creative-writing-sanders

[creative-writing-sanders]

lifehelds - chapter one

read it on ao3

a/n: currently working on chapter six for this after way too much homework, so if i can’t post the next chapter, may as well post part of it here.

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Virgil kept walking, trying not to let his limp show, it made his leg hurt more, but it was more important not to stand out. Not in this neighbourhood, and not on a day when he was specifically instructed to stay on the Lifeheld Only side of town. The law stated anyone caught outside the Lifeheld Only boundaries were accountable for any ill actions that may be taken against them on the Night of the Pure.

The Night of the Pure was a weird concept to him. Why did the Pure need a night? It wasn’t as though those with Life were going to stop them- they didn’t stand a chance. Not when the Pure were statistically stronger than any Life being would ever dream of naturally being. It wasn’t uncommon to find Pure children bullying the Lifeheld children in the schoolyard.

Which actually explained Virgil’s injury. The day before, one of the seniors at the Integrated School for Exceptional Pupils had felt the fact Virgil lived with fellow Lifeheld people, and had not been born or created by the Pure highly offensive, causing him to go… well, ape shit, for lack of a better word. Ape shit on Virgil for simply existing the ‘wrong’ way. Luckily, one of the more respectable Pures had stepped in scaring off the other, which is why the injured teenager wasn’t in the Lifeheld sector, instead of walking through the rapidly darkening community that Patton Fields lived in.

It was comical to imagine Patton being scary- he was known around ISEP for his cheerful demeanor. No, it wasn’t outward intimidation that had persuaded Loki to fuck off, but instead, it was the status Patton carried. Virgil never spent much time in the wealthy Pure neighbourhoods, they were very exclusive typically, just seeing the houses lined up was enough for him to understand why Loki had scrambled like a worm thrown onto hot asphalt. The houses all had a Victorian aesthetic, with extravagant porches, and three to four storeys (which was two too many, in Virgil’s opinion).

He felt some weight fall off his shoulders after coming up to a house that almost screamed Fields. Maybe it was the good old fashioned mailbox that read the surname in bold letters, or maybe the perfectly groomed lawn with bikes strewn across it. No matter, though, it was obvious enough that the seventeen year old found little doubt it was the right door he had to knock out. While walking up the driveway, there was a slight hammering in his chest. Would he be in trouble for being out during the Night of The Pure? Well… Mr. Fields wasn’t his parent, it would be fine, right?

‘Maybe this could wait until- oh.’ The door opened before Virgil could actually raise a hand to hit the solid wood (or back out, both were likely to happen). He was greeted with a woman who had to have been just entering her forties. Her eyes were a warm, welcoming brown, and but her stance was somewhat guarded. She glanced the teenager up and down. There was a critical look in her eye before she sighed.

“Honey, what are you doing out here? The North Side is no place for you to be!” Perhaps his facial expression betrayed how taken aback Virgil felt- it was a very casual way of speaking, as though they were old friends because she quickly continued. “Sorry, sugar. I’m Martha Fields. You must be here for Patton, but dear, you know it isn’t safe now, right?” How Mrs. Fields knew he wasn’t Pure was beyond Virgil.

Instead, he nodded mutely. “Er- I’m Virgil Masterson. Sorry, I just, I needed to tell Patton something. I can just- go.” The purple haired boy turned on his heel, only to have a disapproving Mom Sigh™ sent at him.

“You’re already here, I’ll go get Patton, but you aren’t walking home, it’s far too dangerous to go alone.”

“That really isn’t necess—.”

She shushed Virgil before lightly jogging up the stairs. “Patton, there’s someone here for you, and I’ve got you a job.”

While Martha had temporarily gone, perhaps talking to her son, he took the time to study the area. The house seemed to have an open plan on the first floor, seeing as from the doorway he could see a lived in living room, one with Barbies strewn around and a few coffee mugs on the table. A ways away there was a kitchen as well, which didn’t make much sense as Pures were known to not require Lifeheld food, but it was, of course, none of Virgil’s business.

Hearing footsteps come down, the kid looked at his feet, scuffing one toe against the other. Martha seemed to have stayed upstairs, so it was only Patton.

“Hi!” There was confusion in the older’s eyes as he looked down towards Virgil. “I hear you’re here for me?”

He nodded, “I wanted to say- thanks?” Virgil winced as his voice trailed off to a much higher pitch as he realized how dumb it was to sacrifice safety to thank the other. To be fair, though, he had been thinking that if he didn’t acknowledge what Patton had done, he wouldn’t help Virgil if the situation were to happen again.

“You’re welcome!” The eighteen year old smiled, “Why are you welcome, though?”

He didn’t even remember-! That made Virgil ten times creepier. “You- uh… helped me out with Loki yesterday.”

“No need to thank me, kiddo!” Kiddo-? Virgil was only a year younger than Patton! “I was just doing what a decent person should! I can’t stand bullies.” He looked away before smiling once more. “Now we should probably get you home, before it’s officially night.”

Checking his phone, Virgil found the time; 5:38. They had twenty-two minutes. Patton did the same, but with a watch on his wrist, his eyes widening.

“Alrighty, well we should hit the road!” The senior slipped on a pair of shoes, Virgil failed to notice their house was one where you didn’t wear shoes insides. Interesting. He followed outside, prepared to begin a walk, only to find Patton walk to the garage he had ignored upon the initial house review.

The car was somewhat new appearing, a van that looked like a rich soccer mom would drive in a sky blue. Not Virgil’s style, but pretty still.

“Hop in, Virgil! This is Bertha!”

He did. “Bertha?”

“Yep!” Patton nodded, doing his seatbelt up and waiting until Virgil did the same to even start the engine. “She’s a Bertha-day car.”

The purple-haired teenager snorted, and looked at the GPS that was equipped. “Can I-?” He questioned, gesturing to it. Patton nodded enthusiastically, setting up the radio.

When the address was tapped in, and a route mapped, Patton hummed. “I know that road- one of my friends lives there! I practically live there for some weeks!”

Virgil just nodded. He also lived there some weeks, but- that had to be obvious.

______________________________________

The rest of the drive had been relatively silent. Patton was a careful driver, even if he was a little jumpy when someone- a Pure- looked into the car. He danced in his seat to the bubblegum pop music that played on the radio, and never went a mile above the speed limit. Virgil often found it difficult, terribly difficult to relax when there was a driver he didn’t know well, but with the older student, it only took half the ride before he could release the tension in his shoulders.

Soon enough, the familiar line of a single tree on each property rolled up. Unlike Patton’s neighbourhood, this one had many children still playing around; parents hovering through windows. Outside his own house was the familiar face of Virgil’s older brother. Even with the sunglasses obscuring his face (why was he wearing sunglasses? The sun was just going down!), it was evident enough that he was irritated.

Patton whistled in sympathy as he pulled into the driveway. “Someone’s unhappy.”

“Yeah. Thanks for pointing that out.” The other rolled his eyes. Remy being angry was uncommon. He was never more than irritated at most with Virgil, but it seemed that this time he was legitimately upset. With a long-suffering sigh, Virgil opened the car door, “Uh- thanks-- again. I wouldn’t have gotten out of the Pure district on time if it wasn’t for you.”

Patton just nodded, “Stay safe, kiddo!” With that, the cardigan-clad teenager backed out, driving down the road and back to the North side of town.

The walk to the landing Remy stood on was daunting. The crunch of gravel under his off-brand canvas shoes was suddenly very interesting; the shoes themselves, too.

“Virgil,” He greeted. That was startling. Remy hardly ever called the shorter male by his full name. Virge, V, anything but Virgil.

“Hey… Rem,” There was a weak attempt at nonchalance from Virgil. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”

“Wha-” The brother sent a look to the emo. “What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’?” He flipped up his glasses to rest on top of his head. “You know the day. You know you shouldn’t, like, be out without telling me or mum where you’re going on the Night of the Pure!” He paced around, “I tried to text you, man, I did- and you didn’t answer me, like, not even once!”

Did he really? Virgil pulled out his phone. There was, in fact, maybe fifty texts from Remy alone. How did he miss those beforehand? They weren’t recent. “I- yeah. Okay. Valid. I understand.” Virgil raised his arms in mock surrender.

“I don’t think you do Virge.” Remy sighed. He was usually so lighthearted and fun, it made the… scolding much worse than it would it have been if it was his mother.

Virgil flushed from the scorn, guilt evident on his face as Remy pulled the younger into a hug. It was more emotionally charged than normal. The embrace lasted too long for the teenager as he wriggled out of Remy’s grasp. “Can we go inside?”

There was a nod, and then the more comforting, warm house welcomed Virgil home. To the left, he could hear the hum of a cooking show that his mother listened to (“Raw chicken again! It’s fucking redder than your beard!”), and to the right was the sound of his brother’s boyfriend banging around in the kitchen.

“Mom!” Remy called. He looked at Virgil to silently say he couldn’t escape to his bedroom yet.

The sound of the television turned down. “Yes, Rem?”

“I found a rat.”

“Hey- mmph!” Virgil tried to protest, but a hand went over his mouth before he could successfully defend himself.

“A rat-?!” She repeated. Mrs. Masterson was a chef, and rats were one of her declared mortal enemies. She refused to let Virgil buy one for his sixteenth birthday, declaring they were ‘plague children’. “Remy, you know how much I hate- oh.” The fire in her eyes lessened upon seeing Virgil. “Oh! Virge!” She rushed over, squeezing him tightly before smacking the back of his head. “Don’t- don’t do that! You scared the shit out of me!”

Virgil patted her shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry. I had to talk to one of the guys from school. You know how is it, right?”

“It couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?!”

Virgil shook his head. “It’s okay, though! I got back before 6:00,” He purposely ignored the cough from Remy that covered the ‘barely’ he uttered.

Mrs. Masterson shook her head, hugging Virgil again before ducking into the living room. “You’re grounded!” She called, jokingly.

‘Jokes on you, to punish me you’d have to make me stay out of the house.’ He thought to himself, fondly smiling at his mother’s antics.

“Emile’s making dinner,” Remy informed the youngest Masterson, watching him climb the stairs to the bedrooms. “Be down, like… soon-ish?”

“You got it, Rem.” He nodded, finishing the climb.

Up in the safety of the dark purple room, Virgil pulled out his journal, writing observations on the Pure neighbourhood, his interactions with two members of the Fields family, and their compassion that was scarce to find directed towards Virgil.

His journal was a simple one, Moleskin, with doodles and stickers all around the cover. Inside, however, there was a mix of entries, and what Virgil learned about the Pure. Bullet points on their lore and history, adding to it as he found new information. The journal was three and a half years old, he started it once being accepted into ISEP, joining Pures on equal ground.

The sound of a gel pen scratching on the paper filled Virgil’s room, along with the soft hum of the obscure band, Moose Blood, playing as he wrote the day’s events. All too soon, the destresser was interrupted.

“Virgil! Come downstairs! Dinner!”

[creative-writing-sanders]

cheese bag

read it on ao3

Virgil liked being on his own most of the time. He didn’t require there to be constant attention on him so to say, but when he did want affection, he would adamantly demand it (‘Huh… maybe I am secretly a cat’). Of course, in true kitty nature, Virgil then only needed recognition when it was inconvenient to others.

For example, when his best friend was reading lines or rehearsing a monologue for an audition. Roman did not seem to appreciate Virgil walking into his room at random holding a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, especially not while he attempted to belt the lines of Freeze Your Brain.

“‘Sup, Cheese Bag?”

Roman pinched the bridge of his nose, cutting off his backtrack. “Must you do this now?”

He shrugged, “I think so. C’mon, dude. Entertain me. Anything is better than me doing cats cradle alone for five hours.”

“Fi- good Lord, man, you have no life!”

Virgil offered a tight lipped ‘smile’. “I am well aware. That’s why I’m here.”

Turns out, not anything is better than solo cats cradle. You can only reread Act II Scene I of Heathers so many times before it drives you insane. Which is exactly why Virgil was never a theatre kid. Never could be a theatre kid. He didn’t care that Veronica was mad at JD for killing the two jocks. The jocks deserved it (well- kinda? They deserved some sort of repercussion).

“Virgil, I appreciate you, but if you won’t help me with this, can you please, and I am asking you this nicely, get the fuck out of my room?”

He huffed, “Fine.”

A little damaging to his ego, but it was fine. Didn’t hurt at all. Nope. That was absurd. And- it wasn’t because Roman hated him now. Nope.

Virgil shook his head as he moved away from the front of Roman’s door. The next on his hit list? Patton. Rarely did Patton turn away time to hang out with his declared ‘emo son’. That being said, there were a few exceptions.

It was just his luck, then, that the exact moment Virgil walked into the shared living room that it was one of those exceptions. Sometimes, Patton went into a headspace where he needed to clean. They were never able to find an underlying cause, but it was in everyone’s interest to stay out of the way. Tidying was fine, but this wasn’t tidying. Patton tended to deep clean.

(Virgil had a few suspicions that it was either anxiety, stress, or a pile up of emotions that caused Patton to do so, but so far had no other proof to backup the claim.)

So instead, he watched. The oldest of their group went back and forth from vacuuming to bleaching to vacuuming once again. It was an interesting system that he had planted, though disorganized beyond belief. Across the living room was the staircase to the basement, and thus as well, Virgil’s boyfriend. However, traversing the land of Heavy Cleaner would be risky. When Patton got into his deep clean, he did not enjoy being interrupted- and that meant he would use his Dad Voice. It shouldn’t have worked on any of them, but it did., and it was cursed.

“Virgil.” Apparently he hadn’t been standing quietly enough. “I know you don’t wear shoes inside like the other rascals. Just run by quickly.” ‘Oh thank God.’

So he did. Patton was opening the window, probably to avoid a headache, and Virgil bolted. Sock-clad feet, he almost slipped down the stairs, but caught his footing at the last moment. It was convenient, to say the least. From the middle of the two stairs, the landing, the sound of some obscure music playlist could be heard. Secretly, the emp suspected his boyfriend was a hipster.

Down the stairs Virgil went. He fauxed nonchalance walking to the corner of the unfinished room where Logan was set up. There was minimal lighting, instead a harsh, bright yellow light bathed the man’s glasses adorned face. Lyrics about a lions roar floated around them, and he huffed some laughter.

“Greetings, Virge. To what do I owe the pleasure to?” Logan didn’t look up from the desk, his writing didn’t even cease.

“Not much. Roman didn’t want my help and Patton is…” He mimed using a squirt bottle, and despite the fact that the other couldn’t see the demonstration, Logan still hummed in understanding.

“I see. So you braved his wrath to pay a visit to the basement?”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “I payed a visit to you, give me attention, nerd.”

“As lovely as your proposition is-”

He shook his head, “No- attention.”

Logan paused for a moment, before ignoring the interruption, “I am unable to provide you with attention at the moment as I am doing our taxes.”

“That sounds boring, and I might die without attention.”

“You sound like Roman.”

Virgil stuck his tongue out at the thought. “I do not- I just require affection and attention and all of that good stuff.”

“I am fairly certain I have a quote from Principe that disagrees.”

“You need to… stop quoting what everyone says. The fact you have a notebook just to prove us wrong is infuriating.”

A smirk played at Logan’s lips. “I do not enjoy being wrong. The book ensures I will not be.”

Virgil huffed once again. “Whatever-.” He approached the chair Logan sat on, and just before leaning against the back of it with his hands wrapped around his boyfriend, he changed paths. What could have been a hug turned into Virgil sitting on the table.

There was a heavy heaved sigh. “I’ll take a break soon, alright Bat?”

He sent back a thumbs up, swinging his legs idly. It was a known fact in the condo that Virgil established dominance through sitting on things that were not chairs, and any effort to dissuade him from doing so would be met with heavy resistance.

“Are you done yet?”

“Virgil, please-.”

“I’m not hearing a no.”

A devious thought flashed through Logan’s mind when suddenly a Dad Sneeze™ could be heard throughout the house.

“Don’t even think about it, Logan Henderson!” He called down.