Well here we go, the Trev whump is finally making its way into the big wide world. Locked to archive because I'm a forever wimp, lots of hospital things, so be careful if that's not for you. Posting this one up in chapter blocks, so here's the first four with plenty more on the way, this one's become a bit of a monster.
And of course, this is all the fault of @kestrel-wylde and his 'deeply effective as a fic trigger' art.
Roman is an adult. He has a job. He buys his own groceries, and he pays his portion of the rent on time. He keeps up with his student debt even when some months he hangs on by his fingernails.
It's just a single blanket.
Roman has other things in his life to be happy about. He has his paintings and keyboard. He has his dearest friends whom he lives with. He's active in his local theater community and often lands roles. He has a roof over his head, parents who care for him, a brother who he can stand sometimes. A car that works.
It's just a fucking blanket.
That's what he tells himself over and over as he stares vacantly at the ripped threads. The tear that had been snagged wide open, and the weighted material inside quickly coming outside. He holds it, remembering the marvelous weight on his shoulders, the pressure on his back, the comfort it gave him. The security and warmth. The way he will never feel it again. How he can't go back and fix it.
He can't afford another one right now. It's one of those tight month's budget-wise. And even if he could, it would not be this one.
Roman holds his blanket and unravels alongside it.
***
Roman wouldn't say that he adjusts well. He merely finds ways to cope.
He takes longer showers. The sizzling pinpricks of water cascade over him, beating down on his shoulder blades. It's too hot, close to boiling, but the burn is nice even if his skin begs him to stop. If he stands directly under, it's almost encompassing. It's almost enough.
He wears more layers. Roman tends to add a jacket over any attire anyway. What's another sweatshirt under? Or a scarf tied protectively around his neck? It doesn't matter that this too is overheating. His bones are brittle, and he needs to wrap them somehow. The skin is not enough. It bruises far too easily.
The most embarrassing thing he tries is wedging his whole body into or under anything that may work as a substitute. He tears apart his room testing this and that and wants to cry in frustration as he lays on the carpet with his entire mattress smothering him. He steals all the pillows in the house when he's sure the others are out, and he piles them up. But burrowing into them is too soft and leaves him more frustrated. He crawls under the couch one day and nearly has a panic attack when the front door unlocks and Logan walks in. He plays it off as having lost the remote. He can't bear to admit the truth.
That is, until he's left with no other choice.
***
Roman sits at the dining table working on an art project involving thousands of multi-colored beads. His desk in his bedroom simply isn't large enough, so here he is.
Patton enters the kitchen behind him, and Roman knows its him by the smell of his eucalyptus scented shampoo. Then he sees freckled arms emerging over his shoulders, wrists adorned in friendship bracelets, and they snake around Roman's collarbone. Roman's hands fix in mid-air, eyes going blank as Patton presses up against his back and rests his chin on the top of Roman's head.
"You're so creative," Patton praises, and that alone could usually keep him comfortably warm long into the cold night. But everywhere that Patton touches him, every press of muscle and firm flesh, it scorches in the most pleasant burn.
"I can't wait to see it when it's done," Patton says, and Roman can feel the hum of his voice, how it vibrates his scalp and dances down the back of his neck. A shiver shoots up his back, and Roman cannot dedicate his attention to anything else if he tried.
Roman takes too long to respond, too frozen in his posture.
Patton notices. "Kiddo? You okay there? Was I not supposed to see?"
As if the art piece means a damn to him in this moment. What matters to him with eye-opening crystal clarity is that Patton's arms are loosening and his weight shifts so that he's not leaning against him as much. The loss of that is an incomparable grief.
Roman drops what he's holding, uncaring that some of the beads clatter off the side of the table to skitter across the floor. His hands clutch at Patton's wrists and fold them back around his neck. He draws the blessed weight against him once more, and he keeps it there, scared to let it go. Scared to be exposed once more.
"Roman?" Patton's tone is careful now, wary that something is wrong. His head settles back on top of Roman's, but his face nestles into the side of his hair, the edge of his glasses barely grazing. His voice whispers at his ear, "Did something happen?"
Yes, something happened. Roman's favorite weighted blanket is ruined and he's acting like a child about it. The shame excavates a pit in his stomach. There are depths to it that he doesn't wish to look at, let alone express.
"Can you–" Roman begins, but there's a lump caught in his throat. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, too small and full of trepidation. He swallows and blinks rapidly. "Can you stay? Like this?"
"Hugging?" Patton asks to clarify. Roman doesn't think he's mocking him. Patton would never mock. He wouldn't judge. Not this. Never this. Please don't judge him for this.
"Mmhm," Roman hums, because if he doesn't use words he won't sound so pathetic, yet he immediately fails. The vocalization comes out high-pitched and needy, and tears spring to his eyes unbidden. He doesn't dare blink his eyes now.
Patton doesn't answer at first, and Roman is enormously relieved that they can't see each other's expressions. Roman fears what he would see on Patton's face, and if Patton could see him right now? He doesn't think he could hold on to his composure.
"Okay," Patton says, voice flower-petal soft. "We can stay like this. However long you want. I don't mind."
Patton skims his nose back and forth over Roman's hairline. His hands spread out, palms covering the top if Roman's chest. His hold is a cradle, gentle and safe, and it holds him together and doesn't let him fall apart. The arms tighten around him, compressing, and Roman holds them right back.
***
Patton becomes his saving grace.
He is wonderful in that he needs no explanation. His affections are given freely, without cost, whenever Roman needs them or even when he doesn't realize he needs them. Patton starts to hug him more often and cuddle him during movie nights. He ruffles Roman's hair as he passes by, or he grabs him by the hand when he's excited. Sometimes he'll trail his fingertips over Roman's face in lazy lines that set his mind at ease.
It's exhilarating.
Roman can't get enough. The need never ceases, and Patton is just one person. He cannot always be at Roman's beck and call. Patton has work and outings he leaves for, same as everyone else. And when he's home, it doesn't mean he's available at all hours. Like the middle of the night for instance.
Roman stands at Patton's firmly shut bedroom door like a sad dog. His fists tighten into the thighs of his sweatpants. What did he expect really? That Patton's door would be wide open at two in the morning? That he'd spy light on under the door and get the courage to knock? Patton said he was there for Roman any time, but that doesn't mean Roman gets to take advantage and disrupt his sleep schedule just because Roman is too pathetic to fall asleep without his blanket.
Patton has done so much for him lately. He's good like that, a saint. Roman can't monopolize him. It wouldn't be fair.
Then why does he continue to stand there in the dark hallway? A damsel in distress waiting for his prince to save him? Or hoping the door will magically open and he receive some form of pity.
He's worse than pathetic. He's absolutely rotten.
A sliver of light illuminates the hall, a door squeaking open. Roman nearly jumps out of his skin and looks behind him where Logan stands in the doorway to his own bedroom.
"Roman?" Logan says, looking just as surprised. "I didn't think you'd be up this late. Don't you have work in the morning?"
"Heyyy, Specs," Roman gets out tremulously. He scratches at the back of his head, searching for some excuse. Think of something, damn it. "I uh, yeah. I've got work in the morning. Just...out for a stroll."
"A stroll?" Logan repeats. His brow raises and he's giving Roman that look that he gives him all the time, like he's stupid and not worth his time.
Roman crosses his arms and stares down at his bare feet. "Yeah, I can stroll where I want. What are you, the hall monitor?"
"I never claimed to be, nor would I want to. You live here; walk where you wish."
"Good, I'm glad we've covered this," Roman replies. He whips his head up when Logan breezes by him down the hall. "Wait, where are you going?"
Logan sends him a bemused glance. "I was going to make a light snack before bed. Why are you following me?"
"Don't try to distract me and just answer the question!"
"I did, Roman."
"Oh... well, answer it again!"
That gets an actual snort out of Logan. Roman shuffles behind him into the kitchen as if locked in a gravitational pull. He watches him pull out a loaf from the bread box along with a tub of butter from the fridge. Roman dithers there observing, reluctant to leave. Logan must accept that Roman has no intention of leaving him alone because he gestures to the bread. "Want some?"
Roman looks between the spreadable butter and bread. "Are you just eating buttered bread?"
Logan rolls his eyes. "No, I was planning to eat buttered toast with jam. But if you're not interested..."
"No, you can make me some," Roman swiftly interrupts while trying to make it sound like it's something Logan should be honored to do.
Logan extracts another slice of bread. He plugs up the toaster oven. "So, couldn't sleep?"
"And what if I couldn't?"
Logan sighs, "Not everything is a challenge, Roman."
Roman shifts self-consciously and mutters, "Not with that attitude, Gay Jude."
Logan smiles a little bit after he inserts the bread to be toasted. "Ah, The Beatles. Would you like to hear some interesting facts about them?"
Roman has nothing else to do so he shrugs. Logan enlightens him while they wait for the little ding. Roman snags the jar of crofters out of the fridge before Logan gets a chance, and Roman smirks victoriously at him but spreads the jam on Logan's toast in apology. They eat and drink water, and Logan asks if he's going to go to bed now.
Roman's brows crease. "Actually, why are you up?"
Logan adjusts his glasses, a tell that he's been caught doing something of mild embarrassment. "I was reading a novel."
"That good, huh?" Roman quips with a grin. He and Logan share a surprising amount of similar taste for literature, so Roman doesn't doubt that the writing is less than phenomenal if it's enough to keep his favorite nerd up into the wee hours of the night.
"I would tell you about it, but then you would chide me for giving you spoilers whether or not you intend to read it."
"Mm, I probably will," Roman agrees.
"Then if you don't require anything else, I really must insist we both go to bed. It will be difficult enough to rise later this morning."
"What if I did require something else?" Roman suggests before he can bite his tongue.
And Logan, dependable Logan who at least always hears him out, turns to him fully. "I am all ears, as they say. Which is a ridiculous saying; we only have but two."
Roman doesn't laugh or tease as he usually would. And maybe that tips Logan off more than it should.
"Roman?" he prompts. Because he's so smart, he deduces, "Does this pertain to why you're up so late?"
Roman's gaze strays. It's dark in the kitchen. They didn't bother turning on a light, letting the streetlight guide them from outside the kitchen window. It's too obscured for Logan to see the heat in his cheeks or how he picks nervously at his nails.
Roman gnaws at the inside of his cheek. "It doesn't...not have to do with it."
"You're being vague. That's not like you."
"You don't know what I'm like."
"And you've been defensive. More so than usual. You are upset about something."
Roman just about chokes on air. "What?! No. Nooo, I'm not."
"Was it something I did?"
That punches Roman in the gut. The concern Logan is giving him, it knocks his feet right out from under him and has the truth spilling from his lips. "No, Logan, I just want a hug!"
Roman is infinitely more glad than ever that it's too dark to see. His face is on fire, and he can't look in Logan's direction.
"Happy now?" Roman asks bitterly.
"Roman, if you wanted physical affection, all you had to do was ask."
"What."
He's enveloped in a strong embrace.
Oh. Ohhhh.
Hugs are different. Different people give different hugs. Roman knows this, he does. He's had hugs throughout his life. He's not like, touch-starved or anything. It's just– it's like a reminder. A reminder with all the force of a slap to the face.
He had been so focused on Patton's hugs that he never thought to ask the others. Why would he? He never really did before. Things have just been hard since he lost his blanket, his comfort item. It's not usually like this. Roman's not usually like this, so dependent or desperate for attention.
In Logan's arms, he feels all of that melt away. In fact, his whole body melts into the embrace. A rush of air coaxes out from deep within his lungs as Logan's arms secure around his back. One hand hooks behind Roman's head and pulls him into the crook of his neck. The scent of Logan's faded cologne and laundry detergent fill his nostrils. There's lavender mixed with something else he can't distinguish but is wholly welcome and soothing.
Logan rubs circles into his back, and Roman leans heavily into him. Roman's arms raise like anvils hang off them, and it's all he can manage to circle them around Logan's waist and hang on for dear life.
"Is this satisfactory?" Logan asks. Roman might would answer him if not for the fingers scratching patterns into his scalp. His toes curl in bliss, and his mind sinks into fog. He buries his face further into Logan's neck and shoulder as if he can crawl into Logan's chest and hide there.
"I'll take that as a yes," Logan muses and squeezes him gently.
Roman doesn't make it back to bed for a while.
***
Logan joins Patton in the free affection initiative. Roman wonders if he and Patton discussed this or if Logan is doing it of his own volition. Either way, there is a definite increase in Logan's deviated mannerisms around Roman.
He pats him more on the back. He holds his hand when they sit next to each other. And there's a couple times Logan goes so far as to kiss his forehead. That left Roman blustering and bumbling like an idiot for hours after, because who is this person dressed like Logan? Surely not his nerd. Still, he can't deny the giddiness it evokes.
Things get a bit easier from there. The more it happens, the more he can normalize it. The more he normalizes it, the more he doesn't have to feel ashamed, right? If someone like Logan would go to the trouble...he doesn't have to feel silly about it, right? He can still be taken seriously?
Roman aches less for his blanket. The pain remains, but it's bearable. He feels less likely to break down in a sobbing mess, and that's progress. Right?
Virgil suspects something is going on.
It was bound to happen. He never stops watching out for them or simply watching them. If Patton hadn't accidentally found out about Roman's predicament, Roman thinks that Virgil would have been the first to suspect. As it is, Virgil observes the way that Patton and Logan act around Roman, and it's just enough different than normal. Just out there enough for him to see.
"Are you guys dating?" Virgil blurts out of the blue one day.
It's just the two of them at home, chilling on the couch together watching TV. Roman figured Virgil was having a bad anxiety day from the noncommittal responses he's been giving and how he keeps biting at his nails. Obviously, there have been other topics plaguing his thoughts.
"Who?" Roman asks, because really, who? Roman is single and proudly on a quest to love himself. Virgil knows this. Or at least, he thought he did.
Virgil squirms in his seat like he can't find a comfortable position. "Nevermind, just forget it."
"Well now I really can't forget it."
Virgil groans and buries his face into his hands. "You. And Logan, and Patton. Are you guys dating? If you are, it's whatever. I just would think you guys would tell me."
Roman gives him a semi-horrified look. Not all the way horrified, because Roman is a catch, and his friends are equally catch-worthy, but that's just... that's not how they are together.
"No? Why would you think that?"
Virgil gives him a look. "What else am I supposed to think? You guys have been acting all weird. You can't deny it. I'm not crazy. Or blind."
"Weird how? No seriously, I'm being for real."
"You know. Like all soft? And touchy feely?"
Roman can't help but quirk a smile at how awkward Virgil is acting, as if it pains him to say something so sappy. It's easy to fall into his confident persona. He leans in closer. "Aww, are you feeling left out, Emo?"
Virgil shoves him away. Not with his hand but with his leg because he has to be extra. "Okay, if you're just gonna be a dick about it, I can just go to my room."
And the bravado rushes out as quickly as it arrived. He doesn't want Virgil to leave, and he certainly doesn't want Virgil to entertain the notion that Roman is making fun of him maliciously.
Virgil stays long enough for Roman to fall into contemplation. Virgil peaks up at him and sees Roman looking back at him, completely serious.
"What?" Virgil asks, and there's a bit of a snarl there. Okay, Roman probably deserves that.
"We're not dating," Roman says quietly.
Virgil doesn't believe him. Or at least, he's suspicious of what's not being said. "Then what's up with you guys? Something's going on, and I..."
And Virgil isn't a part of it. He's on the outside looking in. More than that, he thinks they're excluding him on purpose.
Impulsively, Roman says, "Can I ask you something? In all seriousness?"
Virgil's eyes peer at him in narrowed slits, cautious and curious. Roman can see his inner debate, weighing his options of pushing Roman or letting it go or maybe even getting up to leave altogether. It'd be fair; Roman is answering him with a question of his own. Roman isn't sure he would be so patient, in Virgil's place.
But Virgil is more patient than people give him credit for. He nods. "Shoot."
Roman averts his gaze now, suddenly jittery with nervous energy. "Actually, it's more a question of asking you to do something. Can I ask you to do something? And you not laugh at me? Or think I'm weird? You can say no, of course, I just–"
"Roman. Ask away. The worst I can say is no, and I promise not to give you shit for it if I do."
Despite himself, Roman needs a little more assurance. He holds up his hand. "Pinkie promise?"
"Really dude?"
"Virgil, it is a sacred oath."
"Okay, fine, whatever." Virgil threads their pinkies together. "I promise not to be a jerk if you don't."
"Deal," Roman agrees.
"Now, what is it you want to ask me to do?"
"Will you lay on top of me?"
There's no going back. There's no pretending that he misspoke, even as Virgil tilts his head as if he must have heard him wrong. When Roman doesn't budge, Virgil goes stock-still, eyes slowly blowing up wide.
"Uh....what?"
Roman huffs, more frustrated at himself than anything else. "Would you lay on top of me?"
"No, I heard that. I'm just trying to process."
"Then yes or no. You don't need to say anything else. Just yes or no."
And because it's Virgil, he very much has to say anything else. "What do you even mean though? Why?"
Roman groans and waves towards the couch. "Just– you know, I lay on the couch and then you lay on top of me. It's not that complicated, so don't overcomplicate it."
"I overcomplicate going to get a glass or water, Roman. You can't tell me not to overcomplicate you randomly asking me to lay on you."
"I thought you promised you weren't going to be a jerk?"
"I'm not trying to be!" Virgil swipes at his face, his own aggravation mounting. Roman notices that his cheeks are dusted a light pink. "I just don't understand how this relates to anything or why you want me to..."
Roman shrugs sort of helplessly, smile sardonic. "I just do. There's...no trick that I'm playing at, if that's what you're wondering. I want you to lay on me, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less. So would you? No wrong answer."
Virgil looks away a couple of times. He thrums his fingers over his knees, tap, tap, tapping. "I mean, I guess?"
"You guess?"
"Sure then. I'll do it, even if I think I'm the last person you would want to cuddle or whatever, but you'll explain after that?"
"Cross my heart." Roman mimes the motion over his chest.
Virgil stands up. He doesn't move far, just stands there gripping the hem of his hoodie while looking lost. "So..."
Roman scoots down on the couch to where he lays back with his head supported by the couch arm, his legs stretching out along the cushions. He shoves away the embarrassment, the shame, the voice in his head asking what the hell he is doing. Virgil watches him closely, eyes squinted and trying to figure out how to approach.
"Get in here, Emo," Roman calls, holding out his arms.
Virgil grunts and clambers over him. He takes too long to figure out where to put one knee, and Roman adjusts. He spreads out a leg to make room and guides Virgil down. The sides of Virgil's jacket hang over him like a curtain as Virgil hovers in the air, afraid to rest fully against him.
"I'll be heavy," Virgil warns. "You're not going to be able to breathe."
"That's fine, I don't need to," Roman says, half-joking. He's more fixated on tugging at Virgil's shirt to get him to close that last foot of space.
"I better not hear you complain then," Virgil says and finally, finally, drops down on Roman, letting his full weight settle on him.
It's everything that Roman has missed.
Roman can sense Virgil's body from head to toe. Their legs, hips, stomachs, chest, shoulders, all of it pinging across Roman's nervous system at every point of contact. Virgil's arms are folded on either side of Roman's torso, and he can feel the lean limbs against his sides like a harness. Virgil nudges his head stiffly under Roman's chin, and Roman wraps his arms around Virgil's back and holds him tightly to complete the full body hug.
He's sinking into the cushions. His muscles release weeks' worth of tension, letting go and relaxing. He's delightfully sandwiched under Virgil's weight, warmed in his closeness. The warmth is dizzying, like little bumblebees buzzing serenely and drowning him in honey, so sweet and cloying. Virgil's hoodie is a pillow under his palms, and Roman can see why he wears the garment all the time. Roman would wear Virgil all the time if he could.
"Is this it?" Virgil asks, seemingly unimpressed by the magic surrounding them. "Is this what you wanted?"
Roman squeezes more. Virgil wasn't wrong, he's heavy but in the most incredible, indescribable way. Despite the pressure, it's like Roman can breathe again. It's perfect, exactly what he's been craving.
"Hug me any tighter and I'm gonna bruise," Virgil remarks lightly, and something about the words or the tone is more than Roman can take. He breaks.
A shudder shakes him as tears spill over in wet streaks dripping down, salty droplets catching in his mouth. It's abrupt and overwhelming, and it's all coming back to him. The grief, the embarrassment, the shame, the desperate need. He can't stop it, can't hide it. Virgil is right here, and if he doesn't hear the whimper that escapes him, he surely can't ignore when Roman full-on starts sobbing.
"Princey?" Virgil says and sits up quickly. He pushes himself up off of him, and the soothing, wonderful pressure is wrenched away. The cold air bites at his skin in its place. Roman's cries devolve into hysterics, and he can't catch his breath to save his life. Virgil is gaping at him. He sees him in all his wretched ugliness. "Oh shit, what's wrong? Roman? Hey, hey, shhh, don't do that. Please, look at me, why are you crying? Talk to me Roman, I won't laugh, I promise."
Words are beyond him. Roman clings weakly to Virgil's shirt, tugging at him, begging him not to leave with actions and desperation alone. How can he convey his heart shattering to pieces? Or his skin eating itself alive? Or his bones splitting down to the marrow? A keening cry pierces his eardrums. It's a sorrowful weep from his own lips, a sound he didn't think he could make. A sound he's heard in the background for a long time and thought would go away if he ignored it.
"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," Virgil lets out shakily, miraculously interpreting Roman's crazed antics correctly. He stays over Roman, caging him in sweetly with his body. His fingers come up to brush the tears away using the cuffs of his sleeve. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just breathe with me. You're okay, you're okay. I've got you."
Roman is not okay, and Virgil's wild darting eyes share the same sentiment, but if you say a thing enough times, it'll come true by sheer force of will. And if Roman can keep pulling at Virgil, maybe he will go back to crushing him softly.
"What do you want? Do you want this? We can keep laying here. That's okay, Princey. You're okay. You're doing so good, telling me what you need."
Virgil lowers back on him, chest to chest. Roman would hug him in relief if he wasn't too busy turning his face to the side and trying to cover up. He stifles his gasps against the back of his hand. Virgil, thankfully, doesn't pull away his defense. He presses at his chest clumsy and earnest, rubbing his hands over his collar, massaging comfort into him and encouraging him to focus on the motion, to breathe together.
Roman listens to him and hangs on to every word as he talks him through it. Virgil never stops. He speaks far more tenderly than Roman is used to, and it's more astonishing than Logan's recent developments. If Virgil acted like his prickly self, Roman could manage to pull himself together. But Virgil is being lovely in his sweetness, watching him with dark eyes that are ferocious with compassion. It's a gaze that says he'll tear the world apart to keep him safe. Roman doesn't deserve him.
"I'm sorry," Roman whines. It's not enough to sum up his sorrow, yet it's all he has to give.
Virgil looks impossibly more bewildered. He shakes his head and goes back to wiping the tears from Roman's face, so careful in his handling. "Roman, you have nothing to apologize for."
"I'm sorry."
"No, listen to me," Virgil demands and cups his face, making him look right at him. "Obviously, something is going on in that big head of yours. If something is going on, if this has to do with what's up with you and the others, then that's okay, we can talk about it. I'm here for you, man. But if you're apologizing for crying all over me, then I'm gonna affectionately kick your ass. I'd rather you cry here with me than you do it alone or keep it bottled in. That's not healthy. If your brain is telling you that you're a burden to me or something stupid like that, I'll kick your brain's ass too. It can't be mean to you, that's my job."
Roman startles into laughter. It's a sad wheeze more than anything, but Virgil picks up on that. He gives a hesitant, hopeful smile as he brushes his thumbs over Roman's cheekbones.
"There's my Princey. Just keep laughing. I'm a real funny dude."
More wheezy chuckles. More reasons to adore his friend.
"I'm gonna give Patton a run for his money. I've got jokes for days. Wanna hear about belts made out of watches? It'll be a real waist of time."
Roman giggles and leans into Virgil's hands. He closes his eyes.
"And I'll keep going if you want me to. I can do this all day, Princey."
"I'm telling Patton you gave me emotional pun support," Roman murmurs.
Roman can tell by Virgil's voice that he's grinning. "Do it. I'm not afraid."
He opens his eyes again. Virgil moves one of his hands to tuck under his own chin so he can look at Roman more comfortably. The other hand combs through Roman's bangs, straightening them.
"You called me sweetheart," Roman points out in an awed tone.
Virgil doesn't bristle like he expects. If anything, he hunkers down further in his stubbornness. "Yeah? So what?"
"You don't...usually do pet names."
"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
"Is it weird if I said I liked it?"
Virgil lightly flicks his forehead. "It's only weird if you make it weird, sweetheart."
Roman sniffles and wipes at his face to rid himself of any lingering wetness. Virgil allows him time to breathe and get his bearings.
"It's the weight," Roman finally admits. "The warmth and the pressure. I mean, why I asked you to lay on me. I had a weighted blanket, but it got ruined. So Patton and Logan have been helping out where they can. It's easier when they're touching."
Virgil doesn't stop petting at his hair, but he does frown while he parses through his words. "What do you feel like without it?"
"Without the touching and my blanket? Umm, exposed I guess? Anxious. Cold."
"When you don't have your blanket or someone touching you, do you think about it a lot?"
"What do you mean?"
Virgil shrugs, and Roman feels the movement and together with the hair petting, it's enough to have his eyelids flutter and threaten to close. "I mean, when you haven't had that in a while, does it consume your thoughts? Like you're longing for it?"
Roman remembers the night he stood outside Patton's door in the hallway.
All the time. He longs for it all the time these days.
"Yeah," Roman whispers.
"Dude, I think you're touch-starved."
That throws Roman for a loop. "But... I touch people enough? It's not like I'm going years without a hug over here."
Virgil boops him on the nose. "It's doesn't take years. Could just take weeks. Depends on the person I guess. Everyone needs things differently. I think you liked your blanket so much because you were using it to substitute touch. And now that you're starting to get touch more often, your body is trying to adjust. It's like going from eating bread crusts to a full course meal."
"But I..." Roman's mind drifts. Virgil's words resonate as he compares them to his memories.
Yearning, heartache, misery, clinginess, pressure, satisfaction, grief. Is this what's been wrong with him?
"I'm touch-starved?" Roman asks.
Virgil gives him a sympathetic smile. He pats at his head. "I think so. It's not so bad. We can help you."
"You will?"
Virgil snorts and adjusts his position so he's laying more comfortably on Roman, like he's bedding down for the long-haul. "I'm not moving from this spot until dinner at the earliest."
Virgil makes good on his promise. Their roommates come home to find them there, napping the afternoon away. When they wake to the smell of cooking meat, they drag themselves up from the couch and shake the blood back into their limbs. The four of them sit at the table that night to eat and talk.
Roman opens up.
And when he eventually has the money to spare, he doesn't buy a new blanket.
In which we finally reach the hospital. Medical trauma ahoy, please mind the tags and the notes.
To make up for being a bit rubbish, and because I always intended to post these chapters in pairs, there will be another 3 chapters coming out over the course of this weekend, as I finish editing. Which will bring us to the end of Part II. And I cannot tell you how much fun I'm having writing part III.
