familial Analogical.
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, arguing, miscommunication, cursing, almost-crying, self-deprecation.
A/N: I have… mixed feelings about how this one turned out. I’m even less sure of how it will come across to other readers… I hope it’s okay! It’s kind of... paragraph-heavy, I guess... Apologies if this does not live up to expectations, but would love to know what you think regardless. I wanted to get it out to you all this week for #SidesContentWeek. <3 Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine.
Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @candiukas, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh
…
Virgil checks the mailbox when he gets home and sees the envelope with the college’s logo in the corner and his name in neat typeface. He folds the envelope, slips it into the pocket of his hoodie, and hands the rest of the mail over to Patton as he walks through the door. His dad gives him a bright greeting, asks how his day was, and Virgil manages to ignore the churning in his stomach long enough to carry on a brief conversation about the history test that he thinks he did okay on.
And then he mumbles something about an upcoming exam in chemistry and hurries up into his room. He closes the door behind him. Virgil pulls the crumpled envelope in his pocket out and sets it on his desk as he collapses in the chair.
He stares at it.
This is his last option. He had applied to four colleges. He had heard rejections from three of them so far. This is his last shot. He can almost hear Roman singing Hamilton in the back of his mind but the image does little to dispel the tightness in his chest. The unopened letter feels like a sentencing.
He feels like he’s on trial in the moments before the jury reads the verdict.
He can’t open it. Not yet. Just in case it’s bad news. He just wants to hold onto the hope a little while longer. He snatches the envelope off the desk, shoves it in his backpack, and turns on Evanescence before digging his science notebook out of his bag.
…
Roman Prince arches an eyebrow at his best friend as he closes his locker. “So you haven’t even opened it yet?”
The school hallway bustles with activity as students rush off to second period. Virgil shrugs, adjusting the strap of his bag slung over one shoulder. “Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know, man,” Virgil sighs. “I mean, what if it’s a rejection? What happens then?”
“You don’t know that,” Roman replies as the two of them start walking down the hall towards their respective classes: Virgil to World History, Roman to American Lit. “Do your dads know you’ve got the letter?”
Virgil glances away. “I haven’t told them yet.”
Roman looks at him, exasperated. “Why not?”
“Look,” Virgil says, “I’m just not ready for them to know yet, okay? They want me to go to college so badly. This is my last chance. I just…” He lets the thought go unfinished. He doesn’t know how to tell Roman that seeing that disappointment in his dads’ eyes just isn’t something he’s ready to confront yet.
“It might be good news.”
Virgil also doesn’t know how to explain to his far-reaching, bright-eyed best friend that he just doesn’t share his optimism. “Maybe,” he admits. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
“You have a bad feeling about everything, Hades-frown.”
Virgil gives him a look and stops walking. Roman stops beside him, holding his hands up in mock-surrender.
“Forget it,” Virgil says, pushing past Roman. “We’re gonna be late.”
“C’mon,” his best friend implores, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Why don’t you just get it over with? Open it right now.”
“No.” Virgil pulls his arm free of his friend’s grip with perhaps more force than is necessary.
Roman sighs, his voice softening. “Waiting isn’t going to change what the letter says, Virge. Your answer is in your pocket. Whatever future quest is bestowed on you, it’s been decided already.”
Virgil blows out a frustrated, annoyed sigh. He wants to tell Roman that he doesn’t get it. Roman doesn’t have to see the awkward shifts of gazes when he explains that he’s still waiting to hear back from his last college. He doesn’t have to force a smile and lie through his teeth as he says he’s “optimistic and excited” even as his mind sifts through the minefield of potential follow-up questions, looking for an escape.
But Roman’s right. The paper isn’t going to change what it says, and waiting to find out only prolongs knowing what had been decided weeks ago. It would have no actual bearing on the decision. Roman’s hopeful brown eyes and small, encouraging smile is the last little nudge Virgil needs.
Maybe, a small part of him whispers, Roman could be right twice today. Maybe it could be good news.
Virgil rolls his eyes with forced indifference. “Fine,” he says, “if you really insist that much.” He swings his backpack around his shoulder and pulls it out. Roman grins at him.
Virgil’s fingers clench around the paper and he swallows hard. Just get it over with, Sanders, he tells himself firmly. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it in a slow, tight exhale. Then he digs his finger into the corner of the envelope flap and tears it open.
He pulls a white sheet of paper out and unfolds it. He glances up at Roman who raises his eyebrows in expectation.
His heart is hammering in his chest. He looks down at the page.
Dear Virgil,
We regret to inform you that while your application was appreciated and we are grateful for your interest in our institution, we are not able to offer you a place in the Class of –
Virgil stops reading.
“Virgil?” Roman asks softly.
Virgil shoves the paper hard into Roman’s chest. “I have to get to class,” he says hollowly.
…
Virgil avoids Roman for the rest of the day. He eats lunch in the library, a part of him grateful that he doesn’t have any classes with his best friend. He can feel his phone buzzing in his pocket. By lunchtime, he has four texts from Roman.
R: I’m sorry
R: You okay?
R: Can we talk at lunch?
R: If you need to talk, I’ll be there. Just say the word.
Virgil pockets his phone, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. The words from the letter keep running through his head and it is hard for him to hear much of anything else. We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you. We regret to inform you.
He’s a failure. A disappointment. Idiot.
He’d been so fucking stupid.
“Virgil?”
It’s right before last period when a familiar voice says his name. Virgil looks up from his shoes and pulls an earbud out sheepishly. He isn’t supposed to have them in, but blaring My Chemical Romance into his ears had been the closest he’d been able to get to drowning out the thoughts raging through his head.
In front of him stands one of the school counselors. Dr. Emile Picani. He had actually been a counselor at Virgil’s grade school before transferring into the high school when Virgil was in his sophomore year. Virgil had met with him for a few weeks when he’d first been transferred into foster care under Logan and Patton to help him adjust to the new school. They’d gotten along surprisingly well, and Virgil had to admit that he’d been pleased when Picani had transferred schools, if only because it was another friendly face in the hallways.
“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Dr. Picani.”
The school counselor gives him a warm smile. “How’s it feel to only have a couple of months left before graduation?”
The question makes something squeeze Virgil’s chest uncomfortably. Terrifying. “Pretty good.”
Picani’s head tilts slightly, like he sees right through Virgil’s lie. His smile softens a bit. “I’m glad to hear that. I should let you get to class, but don’t be a stranger. My door is always open.”
Virgil doesn’t know if he’s more transparent than he wants to be, or if Picani is just that observant. Virgil nods slowly. “Y-yeah. Of course.”
…
A few days have passed and he still hasn’t really talked with Roman about it. He thinks Roman wants him to bring it up, but he doesn’t. So they talk about classes and theatre and music and anything but college, the future, the letter.
Virgil gets home and he unzips his backpack at the kitchen table. He had stashed a coffee thermos in there in the morning and needed to rinse it out. What he finds, however, is the white envelope he definitely remembers shoving at Roman days ago.
We regret to inform you.
He doesn’t know when or how Roman got it back into his backpack. On it is a white Sticky Note with red cursive lettering that is unmistakably his best friend’s handwriting.
This is yet another beast you will come to conquer. Do not lose hope. Roman had drawn a small crown in the corner instead of a signature. Virgil knows his best friend is well-meaning. But he feels his heart constrict at the sight of the envelope and letter again. Bitterness floods his mouth.
He doesn’t want to deal with it. He doesn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not ever.
Most of all, he doesn’t want to think about telling his dads. Telling Logan. He doesn’t want to think about what they’ll say when they realize he really is the mistake they never should have bothered with in the first place. Education—college—had always been important to both of his dads. Logan especially. All the hours spent helping him improve his grades, understand concepts, patiently work through practice questions. They’d given him so much. What does he have to show for it now, to show he wasn’t a waste of their time? The answer is nothing.
He doesn’t want to think about it.
Blindly, Virgil tears the note in half and shoves it and the papers into the trashcan before rushing up to his room.
…
“Virgil, are you alright?”
Logan’s question comes in the middle of dinner. The seventeen year old had been studiously avoiding looking up, instead opting to push chicken breast and broccoli around his plate. His dads’ conversation had begun to blend into the general background noise of the kitchen—the dishwasher running, the whir of the refrigerator—and Virgil had found his thoughts wandering for what felt like the millionth time. We regret to inform you.
“I’m fine,” he replies hollowly. Fine, he supposes, is a subjective term.
“Kiddo,” Patton says softly. “Something wrong?”
“Nope.”
Virgil still doesn’t look up, but he thinks he can feel Logan’s gaze narrow at him. He just wants to go to his room, close the door, and never come out again. Part of him whispers the understanding that he has to tell them eventually. The other part muses idly about whether it would be too cliché to run away and join the circus.
He doesn’t want to run away, though. Not really. His two dads sitting across from him at the kitchen table were the best home, the best family, he had ever had. When Patton had asked if he wanted to be adopted—Virgil had been ten at the time—he had answered nearly immediately out of fear that Patton might change his mind and take the question back. They had provided him with a constancy and security that Virgil had never before experienced. They had given him a kind of warmth and love that Virgil wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.
He wonders if that’s what makes this so painful. Because he’s disappointed them—Logan especially—and he doesn’t know how to tell them. He’s failed his dads, failed Logan. Logan who had always believed in him so much, so obviously believed he could succeed.
“I’ve got a lot of homework,” Virgil tells them. “I should probably go work on it.”
“Virge, you barely ate anything.” Patton’s voice is quiet and concerned. It only makes Virgil feel worse. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah, dad.”
Patton and Logan had always been supportive of him right from the start. Patton’s warmth and unending empathy had helped with the transitions into a new home and a new school. His words of encouragement and support whenever Virgil found a new interest had helped him feel more comfortable with himself in ways he never had quite been before.
Logan’s support had looked different, but had been evident nonetheless. The high school science teacher had demonstrated an endless amount of patience with him, answering questions and working with him, even if it meant teaching himself brand new subjects or methods in order to help more efficiently. More than once, both of them had fallen asleep at the kitchen table only to wake up to Patton setting two cups of coffee in front of them with an amused smile the following morning.
When Virgil would slip into self-deprecating talk out of frustration at not understanding something, Logan’s calm reassurance and rational explanations melted away the self-doubt and second-guessing. Logan showed over and over that he felt Virgil could and would succeed. And before long, Virgil started to hesitantly believe that about himself.
Logan had been the one who drove him for hours to go visit different colleges across the country. Any time Virgil had mentioned something related to going to college—even just passing comments about how his roommate might be a total idiot—the teen hadn’t missed the way Logan’s eyes would light up in that subtle way. Shining with pride and anticipation.
Logan had been proud of him. So much for that, he thinks bitterly.
“Do you require any assistance?” Logan asks him, drawing him out of his thoughts.
“I’m fine,” Virgil replies tightly. He pushes back from the table. “Thanks for dinner.”
…
There’s a soft knock at his door. Virgil glances at the time on his phone. 10:13 PM. He presses a button to dim the screen. “Come in?”
The door opens slowly. Virgil admits he’s a bit surprised when he sees that it’s Logan. It only takes a moment before Virgil realizes that something seems… off. Logan looks hesitant. His jaw and shoulders look tense.
“Uh, hey,” Virgil says. “What’s up?”
When Logan steps fully into the room, Virgil sees the white envelope in his hand and pales. Shit…
“Virgil,” Logan says, and then stops like he isn’t sure what to say. He glances down at the envelope in his hand, then back up at Virgil. There’s something—an emotion—in his eyes that Virgil can’t place. Logan takes in a breath. “I found this in the trash. I wanted to…” He trails off. His grip on the paper tightens.
Virgil shifts. “You went through my trash?” he says, the accusation empty. Virgil knows the envelope was probably just sitting on top when Logan went to change the bags like he did every night. Virgil had been stupid. He should have buried it deeper into the bag at least.
“You know the answer to that.” He tosses the envelope onto the bed in front of Virgil’s lap. “What does it say?”
“Dad…”
“Virgil,” Logan says, his voice tight. “Please.”
Virgil shakes his head, his face flushing under his scrutinizing gaze. “As if you don’t know already,” he snaps. “Look, I’m sorry I’m such a huge let down to you but you don’t have to act like you’re so surprised.”
Something sharp flashes through Logan’s eyes. “You weren’t accepted.” It isn’t a question.
Something is squeezing Virgil’s chest at the cold tone. “No,” he says, hating how deflated his voice suddenly sounds. “I wasn’t.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Virgil looks down and stares at the black sheets on his bed. His phone. The Dear Evan Hansen poster on the wall. Anywhere but at Logan.
“How long have you known?” Logan asks eventually in a quiet, measured voice.
Virgil swallows and shoves his hands into his pockets. “A few days.”
He hears Logan take in a slow breath. In his peripheral, he sees his father nod stiffly. Logan then turns and walks out of the room. Virgil tries not to wince as the door latches shut behind him.
…
Days go by. Virgil does his best to keep himself busy and out of the house. He stays later after rehearsals to work on set design and building. Roman sticks around with him, rehearsing lines and blocking as Virgil adds more detail than had been asked of him to the brick texturing of the set wall. He pretends to not notice his best friend’s worried glances. He feigns ignorance of the questions he knows Roman wants to ask but won’t.
He spends more hours at the library, too. The good news is that he finishes his paper on Shakespeare’s The Tempest two days early. The bad news is that he can’t ever seem to focus on his Chemistry homework.
He checks Tumblr more often. He checks Facebook less.
When he gets home—usually around or just after dinnertime—he goes to his room first. He times snack breaks for after he hears Logan’s steady, measured footsteps come up the stairs and the bedroom door closed so that he can get to the kitchen without running into him. When Patton texts him in the early afternoon about whether or not he plans to be home for dinner, Virgil pretends that his stomach doesn’t twist with guilt as his answers go from idk to not tonight.
It’s surprisingly easy to avoid Logan, and Virgil begins to wonder if Logan might be avoiding him too.
…
It’s coming up on a full week since Logan had found out. 6 days exactly. Virgil shuffles quietly out of his room to the bathroom down the hall. It’s almost one in the morning, and the teen still needs to brush his teeth before he clocks out for the night.
The door to his dads’ bedroom is slightly ajar, a soft warm light peeking through. Virgil frowns. Usually, his dads went to bed no later than 11:00, often much earlier. The fact that there was a light on at one in the morning was… unusual.
Curiosity gets the better of him, and Virgil risks a quick glance in the open space of the ajar door.
Logan sits on the edge of the bed with his back to the door, Patton beside him with a hand rubbing his back. Logan has his head in his hands. He says something Virgil doesn’t quite catch. Patton stiffens, responds in a low, soft voice and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Patton pulls Logan closer.
Logan takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. Virgil watches, feeling like he’s intruding when he sees Logan tuck into Patton’s embrace a little more.
Virgil’s phone vibrates loudly in his pocket. He teen cringes at the noise and ducks into the bathroom before either of his dads can so much as look up.
…
The next evening, Virgil slips out of his bedroom and pads quietly down to the kitchen to grab a granola bar. Most of the lights in the house are off, so the teen figures it’s safe to assume his dads have gone to bed. Besides, Virgil hadn’t eaten much for dinner and his stomach was growling. He has seven problems left in his Pre-Calculus homework.
He still can’t quite shake the image of Patton with his arm around Logan from the previous night. He doesn’t know why it makes him feel uneasy. Guilty. A small part of him knows he’s at fault, but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to fix it.
He can’t change that he didn’t get into college, and he can’t change how Logan found out. If he’d had his way, Virgil thinks to himself as he rounds the corner of the staircase, Logan still wouldn’t know. Logan would still be proud of him. Logan wouldn’t have realized yet what a huge mistake—
His thoughts cut out abruptly at he sees him in the kitchen. Logan is washing dishes, his hands plunged into a sink full of hot, soapy water. Virgil freezes in the doorway.
He wonders if it’s too late to rush back to his room when Logan speaks up.
“You missed dinner tonight.” It sounds more observational than accusatory. But Virgil can’t be entirely sure without seeing his father’s expression, and Logan hasn’t turned around.
The teen shrugs. “Yeah, I just… production week is coming up, so I’ve been staying late to work on the set and stuff.”
Logan sets a pot on the drying rack on the counter and picks up a plate. “How’s that going?”
Virgil feels like he could choke on the thick, tense air of the kitchen. “It’s fine.”
“Good.” Logan’s hands still in the water for a moment. “Is that the only reason you’ve been home later this past week?”
He tenses at the question. “I mean, basically,” he lies.
“I am inclined to believe that is a falsehood,” Logan says, slowly and carefully. “Given that this didn’t start until after I found the letter in the trash.”
Virgil doesn’t say anything. Here it comes, he thinks, and takes in a breath to brace himself.
“Virgil, I just…” Logan sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The teen harshly shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He swallows, even as he feels a rush of defensiveness. “What do you want me to say?” he demands.
“Virge—“
“You want an explanation, dad?” Virgil continues. He can feel something cracking in his chest and he can’t stop the words racing up his throat and past his lips. “Do you want to know why they rejected me? Why I’m always such a fuck-up? Because I don’t know! I don’t know why.”
“That’s not—“
“They… they just didn’t want me, okay?” The words burn Virgil’s throat and taste bitter on his tongue. “God knows why you ever did.”
Logan’s hand slips from the plate in his hand, clattering into the sink. He whirls around, his eyes bright and pained. “I have always wanted you here,” Logan says, firm and unyielding. His jaw jumps. “Always.”
Something gives a sharp tug in Virgil’s chest. “I’m a screw-up.”
“No.” Logan shakes his head. He isn’t looking at Virgil. “If anyone in this family deserves such a label, it is myself.”
Virgil blinks at his dad, disbelieving. “You? Mr. Advanced Degree? Mr. Straight-A’s-All-Through-College? You’re probably the most accomplished man I know—“
“If I have made you feel like you couldn’t come to me,” Logan cuts in in a soft voice, “when you found out that you got rejected, then the logical conclusion is that I must have made a terrific mistake somewhere along the way as your father.” His father’s gaze finally meets his. Virgil stops cold at seeing tears pressing against them.
Virgil shakes his head quickly. “Wait—“
“And you have my deepest regret, Virgil. I’m…” Logan’s voice wavers. He pauses and tries again. “I’m so deeply sorry if you felt unsafe in coming to me with that news. If I gave you any reason to think that my support, my affection, or my love was ever conditional.”
“No. That’s… I didn’t…” He blows out a breath. “God, I just… I wanted you to be proud of me.” The confession falls from his lips and lands heavy in the air between them.
The silence that follows is deafening. Virgil feels suddenly desperate to fill it. “It’s just… you’ve done so much for me. And I just… I guess I just wanted you to feel like it… paid off. Like this person you brought in seven years ago was… worthy of it or something. I don’t know.”
But he does know. He doesn’t want to let Logan down. Not after everything.
Logan swallows. He looks abruptly young and vulnerable, his slender frame smaller in the dim lighting of the kitchen. His hands are shoved in the pocket of his jeans, his tie pulled slightly loose from his neck, his sleeves rolled to his elbows from when he’d been doing dishes. There’s an unusually soft kind of earnestness in his eyes behind his thick black glasses.
“Virgil, you’re my son. I would never wish to do any less for you.” He pauses, then continues quietly. “I have made many mistakes in my life. Choosing you, choosing to spend time with you, choosing to help you… those are not counted among them. Watching you become the young man you are has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life. You have always been, and remain, one of my greatest sources of pride.”
Virgil’s throat closes up. He coughs in an effort to clear it. He doesn’t know what to say. Logan’s words ricochet in his mind. You have always been, and remain, one of my greatest sources of pride. They fill the silence that follows in the kitchen.
“I…” he tries, because he feels like he should say something but he doesn’t know what. He swallows and tries again. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?” Logan’s brow pulls together in confusion.
“That I didn’t tell you sooner. I just…” Virgil blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know what to do. I…” Virgil’s voice cuts out suddenly when he feels strong arms wrapping around him in a hug. He hadn’t even noticed that Logan had crossed the distance between them. Virgil leans into the embrace a little, taking in a deep breath of soap and paper.
“This has no bearing on the pride I feel in who you are, Virgil,” Logan assures him softly.
Virgil closes his eyes for a moment. Logan lets the hug linger for a moment before pulling back. His dark brown eyes are still wide and searching. Virgil feels the last of the tightness in his chest relaxes for the first time since getting the letter in the mail.
“I… don’t know what comes next,” he admits softly. “What do I do now?”
Logan glances down at his shoes before meeting his son’s gaze again. “Plenty of students take gap years, Virge. There’s a wide number of possibilities open to you.” He speaks carefully. “It… is something we can figure out together, if you would like.”
The teen looks back up at his father. The corner of his mouth tug upwards in a faint smile. “Yeah, dad. I’d like that.”
…
