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failedaethercore · 5 months

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The Missing Messenger

Inspired by @wolfofcelestia's amazing work found here.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

This (my fourth fic ever lol) was written in a fever state to get it out of my system since this had been consuming me all day today while I did my adulting. Please be kind, I know there are likely a lot of mistakes, But I am trying my best to learn and grow as a writer while writing all these fics.

Also I know I wrote something similar in my last fic, but I think I've ironed it out better this time. So bear with me while I work towards a new theme haha

Rafayel x fem!MC/reader, Xavier, Zayne, confessions, fluffy stuff at the end I swear ;;

Please be warned, this is a dark work and is not a good idea to read if you are easily triggered.

CW: torture, depression, allusions to rape, blood, guns, death, please let me know if I need to add any more (can't think of what else, I swear I'm not here to hurt any of you lovely people)

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel was laying on his sofa, one arm artfully draped over his eyes as he sighed in defeat. His latest piece was causing him so much trouble, which made him feel like just giving up and moving on to something else. But he was too far along to call it quits just yet, he wanted to see it finished.

So when his phone hummed quietly near his hand, he let out another dramatic groan and picked it up, praying it wasn't Thomas bothering him to find out when the painting would be done. It was just a text. From you.

Y/n: Hey, I saw there's a new cafe down near the plaza, you wanna go when we both have some time? Apparently they have rose flavored milk tea and really good snacks. I really wanna try it!

Rafayel smirked and sent a quick series of replies.

Rafayel: That might be a little difficult, I'm in the middle of my magnum opus and cannot be torn away! Even if it caught fire, I can never leave my studio until my vision reaches fruition!

Rafayel: But maybe you can bring me some when you come visit...perhaps...this afternoon?

He could sense you rolling your eyes as he sees the word “read” next to his texts. He lets himself full on grin, hoping you'll agree.

Y/n: I do have today off...but wouldn't you like a break? You've been cooped up all week, I thought.

Rafayel: Don't you understand y/n? I must see this through! ...But I could use a little break, if you're willing to drop everything right now and bring me an iced latte with soy milk and plenty of brown sugar boba.

Y/n: And a slice of cheesecake?

Rafayel: You know me so well, it's almost like we're friends.

Y/n: Or enemies.

He chuckles to himself, texting you always managed to brighten his foulest moods, despite the aching in his chest when his thoughts lingered too long on how you were unlikely to ever want to be more than that...just friends.

He sighed and waited for a moment, staring at the screen to see if you were going to say anything else. When it had been long enough, he figured you were getting ready to come over, and he slumped back onto the sofa once more, leaving his phone on his chest as he stared up at the blue coming through the skylights in the ceiling.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

He didn't think it would take this long to get ready, but he was patient. He may whine and complain and give you the hardest time for making him wait...but he had already waiting so long for you, what is one more hour? Or two...o-or three...

His phone vibrated again, alerting him of a text messsage. He stopped his idle paint mixing, having wanted something to do while he waited for you, and looked down at his phone set beside him.

Y/n: I love you, Rafayel

His chest suddenly felt full and warm, he could feel his heart beginning to beat quickly, and he swore he could feel his ears redden in the delight that phrase had brought him. He reread it several times, pinched himself, even slapped his face with his free hand, just to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep while waiting for you.

He quickly typed a reply once he had confirmed he wasn't dreaming.

Rafayel: Well it's about time! Thought I would have to be the first one to admit it, at this rate...

But the message wasn't read right away. Maybe you were walking over from the cafe now? And you just wanted to confess before your visit. He had no idea why you were being so honest with yourself (and him), but he was so happy he couldn't care about that right now.

He hums happily for a while, waiting even more impatiently for you to arrive. But now it's been an hour. Then two. He checks his phone. Neither of you had ever agreed on a time to meet, but he didn't think you'd make him wait so long...

Rafayel: Y/n? Are you coming? Are you okay?

His joy started to melt into chilling fear, dripping down his spine as he realizes that his confession was left unread, after all this time. That's when the panic sets in fully. Something is wrong.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel is in his trendy sports car before he can even think about what he's doing. Acting on pure instinct alone, he's already across the bridge and meeting the afternoon traffic that Linkon City is known for on a normal Thursday. For a moment he ponders if he should break the law, eyes darting hastily around the intersection before he floors it through a red light, not even bothering to slow down. He was a madman behind the wheel already, notorious for making you white knuckle the armrest whenever you rode with him. But now he was terrified, and determined.

He regains his senses while swerving to avoid a line of slowed cars, and quickly presses a few buttons on the car's touch screen, attempting to call you. Maybe your phone had just died. Please let him be a silly fool who worries over nothing. It rang for a while, before rolling over to voicemail, your standard message of “Hey, this is y/n, sorry I missed your call, leave me a message after the beep! Beep! No, not that one” followed be a giggle and then another beep. “Y/n please be okay, you've been quiet for a while, just starting to worry about my bodyguard here...I'm heading over to see if maybe you just fell asleep, since it's your day off! You better answer your door!”

Before he forgot, he decided to make one more call, pressing another button and starting a call with Thomas.

Thomas sounds elated to hear from Rafayel, thinking he had finally finished the painting and that Thomas could set up a new exhibition around it and the other dozen paintings Rafayel had finished earlier.

“Rafayel! It's about time, do you kno-” Before Thomas can begin nagging Rafayel about making him wait so long for just one painting, Rafayel cuts him off. “Something's wrong with y/n! She won't pick up her phone and I need you to track her down somehow. She's usually not this quiet, you have to help me Thomas!” The man was taken aback, his feet falling off his desk that he had leaned up there confidently at the beginning of the call. He sat upright and had no idea how to respond for a moment, Rafayel never begged for anything. Ever. At least not to him, anyways.

Rafayel waited for Thomas to reply, then shouted at the man. “Thomas! Go find Y/n! I need to know she's okay!” Thomas broke his silence with a stuttered “Y-yeah sure!” before hanging up quickly to make some calls of his own.

Rafayel pressed the gas pedal to the floor, as he sped down the road to come to a screeching halt in front of your apartment complex. He jumped out, not even bothering to make sure the engine was off, but just managing to remember to put the damned thing into park.

He bolted up the stairs, taking each step three at a time, as his long legs screamed at him from the sudden exertion on his usually lazy muscles. He knew your apartment number by heart, knowing exactly where you slept every night, just to occasionally check in and make sure you got home from a hunt okay. Even if he never knocked on the door, he looked up at the window in your apartment until the light came on, and he could see you open the window to let in some fresh air.

He knocked hard on the door, urgency spurring his continued knocks on as he waited impatiently. “Y/n! Hey! You home?!” There was no evidence of tampering that he could detect, the door looked like it always did, so when he had to break it down to get in, he felt a little guilty. Nevermind, he could easily replace it with a better one and the building's manager would be fine with it. He was praying you were just half asleep on your bed and would just scold him for freaking out over nothing.

When he found your apartment empty, not a soul in the place, while the windows were left wide open...his heart, already halfway down to his stomach, finishes it descent into his gut, while tears threaten his eyes. No...this can't be real. He's dreaming, all of this is a lie. He pinches himself again, and again, trying to bring himself out of this nightmare.

When he decides that he is truly not dreaming, he tries to call your phone again, only to hear your phone ringing under the sofa. The song you set as his ringtone would have probably made him chuckle and tease you if this wasn't such a terrifying scenario.

He picks it up from the floor, and looks at it. A photo of him smiling with you while you both pose in front of the camera glows before his eyes. That's when it all starts to blur a little, as tears begin to truly tug at the edges of his sight. He couldn't hold them back anymore, and let out a shout of your name, unable to contain his emotions because he had just found you again.

Moments later, a silver-haired man came barging into the apartment from the balcony, obviously drawn by the commotion from below. When Rafayel saw him, he was immediately on guard, drawing a dagger from behind his back, summoned from a plume of flame in his hand.

The man looked around quickly before drawing his own weapon, a sword borne of light held aloft and pointed at Rafayel. “Where is y/n. What are you doing in her apartment?” Rafayel stares down the weapon with indifference, not even registering the question before he lunges forward, another dagger being summoned to his empty hand as the sound of metal hitting metal fills the space.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

The fight only lasted a few minutes, but both men were so fast, and so evenly matched, they both fell to the floor quickly, panting, covered in cuts and bruises. At some point Rafayel had punched the man in the face, and at another point the man had gotten a good slice into the front of Rafayel's expensive shirt.

While both of them caught their breaths, the man asked another question. “Where is y/n...and who are you?” He had never met a match in battle, and was honestly a little stunned.

“Well who the hell are you? How do you know her name and where she lives?!”

The man slumps his back against the wall near the television, running his hand through his starlit hair. “Xavier...I'm her upstairs neighbor, and her Hunter partner.” Rafayel lets out a sigh and withers at the fact.

“I'm...Rafayel...she's my bodyguard. Did you hear anything in here earlier?” He is immediately brought back to the entire reason he was even here. “Y/n left her phone, she never leaves without it.” Xavier stares as Rafayel holds up your phone, the tiny charm hanging off it indicating it was definitely yours. He had no idea who gave you the tiny red fish charm, but he had always secretly been a little jealous.

“Then...the noises earlier...” Xavier stares down at the floor. “I thought y/n was exercising for some reason, even though it was her day off...I heard some shuffling noises...but I didn't think anything of it because I couldn't sense any Wanderers.” Rafayel's eyes narrow with every word, until his glare can be felt like a radiating heat from the depths of hell. He would bore a hole right through Xavier's head if he could.

Xavier sheepishly looked away, his quiet and sleepy demeanor made meek in that moment as guilt struck him like lightning. “I didn't realize. ...We need to find her.”

Before both men departed your apartment, Rafayel making a call to get your apartment door repaired, Xavier promising to contact your old friend Zayne who works at the nearby hospital, they agreed to exchange numbers and keep in touch. Their expressions grim as they went their separate ways.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel's soul had now been shredded, drowned, disintegrated, and finally blown away like sands in the storm. This happened nearly on the daily for him, as every moment of you being missing driving him further into madness.

It had been weeks so far.

Where were you?

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You had been texting with Rafayel when you had nodded off, meaning to get up and get ready to go get tea and snacks to bring to his studio and spend time with him. You were excited, but work had been draining your energy of late, so you let yourself nod off for a bit. Rafayel could wait, plus you enjoyed his bratty pout when you made him wait a little bit.

You awoke to the shufflling sound of something opening your window from the balcony. Or rather...someone. You realized how late it was in the same moment you realized what was going on. Men in neutral and dark clothes, face coverings, and holding rope and other supplies silently entered your apartment, thinking you were still asleep.

You quickly sent a text, knowing there was no saving you now. You could beat them up, you could take out maybe three of them in your current condition. Your energy still low from that last mission. “I love you, Rafayel” the last thing you send, as you don't know if you're going to come back from this as more figures climb into the room, you can hear their boots quietly touching onto the floor.

You jumped up from your position on the couch and ran to secure your concealed weapon you kept in the kitchen. A firearm for in case a Wanderer got too close to the apartment complex, or something like this happening. Unfortunately for you, one of them had a taser gun, and shot you in the back, taking you down before you can even reach under the counter for the weapon strapped there.

You can't make out much as your senses are blacking out from the pain. But you make out a low chuckle from one of the figures, a man with piercing eyes glowers down at you as he puts his boot on your head and grinds it into the floor a little. “...You're going to regret going for that.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been what felt like an eternity. Your figure was chained to the floor, the shackles on your wrists and ankles constantly chafing and making your joints ache from their weight. You were losing your muscles from all the lack of exercise, but that didn't mean you didn't still suffer the brutality of your captors.

Every single day, at some point during the day, the door to the pitch black cell would open, light would pour in, and then it would begin.

The first time, you had let yourself feel a glimmer of hope. Rafayel? Had he found you? But no...it was the man with the piercing eyes, everyone wearing masks still despite clearly being in a safe location. They could never be too cautious, it seemed. “You're going to tell us everything you know about Lemurians and where we can find them.”

Your face went a little slack. You knew very little about them, and only knew maybe...two? Three? One of them...you would never reveal their identity to these monsters. You had just arrived at this point, but the shackles were already hurting you, and the taser to your back still stung and caused your nerves to shiver with what you hoped didn't look like fear.

“Don't worry, you don't have to answer right away. Let's have some fun with this first...” At first your face distorts into disgust, until the man pulls out a blade and you see the cloth mask over his face wrinkle in a way that could only mean he was smiling maliciously. His eyes glint with joy at the prospect of hurting you.

But you never broke. Not once. You swore to yourself that death would be better than letting them know about Rafayel. After everything he had confided in you, after everything he had given to you, you would guard it with your dying breath before this scum found a drop of information. So you didn't struggle, you didn't fight, you let the torture continue for forever, as the outside world spun on without you. You wouldn't let others suffer because of your weakness, your failings.

You blamed yourself for being too lax, being too comfortable in your life, when you knew danger was a constant part of your everyday life. Your vigilance had slipped for a moment, and you were the reason you were in this situation now.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Once Zayne had been made aware of the situation, he had stopped working for a few days, searching in his own way to find you. The days turned into weeks, before he had to return to his work, guilt riding him on both fronts as he didn't want to give up the search, but he couldn't leave his patients to die.

Xavier had assured him he would be notified as soon as you were located, and Zayne tried his best to take comfort in that, at least. Rafayel was being driven mad, to the point of having barely slept and not eaten for far too long.

He was delirious, laying on the floor of his torn apart studio, as it was too many reminders of you, in some ways. His heart was gone, he felt numb all over, and his mind swam as he stared up at the darkening sky in the ceiling. He had searched through his underworld connections, but couldn't pry anything from anyone. No one knew a thing about it, apparently. But he knew you didn't just vanish into thin air.

So when all felt lost, he decided to try his last resort. You had his heart beating in your chest. From lives lived long ago, you have been reborn with that same heart time and time again. You were breathing because he gave you his everything the first time you had met. And now he had to pull it to him. He struggled for a while to try and tune into whatever frequency it was, he was rusty and hadn't really done anything like this in what felt like centuries.

So when he finally knew he had it, he could sense other Lemurians in Linkon City, he could sense the vast ocean and the creatures that reside there...he could even faintly sense others further still, but not you.

You were a blank space. An empty void stood where your usual place in the universe hung. He didn't realize he had stopped breathing until his lungs screamed for air. He sat up suddenly and gasped, choking on the air briefly before he coughed and started to sob into his hands.

You were gone. Not a trace. Nothing.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You were bloody and covered in scarring wounds, broken bones and twisted muscles. Today had been burns on your bare flesh, followed by mild drowning in sea water. But they lost interest, saying you probably liked it, since clearly you liked fish and all that.

You were struggling to breathe through your broken ribs, but you tried to keep steady, breathing through your nose slowly as you kept a stoic expression on your bruised and puffy face. Every day had been something new, something awful. But the taste of the deep salt water had hardened your resolve. You didn't know why Rafayel couldn't find you, but you would escape. You would find him and he would keep you safe again. You had to believe that, despite the fear that this was actually some elaborate play to make you loyal or something.

You were given too much time in the darkness by yourself. Your mind would race to horrible scenarios at the drop of a hat already, but now you had concocted a horrible fantasy where Rafayel had been the mastermind behind all of this, and that you were being tested to be sure you were loyal to him no matter what. But that made you more fearful that whoever Rafayel was running from must be even worse than this.

So you steeled yourself every day, when the shuffling of feet could be heard outside your door, you would sit up and just stoically stare at a spot in your vision that did not exist. Grounding your mind in what you had to tell yourself to survive this.

He was looking for you. He would come. As soon as you could make your move, he would find you. Somehow. If he was truly behind this, then Xavier and Zayne would find you. You had been gone far too long for you to not be missed. This was your courage. And you would be doubly damned by the Gods if you let yourself fail now.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

The day finally came. They had become less vigilant, as you had never once made an effort to break free, and the fire had quickly died in your eyes. They were almost ready to just let you go, figuring you didn't know anything. The only things they could ever extract from you were screams and grunts of agony. You had even overheard them talking amongst themselves several times, talking about their personal lives as if it was another day at an office job.

So when you were ready, you had snuck a small thin object, you think it was a broken paperclip, to pick the locks on your shackles. You made quick work in the inky darkness that surrounded you, but left the shackles on, to lure them into your plan.

The shuffling sounds came up again, and you were ready. You waited for them to casually open the door, like they had been doing so recently, as you let your eyes adjust to the change in light. They were chatting as if it were just a Tuesday, while you let yourself sprint to the door, pushing through the armed guards. They had forgotten you were a trained Hunter, apparently. Because you managed to pull one of their guns and shoot the other point blank.

The one whose weapon you had confiscated had fallen to the ground and to be sure he wouldn't follow, you shot him in the leg. You made a run for the stairs, apparently you were deep underground. It explained the lack of windows and fresh air in the cell.

The stairs were narrow, so it made it difficult as more and more guards began to pour down to apprehend you, and you could only climb over so many grasping bodies as they struggled to hold you while their injuries otherwise incapacitated them. Before long you were forced to throw the empty gun aside and take things head-on. You punched and bit and kicked your way as far as you could, every ounce of your being put into surviving and escaping. But before long you were dragged down and pinned to the stairs, a boot holding you firmly in place by the center of your back.

The man with the piercing eyes chuckled darkly. “I see you have more fight in you than we had thought...I like that.” He pulled your head up by your hair, at least what was left of it, and forced you to look at his other boot. “Lick it, peasant.”

You blacked out from exhaustion before you could do anything, and he tsked angrily. “Fucking bitch...she shot so many of these idiots. Now I have to clean this up.” He turned to those of his men who were still standing or able to stand, and began barking orders. “Carry out the wounded, shoot those who won't make it, and put her back in the cell. This time...I won't let her keep this worthless hope she keeps clinging to. I will take her tonight, and break her.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been months now, and Rafayel was wallowing in the abyss of life without you again. But this time was different. You had been ripped from him and he couldn't even find your body to bury. Every day he prayed you were alive, but then cursed himself for it, knowing if you were, you were most likely suffering.

The day had come, and he was burying his face in a hoodie you had accidentally left in his studio one time, sobbing uncontrollably as his phone kept ringing in the background. He ignored it, Thomas' frantic motions against the drowning undercurrent of Rafayel's soul would never be enough to save either of them.

So when he felt your presence, he bolted upright, tears staining his otherwise beautiful but now gaunt face, and he stared in the direction of where he felt you. He had checked there. Many times, in fact. He had suspected you were in the N109 zone, but how you had eluded him for so long, he had no clue. But now you were somewhere he could find you. And he would be damned by the ocean once more if he let this chance slip by.

His flashy sports car was in need of a wash, and so was he, but he hopped in, before speeding off to reach your location all the faster, once again a demon behind the wheel.

But no sooner had he gotten oriented enough to know which road to take, you vanished again. But he suspected you were in that general vicinity, and wasted no time to get to his usual spot where he could enter the zone without interference.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You were reshackled and struggling to breathe as the man with the piercing eyes was holding you by your throat so that you were partly suspended in the air. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Your escape attempt had failed, and now you knew the final thing that could be taken from you, aside from your life, would be ripped from your body forever.

Tears sprang to life in the corners of your eyes as you imagined Rafayel finding your body after all of this, somehow, and how it would break him. You couldn't give in, but despair was gripping your heart harder than the man currently holding your neck.

“I'm going to break you in so my men can each have a turn. After your little stunt, a lot of them need some comfort and closure from what you did.” Your eyes shot open, and you glared up at him with all the defiance you could muster. And it was greater than the will of the Gods themselves, as the man actually stilled for a moment in shock.

His composure resumed quickly, and he took off his mask to reveal a sinister, toothy grin on what might have once upon a time been a handsome face. There were scars and an obviously previously broken nose, but seeing the rest of his face only steeled your resolve. If he wanted to break you, you would put up the fight of your life.

So when the door opened slowly, the faintly brighter light from outside peeking in to drape across a shadowy figure, he snapped up to yell at whoever it was. “Don't you know I'm busy in here?! Wait your turn, ya filthy fucker!” He dropped you to go push the figure outside and shut the door, but before he could reach a hand out to touch the shadow before you both, his hand was sliced off in a blur.

He paused, taking a moment to process what had happened in a fraction of a second. Then he screamed. That's when the shadow stepped into the light filling the cell, and your eyes adjusted enough to see him.

It was Rafayel, covered in soot and blood, a dagger held in his delicate hand as he stared down the man shouting about his hand that was now laying on the floor, blood draining down to the center of the cell, where a drainage grate resided underneath you. Your eyes welled with tears as you stared in shock. He had found you.

Finally. He was here.

His eyes snapped to you, the look of murderous intent softening before he looked over your frail figure. Clearly they were starving you slowly, and all the scarring and blood, filth, everything that they had done to you, rushed into his mind before he snapped back to the man who had finally regained his senses enough to pull out a dagger.

Rafayel slit his throat and turned him to ash before he could so much as aim the thing. The dagger fell to the ground with a clatter, as well as any other metallic accents to his clothes. You gasped as Rafayel's eyes nearly glowed with hate. He would never forgive anyone who so much as glanced upon you in this state. But when he was done, he swiftly softened, his hands finding the shackles and unlocking them in one smooth motion before you register what's going on.

You manage a hoarse, quiet whisper of his name. “Rafayel...” He softly shushes you and picks you up gently, holding you close against his chest as your thin frame drapes across his arms. “You're okay...I've got you, y/n.” You smile, for the first time in a millennia. It hurts so much to smile, and the tears sting your wounds, but you can't stop it. And before long, you're blacking out as Rafayel ascends the stairs slowly, being sure not to jostle you while he tries to still his heart.

It ached so much to see you in this state, but it brought him so much exuberant joy to see you at least still alive. You drew breath, and that meant he could hold your warm hand again, and slowly help you regain your footing after this harrowing experience.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

He took you to your friend Zayne, since he was a doctor, before anyone else. Xavier was soon notified, and before long you were in your own VIP hospital room. Rafayel never left, even when you were being stripped naked and washed down carefully, and even Zayne had to look away with a blush. Rafayel kept watch, and nearly hissed at a nurse who tried to shoo him out of the ICU room.

Zayne had asked all the staff attending to you to be very careful, and even warned them that Rafayel might not cooperate if asked to leave the room. He had acquiesced to the fact that the purple haired man was going nowhere. Which he secretly couldn't blame him. He remembers the night you were admitted.

When you had been carried into the hospital by Rafayel, Zayne stood still in his tracks when he glanced up to find you looking half dead in his arms. Zayne shouted orders louder and faster than ever, and before long Rafayel was following a gurney into an operating room, despite many personnel pushing against him. He was firm, and unrelenting, so Zayne sighed and made him clean up and put on scrubs to stay sterile.

Rafayel silently watched over the surgery, his eyes looked like he was making a prayer to the last God or Goddess still listening, and asking for the only wish he would ever ask again.

That was a week ago.

You were looked after, and whenever he could, Rafayel held your hand. His sharp eyes kept staring into your soul, praying, willing you to wake once more. He kept his focus on you, unless a nurse came in with a new IV bag, a new drug, then he became vigilant to ensure it was safe. Zayne had given up on assuring him that he would never do you harm, because Rafayel nearly interrogated every nurse that came into the room, even to check your temperature.

But he finally relented to his situation, when he demanded Xavier keep watch while he passed out in the chair next to you, hand still holding yours. Zayne also stood vigil whenever he could spare the time, and a rotating shift of sorts came into being while you were unconscious.

A nurse had taken pity on your hair, as it had been pulled out in places, and shorn in others to shame you. She had done her best to wash it and trim it so that it would look better than it had been (she made sure to do it while Zayne was taking a shift, so she wouldn't have to fight a certain someone over it). Another nurse would bring food for whoever was on shift, though it was usually barely touched. Rafayel especially couldn't bring himself to eat, except when he collapsed once or twice, and Zayne pointed out how guilty you would feel knowing he was starving himself to death.

So after a great deal of staring down from Zayne and Xavier collectively, Rafayel conceded and ate some food. But he never left the room, even then. He thought the food was disgusting, and could barely swallow. But he willed himself to do it, for your sake.

Another week passed, and you were finally making stirrings. Your hand flexed a little in Rafayel's grip, and he sat straight up in that same moment, light returning to his dulled eyes, the numb restless sleep escaping from his form. You stirred, making a groan as the morphine had worn off. “Nnnnh...” Rafayel had to resist tightening his grip on your hand, as your poor fingers had been broken when punching a guard in the dick. If he had known that fact, he would be so proud of you, broken fingers and all.

He hit the nurse call button immediately, and started to shush you as you struggled slightly. “Shhh...y/n, you're safe. You're at the hospital. It's me, Rafayel...I promise...you're okay now...” You heard his voice over the high pitched tinnitus piercing your senses, and you sighed, settling back into the bed as you could barely move anyways. You tried to turn your head to look at him, but your muscles ached even doing that. “It's okay, I'm right here.” He squeezed your palm gently to let you know it was true. “I'm not going anywhere, okay?”

Zayne was notified upon Rafayel's press of the nurse call button, and came rushing in within a few minutes, despite being on the other side of the hospital. He was panting as Rafayel was talking softly to you, as your eyes began to close again. “Did she wake up? Did she say anything?” Rafayel nods then shakes his head, as he strokes your cheek through the bandages, as you fall back into your slumber, this time your muscles relax and you let yourself drift into a dream, instead of the never ending nightmares from before.

It took another two days before you woke up again, but this time you were more coherent, and you managed to sit up with the assistance of the adjustable bed. You stared at Rafayel for a long time before a whisper managed to escape your lips. “...you found me...” Rafayel almost didn't hear you, but he gave you the saddest smile upon realizing your words. “I did...I'm sorry it took me so long...” You tried to shake your head, but it was too much, so you just whispered. “No...you made it just in time...thank you...”

Your voice was hoarse and weak, but your once tight and guarded heart now relaxed and relished in the affection as Rafayel still held your hand, and gently brushed the hair out of your face, or caressed your cheek to comfort you, and many other tiny gestures that melted your heart as he whispered soft words to you. “You're going to be okay, y/n...Zayne is here, and Xavier will be in soon too...everyone missed you so much...” He looks down at his hand holding yours for a moment before he lets out a soft whisper you almost don't hear. “...especially me...”

You give another smile, although it hurts, it is genuine and happy. Hearing that somehow gives you confidence that you were right to trust him. He would never have done this to you, he would have never put you through hell like this just as some sick test. He clearly cared about you, how could you ever have thought those horrible things?

The nurse call button was pressed once more, and soon Zayne came rushing in, while Rafayel was texting Xavier with one hand to do his due diligence and let his new...I guess he'd call him a friend? Know what was going on. Zayne began to check on your wounds, checking every inch of you that he could to make sure you were mending.

“You seem to be doing better, y/n. Do you think you can manage some water?” A tiny nod from you prompts him to step out to hail a nurse, but there's already a crowd of them outside the door, and he sends one to get water for you. You glance at Rafayel as he just smiles warmly at you, his haunted face being pulled into a new expression for the first time in months. “...I want rose milk tea...” You let yourself smirk cheekily as Rafayel gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Soon, y/n...just wait until you can manage something more than water first, okay?” You nod a little and then turn your head slightly when a nurse brings in a pitcher of water, a glass, and a straw on a tray.

You have your first sip of water for the first time in what feels like forever, and you feel refreshed once more in that moment. The cool water slides down your throat and then sinks into your empty stomach, where it suddenly growls loudly in response. “O-oh...” Rafayel chuckles a little, and Zayne clears his throat. “You'll be able to eat solid foods soon, y/n. Just please be patient until we can take care of the bigger problems first.” You nod, and take another sip. You try to take a long, greedy sip, but Rafayel pulls the straw away.

“You're going to choke if you drink too fast...” He chides gently as you pout at him a little. But you understand, as you almost choke on the water you managed to get into your mouth.

Xavier comes in, panting, as he had to push past the mass of nursing staff and hospital personnel outside the door, and leans on the foot of the bed staring at you, mouth agape. “Y/n...you're awake!” You give him a small smile and nod. Your voice is still weak and rough, but you manage a teasing “...and still kicking.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been a month since your first day awake, and you had been released from the hospital to your apartment yesterday. You had to hobble around with a cane, as you still suffered from muscular atrophy, and some serious fractures. Bone mending had come a long way since the need for casts or months of recover, but you still had to be careful while you puttered around your apartment, already bored out of your mind.

You got to catch up on some shows yesterday, but that started to bore you, and some of the darker elements brought you flashing back to your time in that cell again. So you'd turn off the tv and stare at the black screen's reflection of you, still thin, weak, and pale. The scars would fade with time, but you also figured it might make you look tougher to other Hunters, so you were almost proud of them.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, as you looked down. It was Rafayel texting you.

Rafayel: Are you home?

Y/n: Yeah...I'm under house arrest for the foreseeable future...

Rafayel: Good. I'm outside, I can see your light on. Can you meet me at the door?

Y/n: Just wait, I can come unlock it

Before you have a chance to grab your cane, there comes a gentle knock at the door. You grin a little as you slowly make your way to the door, where Rafayel stands behind a large bouquet of...yellow dandelions? How did he know they were your favorite? And don't most people regard them as an annoying weed? You let out a gasp at the display before you. He was wearing his best suit, and had something behind his back, as he beamed a beautiful smile at you.

He had been with you at the hospital the entire time, but he had been eating more, resting more, and spoke more and more like himself once again. So you had watched him come back from the brink of an abyssal spiral into depression he might not have survived, while he watched you come back from the brink of death.

He handed the bouquet to you before gently guiding you back into your apartment. “Come on...I have a treat for you, y/n. I promise you'll love it...” Before you can say anything, he shuts the door behind him and goes to set a large bag of takeout on your small dining table. You let out a weak laugh, as it still aches to strain your ribs too much. But you smile at him as he sets out all the containers on the surface, going to grab some plates and utensils, as you slowly make your way to the chair nearest you.

“Rafayel, you didn't have to do all this...aren't you tired? You barely slept yesterday...”

Rafayel shakes his head adamantly, like a spoiled child being told they had to do something they didn't want to do. “I had to, y/n. If it's for you, nothing is too much...” You blush at his statement, having been reminded recently of the last text you had sent Rafayel before you were sure you were going to be killed.

“O-oh...by the way...Rafayel...y-you can disregard that text from before...y-y'know...that one...”

He stops what he's doing and strides over to you in two long steps. His eyes are piercing through your soul and deep into your heart, exposing every facet of you in a far more embarrassing way than simply baring your naked skin to him. He takes your free hand in both of his and gives your aching knuckles the softest of kisses. “I will never forget that text...” He whispers a breath over your knuckles. You blush more and try to pull it away reflexively. “A-ah...i-it's okay...” He shakes his head and holds your hand against his chest now. “No, y/n. It's not okay...I didn't find you before everything happened to you...” He takes a hand away from yours to gently stroke along your jaw and then run his thumb across your cheek.

“I love you, too, y/n.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

a/n: this kept me up all last night writing an outline on my phone, so if I didn't finish this I would be upset with myself haha

If you have any requests, please feel free to send an ask, I would love to hear them!

#love and deepspace #fanfic #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel #xavier #zayne #torture #fluff #confessions #neer writes #please be gentle

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selfdestructivecat · 2 years

Text

The Best Medicine

AO3 Link (kudos are greatly appreciated!)

A/N: FINALLY it’s done! My fluffy magnum opus! You want simps? Boy howdy, you’ve come to the right place!

HUGE thanks to @lovelivingmydreams for being my BETA again! Her help is always greatly appreciated! Check out her fics!

I hope you guys enjoy! ^.^

Words: 17,127

Rating: T

Genre: Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Hurt/Comfort

Pairings: Roman/Virgil (Prinxiety)

Warnings/Triggers: Minor injury and blood; Self-deprication/hatred; Swearing

Summary: Roman hears Virgil laugh exactly one (1) time, and decides that he will do literally anything to hear it again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman and Virgil do not get along.

Roman is Creativity, wonderous and striking and beautiful. He speaks as if barely resisting the temptation to burst into song, his voice boisterous and lyrical. He dresses like the prince he knows he is, purest white and passionate red accented by the noblest of gold. His very presence demands attention, confidence shining from him like rays of sunlight and charisma dripping from every word, sweet as honey. And of course, he deserves this attention. His ideas are unmatched, his execution flawless. When he requests attention, he receives it, because his existence brings a promise to dazzle and amaze.

Virgil, on the other hand…

Okay, so maybe Virgil isn’t as useless as Roman initially thought. The emo’s own demands and urges occasionally serve a noble purpose in protecting Thomas. A star can’t shine if its light has been extinguished, after all. And perhaps Virgil’s frantic nudges towards rehearsing more for performances are… helpful. And Roman appreciates the assistance. Truly, he does!

But by the gods, why does Virgil have to be such a downer!?

Virgil’s voice is low and growling, almost like a warning that he can, and will, bite if provoked. His clothes are as dark and gloomy as his personality, all blacks and grays that seem to drain the color out of any room he occupies. His nonchalant sloppiness regarding his appearance – evident in his unkempt hair, ill-fitted clothing, and splotchy eyeshadow — seems to mock Roman’s diligent perfection. Where Roman is loud and bright, Virgil is quiet and subdued. Not that Virgil lets that stop him from being frustratingly persistent whenever Thomas tries to approach a cute guy.

Roman and Virgil do not get along. They don’t get along because they literally can’t. They are like water and oil, fire and ice, Patton and spiders, and whatever other cliché Roman can come up with to accentuate the fact that they just aren’t compatible.

Even after Virgil revealed his name, the Anxious Side barely shows himself. When he does sulk from his room into the commons, it’s always with a sullen expression, like he had just attended a funeral. His demeanor rarely changes when he interacts with the other Sides, and when Roman does notice a change, it’s usually Virgil simply alternating between “Grumpy” and “Very Grumpy”. Even Patton’s bubbly cheer, usually infectious, seems unable to penetrate the darkness that is Virgil’s seemingly endless pool of angst.

This stubborn insistence on gloominess persists even when the Sides attempt to include him in fun activities, such as game nights and movie marathons. While the others are laughing and cracking jokes (including Logan, in his own… unique way, usually involving flash cards), Virgil rarely even smiles. At most, he would flash a smirk or snort in amusement, which in Roman’s humble opinion doesn’t count. A smile is meant to convey happiness, and laughter is the definition of unrestrained joy. Virgil smirks like he's plotting something, and he is quick to slap a hand over his mouth at the slightest hint of a chuckle.

Virgil’s smiles are few and far-between, a feeble candle’s attempt to pierce an all-encompassing darkness. And not once, in all the years that Roman’s known him, has Virgil laughed.

Until…

Well.

Let’s start at the beginning.

For Roman, the day began like any other. He woke up at approximately nine o’clock, lured from his bed by the delectable aroma of Patton’s patented (or rather, “Patton-ted”) pancakes. He spent the next thirty minutes donning his usual ensemble and brushing his hair meticulously, so that not a single strand was out of place. With a snap of his fingers, the speakers in his room turned on with a satisfying click, providing pleasant music for Roman to sing and hum along to as he worked on his appearance. By the time the last few notes of Beauty and the Beast’s ‘Be Our Guest’ faded away, Roman left his room with a grin on his face and a song in his heart.

He had taken the stairs two at a time, loudly declaring his presence with a sweep of his hands. He was greeted with Patton’s chirpy “Heya, kiddo!” and an eyeroll from Logan, as was the norm. However, he was surprised to see that Virgil was also in the kitchen, quietly setting the table as Patton flipped the last of his pancakes. At Roman’s entrance, Virgil looked up and slightly grimaced, as if Roman’s presence were akin to a bug that had naively wandered into the house. Roman made sure to lock that memory up in a safe place in his mind, because he was absolutely going to bring it up later and he was going to redefine pettiness.

(Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. Roman didn’t care what Virgil thought. He knew that he was amazing, and one gloomy emo’s opinion wasn’t going to change that. Obviously.)

And so, ignoring the grumpy Side in favor of the delicious stack of pancakes Patton was plating for him, Roman had walked over in long, confident strides.

Until suddenly, he wasn’t.

Now, Roman is usually the epitome of grace. He has memorized dozens of choreographed numbers from various musicals, perfecting his control over his body and honing his ability to transform movement into art. He is a well-seasoned fighter with many victories to his name, his body sharpened just as much as his beloved sword. But at that very moment, as Roman approached the breakfast table, his hip caught the edge of the couch in the common room, causing him to lose his balance. The next thing he knew, he was face-to-face with the floor.

Roman groaned in pain, hip already bruising from the impact. Luckily, he was otherwise unharmed, aside from the severe blow to his dignity. He was just starting to push himself up from his spot on the floor when it happened.

“Pfft—!”

Roman’s eyes had shot up, face flushed when indignation, but whatever snappy defense he had planned on shouting was soon caught in his throat.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Virgil was laughing, nearly doubled over and needing to support himself on the kitchen table. His eyes, normally stoic and unexpressive, were sparkling with mirth, crinkled from the wide grin that seemed to grow with every moment. The laughter itself was loud and raucous, as rough around the edges as the Side it came from, but it was delightful and genuine in that way all laughter is.

And it was beautiful.

Which brings us back to the present, where Virgil is heaving from the force of his laughter, Patton is rushing to Roman’s aid, and Roman has been staring at the cackling Side for approximately seven seconds too long to be considered normal. He barely processes Patton helping him to his feet, the fatherly Side chiding Virgil for his behavior despite his own lips quirking in amusement. He completely misses the smirk Logan sends his way, sharp and teasing, as he sits at his spot at the table. He doesn’t even touch his pancakes as Virgil’s giggles slowly die down, allowing him a moment to breathe and wipe tears from his eyes.

“You sure you have enough room for those pancakes, Princey?” Virgil snickers, “After the carpet you just ate?”

Patton spit-takes the milk he had unfortunately been sipping at that very moment, and Logan hides his own smile behind a napkin as he brushes away crumbs that aren’t there. And Roman would be offended, except he is too distracted by how Virgil’s eyes sparkle from unshed, happy tears. And how had Roman not noticed that Virgil has heterochromia, his left eye an emerald green and his right eye the loveliest of purples, both shimmering like gemstones?

“Nothing?” Virgil goads, smiling around a bite of sliced strawberries, “You got a stomach ache from your pre-breakfast meal?”

Logan barks out a loud “HA!” at the quip, and Patton scolds Virgil despite looking close to laughter himself. This finally snaps Roman out of his stupor, allowing him to hastily shoot back a jab of his own. The rest of breakfast is spent exchanging light-hearted insults with the Anxious Side and nearly dropping his fork every time he glances up and sees Virgil’s teasing smile.

And as he’s lying in bed that night, replaying that moment over and over again like a broken record, he comes to two important conclusions.

One, that Virgil’s laugh may be the most wonderful sound he has ever heard in his entire existence.

And two, that he would do literally anything to hear that laugh again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Exactly two days have passed since The Incident. Roman had dedicated those two days to intense research, hours spent watching various comedians and reading pages filled with jokes. Roman is now a certified comedy expert, and he is ready to perform just as he always has: perfectly.

…Since when did Roman get pre-performance nerves?

Roman finds himself frozen at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing and ready to descend. He can faintly hear Logan and Virgil conversing in the living room, their voices too soft to discern anything specific. Roman knows his hesitance is absurd. He is more than prepared.

And yet, as soon as he heard Virgil’s voice, his mind was filled with memories of precious laughter and an insufferable smirk. Blood had flooded his cheeks for reasons he couldn’t discern (or perhaps simply refused to), and suddenly descending the stairs seemed like a horribly daunting undertaking.

This is stupid!

With a deep breath and much more effort than such a task demanded, Roman takes a hefty step, allowing the momentum to guide him the rest of the way down the stairs. He turns towards the common room, and his breath catches when he sees that Logan and Virgil are turned towards him. His journey downstairs may have been an unrivaled feat of mankind, but it certainly wasn’t quiet.

“Greetings, Roman,” says Logan, who is situated comfortably on the couch with a notepad on his lap.

Virgil, lounging sideways in the loveseat with his legs draped over the armrest, gives a wordless salute. Roman feels slightly irked at the lack of a proper greeting, which is strange, since it had never bothered him before.

The two continue to stare at Roman, who stares back in confusion before realizing that he should probably give them a response.

“Oh! G-greetings, Logan! Virgil!” Roman leans on the banister and crosses his arms in a hasty attempt at nonchalance, but if his aching back is any indication, the position must look incredibly awkward.

Logan and Virgil both raise an eyebrow in sync.

“No nicknames today, Princey?” Virgil asks, looking suspicious at Roman’s abnormal behavior.

Roman inwardly winces. Only a few seconds, and he is already completely thrown off kilter, his charisma slipping through his fingers like sand. Fumbling his words slightly, he tries to recover.

“I, uh, decided that I should focus my creative talents on… our upcoming videos! Yes, that’s right! I sincerely apologize for the lack of nicknames on my part.”

Regaining a bit of confidence when his words come out evenly, Roman smirks playfully.

“Careful, Emo. One might think that you want me to call you nicknames.”

Virgil balks, the tips of his ears noticeably red.

“N-no, that would be stupid,” Virgil grumbles, looking away.

Roman smiles triumphantly. While the two are now allies instead of enemies, it is still way too much fun to tease Virgil.

Logan takes that moment to speak up.

“Well, nicknames aside, I’m glad that you are focusing your efforts on future projects,” Logan commends, “In fact, Virgil and I have been conversing on a similar matter.”

Roman perks up, interested.

“Oh? A new Sanders Sides video? Perhaps one featuring… moi?”

Roman strikes a dramatic pose, and Virgil rolls his eyes.

“Actually, we were discussing a potential livestream with some of Thomas’ friends,” Logan corrects, “Virgil was helping me identify some potential obstacles that come with streaming live, rather than simply recording and releasing a video.”

“Everything you say will be out there forever…” Virgil mutters, his voice low and sinister, “No editing. No take-backs. Just thousands of people catching your every word, waiting for you to say something wrong or problematic…”

Virgil shudders, his eyeshadow darkening like clouds before a heavy downpour. Roman can’t help but scoff, and Virgil’s eyes dart back towards him, sharp and challenging.

“I think you’re over-exaggerating, Gloomy Tunes. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Virgil’s expression darkens, and he opens his mouth to retaliate. However, to Roman’s surprise, Logan reaches over and places a hand on Virgil’s knee. Virgil startles, eyes wide as he turns to Logan instead.

“Roman is partially right, although his tone could use some work,” Logan says, throwing a pointed look towards Roman that makes him feel slightly taken aback, “You are catastrophizing, assuming that everyone watching will be looking for reasons to tear Thomas down. While it is certainly possible that there may be a few–”

Logan quickly summons his pile of flashcards, flipping through them until he finds the one he is looking for.

“...”trolls” in the chat, the vast majority of people will likely be there because they like Thomas, and won’t be purposefully looking for ways to disrupt the stream.”

He then offers Virgil a rare smile.

“But nevertheless, you make a good point. Because we are streaming, we will not be able to edit out any mistakes. So it would be best to execute greater caution before we speak, so that we don’t say anything that can be interpreted poorly. I’m sure we can count on you to assist with that.”

Logan gives Virgil one last reassuring pat. Virgil remains still for a moment, flabbergasted at the praise, before turning away in embarrassment. But Roman catches a hint of a smile.

Roman suddenly feels inexplicably jealous.

“Roman, now that you’re here, perhaps you could help us brainstorm activities we could do during the stream?”

Roman shakes his head slightly, dismissing the strange feeling.

“Of course!” Roman grins, walking towards the couch, “Have we decided on a theme?”

“Not yet,” Logan says, shaking his head, “But Patton did suggest that we could use the stream to raise money for a charity. While we haven’t decided which charity we will be raising money for, we have narrowed our options down to three different organizations”

Logan flips to a page in his notebook and places it on the coffee table, but Roman is no longer paying attention.

Charity… Charity…

Roman’s eyes light up, suddenly remembering his reason for venturing downstairs to begin with. Seeing the opening, Roman pounces.

“Say, Virgil. Speaking of charity…”

Virgil turns towards Roman, once again suspicious. He is no longer smiling, and some part of Roman feels… colder, like a camper whose campfire was suddenly extinguished by a great gust of wind. Nevertheless, he presses on.

“Do you know why crabs don’t donate to charity?”

Virgil blinks, not expecting such a shift in the direction of the conversation. Roman pauses, allowing a moment for the suspense to build.

Unfortunately, he waits a moment too long. As he opens his mouth to deliver the punchline, Logan interrupts.

“Crabs don’t use money, Roman,” Logan asserts, frowning in confusion, like how a teacher may react to a particularly dumb question from a student, “Nor do they use technology that makes donating to charities possible.”

Roman’s eye twitches.

“Yes, that is true, Logan,” Roman says through gritted teeth, “But also—”

“Furthermore, I doubt that crabs possess the intellect necessary to make such a transaction,” Logan continues, “I don’t understand why you are bringing this up. I’m very certain that all of the stream’s viewers will be human, unless a viewer’s pet is sitting with their owner, and even then the animal does not have the ability to make any donations.”

Virgil snickers behind his hand, and Roman feels his face grow hot. He doesn’t know if he’s more upset at the fact that Virgil is laughing at him, or that Virgil is hiding his pretty laughter.

“I know, Logan,” Roman growls, a vein popping on his forehead, “I’m not arguing about whether or not crabs are capable of donating to charity. I’m not that stupid.”

“Could’a fooled me,” Virgil pipes up.

Roman sends a scathing glare towards Virgil, although most of his anger quickly dissipates at the smirk playing on Virgil’s lips, and his mind is filled with pretty pretty pretty.

“Well then, I don’t understand why you are bringing up the subject of crabs,” Logan frowns, his brow furrowed in confusion, “Unless you are suggesting that as a potential theme for the stream? One of the charities Patton suggested is called “Mermaids”, so perhaps a nautical theme is not out of the question…”

“No, Logan,” Roman whines, running a hand roughly through his hair, “I was trying to do something—Look, can you just let me say what I want to say without interruption? Please?”

At the near-pleading tone in Roman’s voice, Logan raises an eyebrow. Even Virgil’s suspicion momentarily gives way to curiosity. After a moment, Logan sighs, then gestures towards Roman to carry on. Roman sighs in relief.

“So, do you know why crabs don’t donate to charity—”

Roman quickly raises a finger towards Logan, seeing the Logical Side open his mouth to answer.

“Don’t answer that, Logan.”

Logan looks even more confused, likely at being asked a question he is not expected to answer. He looks towards Virgil, who simply shrugs, before turning back to Roman with skepticism.

Roman pauses once again, although not for as long as he would have liked, fearing another interruption.

“...It’s because they’re shellfish!"

Roman grins broadly, arms outstretched, like a museum tour guide presenting a grand painting.

The silence that hangs in the room is heavy.

No… no reaction?

Logan, somehow, looks even more confused, while Virgil remains silent, looking towards Roman as if silently judging him. A far cry from the laughter that Roman was hoping for.

“What… What does being a shellfish have to do with donating to charity?” Logan asks hesitantly, as if trying to parse a trick question.

Virgil sighs as he turns to Logan, his expression noticeably gentler than when he was looking at Roman.

“I think it’s a pun, Teach,” Virgil explains, “Like, a play on the word “selfish”. So it’s like saying that crabs are selfish, so they don’t donate to charity.”

“Ah!” Logan brightens, pleased at finally understanding, before his expression suddenly sours.

“...Ah.”

Virgil snorts as Logan wrinkles his nose in displeasure, as if he had smelled something particularly unpleasant.

Roman, still holding the pose, feels his heart sink like a deflated balloon. While Virgil had technically laughed, it had been at Logan’s reaction, not Roman’s joke. He feels like an actor on stage who flubbed their lines, except he has no idea what he did wrong.

Does Virgil not like puns? Roman wonders, No… No, Virgil tries to hide it, but he always laughs at Patton’s puns. Does he not like crabs? He didn’t react too negatively to the first half of the joke, so that doesn’t feel right.

…Is it me?

Roman feels strangely hollow, as if something deep inside him had either shrunk or disappeared.

…No, that’s ridiculous. It can’t be that.

Before Roman can ponder further, Logan speaks up once again.

“Well, now that we’re done with… that,” Logan shudders, flipping through his notebook once again, “perhaps we can continue discussing the charity stream?”

Sighing in defeat, Roman takes a seat beside Logan.

But his mind isn’t on the stream. As the three Sides converse, Roman is already planning his next move.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman leaves his room with a renewed sense of confidence. He faintly hears his computer buzzing away, struggling under the weight of hundreds of open tabs, the fruits of Roman’s rigorous research.

He has soared beyond the title of a mere expert. He is now a comedy connoisseur. No one will be able to withstand the pure, unfiltered humor contained in every joke he tells.

He’d like to see Virgil try to hide his laughter now.

Roman smiles as he makes his way to Virgil’s room with a pep in his step. However, right as he’s about to knock, he notices a delicious aroma wafting up from downstairs, something sweet and homely.

Ah, Patton must be baking, Roman concludes, mouth already watering at whatever delicious treats Patton must be whipping up. Given the smell, the baked goods must nearly be done.

…Perhaps Virgil can wait just a few minutes. Just long enough for Roman to sneak a cookie or two.

As he heads downstairs towards the kitchen, the aroma of sugar and chocolate growing stronger and more enticing, he’s surprised to see not only Patton, but also Virgil in the kitchen. Roman notices flour in the Anxious Side’s hair, as well as splotches of cookie dough on his cheeks and around his mouth.

He is grinning ear-to-ear, and Roman suddenly feels as if an invisible assailant had punched him in the stomach, hard.

Patton, a hot batch of fresh cookies in his hands, finally notices Roman. He smiles brightly in greeting, settling the tray on the counter.

When Virgil sees him, however, his smile nearly vanishes, and Roman feels strangely hurt.

“Hi, Roman! You’re just in time! Virgil and I made some chocolate chip cookies. Did you know that Virge is an amazing baker?”

Patton lightly hip-checks Virgil upon mentioning his name. At the gesture, Virgil smiles slightly, but it’s a shadow of its former self.

“I was not aware,” Roman says, turning towards Virgil with a teasing smile, “I didn’t know he had time between all of his brooding.”

The smile is completely gone now, and Roman realizes too late that Virgil had taken his words seriously.

“Wait, Virgil, I didn’t mean—”

“Whatever,” Virgil growls. He pointedly faces away from Roman and, spotting the tray of cookies, snatches one off the tray in an attempt to play indifference. He winces slightly at the heat, as the cookies haven’t been given the proper time to cool, before popping it into his mouth anyway. He immediately hisses in pain, spitting the hot cookie back into his hand and reaching for a napkin.

“Oh, careful, Honey!” Patton warns, rushing to the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk, “They’re still really hot! Here, let me get you something cold to drink.”

Roman snickers, but stops immediately when Patton shoots him a disapproving look. He suddenly recalls Logan reacting similarly after Roman had teased Virgil.

He doesn’t quite understand. He and Virgil had always teased each other and traded jabs like this. He knows that they don’t mean anything, and surely Virgil does as well. So why were Logan and Patton looking at him like he had done something wrong? And why had Virgil taken his words so seriously instead of reacting in kind?

Virgil takes the offered milk gratefully, downing almost the entire glass.

“Thanks, Pop-Star. I appreciate it.”

Patton beams at the nickname, squeezing Virgil’s arm affectionately.

“Now, I know you’re eager, but good things crumb to those who wait!”

For a second, Roman expects the same silence that had followed his own joke. However, Virgil immediately starts chuckling, hand once again rising to hide it.

“I guess I couldn’t take the heat,” he shoots back, to which Patton responds with peals of laughter.

“Nah, you’ll be okay, Virge. You’re one tough cookie, after all!”

Virgil snorts indignantly, his hand falling to support himself on the table, and he and Patton lose themselves to giggles. With his hand out of the way, Roman gets a full view of Virgil’s laughter, and breathing suddenly feels slightly more difficult.

After a moment, however, the warm feeling is quickly replaced by irritation. In what way was Patton’s joke better than his!? Patton hadn’t spent hours researching the best jokes and puns. He likely makes them up on the fly!

So how is Virgil laughing so easily!?

Flustered and indignant, Roman interrupts, determined to produce the same result.

“W-well, I gotta say, these cookies will certainly, uh…”

He fumbles further when Patton and Virgil turn towards him, his words catching when a ghost of a smile is directed his way.

“...They’ll do what, Roman?” Patton gently prompts, giving Roman the opportunity to pick himself back up. Roman shakes his head, dispelling the irrational emotions.

“These cookies will certainly… bake my day!”

Roman grins, pleased that he was able to remember a cookie-themed pun off the top of his head. Patton cheers, laughter intermingling, and runs over to give Roman a hug. But Roman doesn’t feel victorious, because as Patton wraps Roman in his arms, he sees Virgil over Patton’s shoulder.

His arms are crossed as he leans against the counter. He is no longer laughing as he gazes as Roman, unimpressed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s been weeks, and Roman isn’t making any progress.

Roman had tried numerous jokes, ranging from knock-knock jokes, to dad jokes, and even a single “Yo Mama” joke that had produced such a disastrous reaction that Roman had quickly decided to not attempt a similar joke again.

(He knows that they don’t technically have mothers, being manifestations of aspects of a personality. He didn’t need Logan to remind him.)

And yet, every time without fail, Virgil doesn’t react.

Roman doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, which frustrates him to no end. He knows that comedy is subjective, and that certain subjects may only appeal to some.

But he knows that Virgil likes puns! As much as Virgil claims to enjoy only dark humor, Roman has seen the way Virgil quickly turns away at corny jokes, his shaking shoulders giving his amusement away. Roman has seen the way Virgil responds to Patton’s puns. Hell, even Logan’s drier sense of humor can produce a snicker from the usually grumpy Side.

So what is Roman doing wrong?

…A voice in his head whispers an answer that Roman refuses to consider, so he ignores it.

No, he would not allow himself to be discouraged. He’ll reach a breakthrough eventually, or his aspect isn’t Creativity.

As he leaves his room, a new batch of jokes rattling around in his head, he passes by Patton in the hallway.

“Hey Roman!” Patton says cheerfully, and despite Roman’s melancholy, the Moral Side’s cheer brings a smile to his face.

“Hey Pat, have you seen Virgil?”

“Yeah, I was just talking to him. He’s downstairs in the living room.”

It’s subtle, but Roman notices a slight change to Patton’s demeanor. His smile is still bright, and he is still bouncing on the tips of his toes, but it is as if clouds had drifted to partially block the sun.

“Did you… need something from him?” Patton asks, slightly hesitant.

“No, I just wanted to talk to him about something,” Roman answers, frowning slightly at the change in tone.

“Ok…” Patton stops swaying, and his expression shifts to something more serious. “But, Roman… Please go slightly easy on him, okay? Today has been a bit rough for the Shadowling.”

“Rough?”

“Yeah, he didn’t say anything about it, but he seems a bit more on edge. I think that’s why he left his room to spend time downstairs. You know how his room can be sometimes.”

Roman nods, shuddering at the memory of doubts and fears invading his mind, like monsters creeping in the darkness and concocting evil schemes.

“Do you know why he’s upset?” Roman inquires further.

“No, I didn’t want to pressure him,” Patton says, brow furrowed in worry, “I just hope he knows that he can come to us if he needs anything…”

“I’m sure he does, Patton,” Roman reassures, patting Patton on the shoulder, “and I’ll be nice, I promise.”

At his words, Patton smiles in relief.

“Thanks, Roman. See you for dinner? I’m sure you’ll be waffle-y pleased at what I’m making tonight!”

“Of course,” Roman chuckles, “I won’t miss it.”

With a final wave goodbye, Roman heads downstairs. Sure enough, Virgil is lounging on the couch, lying down sideways with his head propped by a pillow. He is scrolling through a social media app Roman doesn’t recognize, probably Tumblr if he were to guess. Roman can faintly hear music emitting from Virgil’s earbuds. He seems lost in his own world.

If Patton hadn’t said anything to Roman, Virgil would have seemed perfectly relaxed. However, now that Roman is looking for the signs, Virgil definitely appears slightly worse-for-wear. His eyes are glazed from something other than boredom, and despite the fact that he’s lying down, Virgil carries tension in his shoulders, and his hands are shaking.

Roman hesitates, unsure how to proceed. His presence seems to be far from pleasant for the Anxious Side, if their previous interactions are any indication. However, simply leaving when Virgil seems so upset leaves a sour taste in Roman’s mouth. His purpose as Creativity is to inspire and entertain, after all, spreading wonder and happiness to all. Besides, he sought out Virgil for a reason, and is reluctant to back out now when Virgil is sitting right in front of him.

Roman brightens like a lightbulb, an idea beginning to take shape. If Virgil is feeling down, then Roman can do something to cheer him up. And what better way to do that than with a joke?

Pleased with his plan, Roman struts forward, greeting Virgil with a wide smile.

“Hey Virgil!”

Virgil yelps, his phone flying from his hands and landing on the carpet. Virgil swirls towards Roman, his gaze nearly murderous.

“Geez, Roman! Warn a guy, will you!?” Virgil snaps.

Roman winces under Virgil’s glare. His words had come out slightly louder than he had intended, his excitement leaking into his voice. He does feel slightly miffed at Virgil’s reaction, though. Roman hadn’t intended to scare Virgil, so he doesn’t think he deserves the daggers Virgil is shooting at him.

…Although, perhaps Roman can afford Virgil some grace. He did seem to be on edge before Roman announced himself, so Roman can understand the reaction. And his original intent was to make Virgil feel better, so it wouldn’t do any good to start any arguments.

“Ah… my deepest apologies, Surly Temple. It was never my intention to scare you.”

Virgil’s eyebrows shoot to the ceiling.

“You’re… apologizing?”

That catches Roman off guard. Why does Virgil seem so surprised? Why wouldn’t Roman apologize? He is a prince, after all, and chivalry is an important tool in a prince’s repertoire. Of course he would do the polite thing and apologize for his errors. Roman suddenly feels offended at Virgil’s insinuation.

“Of course I’m apologizing! Why wouldn’t I?”

Virgil seems even more bewildered.

“Well, excuse me for being surprised! It’s not like you do it that often, do you?”

Roman is stunned. What does Virgil mean by that?

“What are you talking about?” Roman demands, his voice rising, “When have I not apologized to you for something I’ve done!?”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about when you constantly make fun of me and treat me like a villain!” Virgil yells, his own voice rising to match Roman’s.

The two fall silent, Virgil’s words hovering in the air like a putrid gas. Virgil’s tough exterior cracks, like hardened clay when heated for slightly too long.

“I… Ignore that,” Virgil says, his expression regretful, “I didn’t mean any of that. Sorry for raising my voice. ”

Roman can’t hear a word, Virgil’s voice muddled as if Roman is submerged underwater.

After Virgil’s acceptance, he had thought that everything had been resolved. Virgil was listened to, his role as Anxiety accepted and even commended, and he no longer had to play the part of a villain. He had even seemed happy. So naturally, Roman had thought everything was okay, that Virgil had forgiven them for everything they had done. But Roman…

A whirlwind of memories suddenly barrages him, moments strung with insults and passive-aggressive comments directed towards the Anxious Side. Moments he had easily brushed off at the time, assuming that Virgil would naturally do the same.

Roman… never apologized to Virgil. For any of it. Even worse, Roman had continued to exhibit the same behavior, completely unaware of the pain his words were inflicting. An overwhelming emotion encompasses him, one he is finally able to identify: guilt.

“I… I really haven’t, have I?” Roman whispers, his voice croaking slightly with emotion. Virgil’s eyes widen in panic.

“Roman, it’s fine, seriously!” he exclaims, rising from his lounged position on the couch, “It’s not a big deal–”

“It is! I thought things were okay, but you must have assumed…”

Roman’s words trail off as a more horrifying thought crosses his mind.

“You don’t think… You don’t think that I still hate you, right?”

Virgil’s eyes dart to the side, purposefully avoiding Roman’s eyes.

“I mean… Don’t you?”

“No!”

Roman’s voice comes out desperate, and Virgil recoils as if struck. Another silence hangs in the air, even tenser than the first.

Slowly, as if approaching an easily-spooked animal, Roman delicately settles next to Virgil on the couch. Virgil curls into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Seeing how unsettled Virgil looks, Roman is tempted to back off, or to cut the tension with theatrics. But he holds his ground, like a weary soldier bracing himself for the next wave of enemies. This conversation is important, and if he wishes to make any ground with Virgil, he needs to persevere. His jokes can wait.

“Virgil.”

Virgil reluctantly faces Roman, his face partially hidden by his arms so that only his eyes are visible, guarded and apprehensive. Roman wants to kick himself for putting that expression on Virgil’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes I do.”

Virgil falls silent. Roman takes a deep breath.

“Virgil, I treated you horribly.” Roman begins, cringing when his voice cracks at the last word, “I ignored and berated you when you were just trying to help. I assumed you were the enemy, and I treated you as such without truly getting to know you. That is not how a prince should act. That’s not… That’s not how anyone should act. And for that, I deeply apologize.”

Roman meets Virgil’s eyes, trying to convey his sincerity through his expression. Virgil’s eyes widen, holding the gaze for a few seconds, before he squirms uncomfortably and looks away.

“I already told you, you don’t need to apologize,” Virgil mumbles.

“But I—”

“Roman.”

Roman’s mouth clamps shut.

“Please, just listen to me for once,” Virgil pleads. Roman’s expression must have betrayed his hurt, because he quickly amends: “Sorry, shit, I’m bad at this. I just—I mean—You’ve—UGH!”

Virgil rises to his feet, hands gripping his hair tight enough to hurt. He takes a few deep breaths, and Roman notices, with another guilty pang in his heart, that his eyeshadow has darkened significantly.

“I-I’m sorry,” Roman stutters, moving to stand before Virgil, “I didn’t mean to—”

“STOP APOLOGIZING.”

Virgil’s voice echoes, magnified by his anxiety. As if the words are an incantation, Roman freezes in place.

“I—I’M SORry, I didn’t m-mean—"

Virgil inhales, shaky and uncertain, then exhales. His shoulders are still tense, his eyeshadow as dark as a starless sky, but he still forces himself to meet Roman’s eyes.

“I’ll admit, you’ve treated me horribly in the past,” Virgil starts tentatively, “and I won’t lie and say that your words didn’t hurt me. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. But I—”

Virgil words catch, as if a dam had suddenly slammed down. But with another wobbly breath, he continues.

“You weren’t the only person who was being an asshole,” Virgil admits, hugging himself tightly, like he might drift away if he loosened his grip even slightly, “I called you names, too. I… I made your job a lot harder than it had to be. I purposely sabotaged your plans instead of just… communicating with you.”

“We didn’t make it easy,” Roman defends, taking a step towards Virgil, but not moving any further when he notices Virgil flinch at the movement, “I never gave you any chance to say your piece, and when you did attempt to voice your concerns, I brushed you off. That wasn’t fair of me.”

“I just… I don’t know what you guys want from me,” Virgil breathes, his voice nearly a whimper, “At least before, I knew where we stood. I knew what boundaries I could push, and what lines I couldn’t cross. But now Patton runs up to hug me whenever he sees me, and Logan asks me about the audiobooks I’ve been listening to, and you—”

Another breath.

“You’ve been acting weird!” Virgil cries, “You keep seeking me out, almost like you want something from me. But whatever I do just isn’t enough for you, because you always end up sulking off like I had somehow insulted you. I’ve been trying so hard to be nicer. I’ve even held back on the name calling and insults, but obviously I must still be doing something wrong! And I—”

Virgil chokes, as if emotion is clogged in his throat, and his face crumbles in mortification as his eyes well with tears.

“What do you want from me!?”

Roman watches helplessly as the tears start to fall, Virgil frantically wiping at his eyes and struggling to get his breathing back under control. This isn’t how Roman had wanted this interaction to go at all. It was the last thing he wanted. He had spent all this time trying to get Virgil to laugh, to feel happy in his presence. And yet, all Roman had managed to do was make him cry. If Virgil’s laugh is like warm sunlight, then his tears are like a blizzard, battering him and driving a chill into his bones that leaves him feeling numb and hopeless.

Roman is bombarded with another wave of memories as frigid and painful as a hailstorm, echoes of past interactions between the two, and Roman realizes with a start that Virgil is right. He has been holding back on the insults. In fact, Roman can’t recall a single jab thrown at him since his conversation with Logan and Virgil about the livestream. And that was weeks ago.

But, to Roman’s horror, he can remember several times he had insulted Virgil. He had meant to be teasing, and he had expected a similar jab in turn, but Virgil had just taken them silently. As if… accepting them as the truth.

What have I done?

Roman remains frozen in place, silent and useless, as Virgil attempts to rein in his tears, black streaks of eyeshadow trailing down his cheeks like rain on a windowsill. At the time it matters most, Roman has no idea what to say. So instead, he does what he does best, and acts impulsively.

He grabs Virgil, who had started shaking from barely repressed sobs, and pulls him into his arms.

Virgil tenses up, instinctively pulling away as if the gentle gesture is an attack, and Roman despairs at how he could have possibly messed up so horribly for Virgil’s first instinct when Roman grabs him is to expect pain. Roman braces himself for an attack, ready for any punches Virgil will throw at him. He deserves it.

Instead, Virgil, who Roman has never seen display any sign of vulnerability, collapses in his arms, hands clutching the back of Roman’s shirt.

And he wails.

The sound is so devastating that it brings Roman to tears. He didn’t think Virgil was capable of making such a sound. He is tough, not allowing the slightest bit of hurt or weakness to show on his features. His expression is constantly guarded, not giving the slightest indication of his true intentions. When the two were enemies, Anxiety’s nonchalance frustrated Roman to no end, because it hinted at Anxiety knowing something he didn’t.

The shield is down now, Virgil lacking the strength to pick it back up as his body is wracked with sobs. Roman, still feeling hopelessly lost, eases the two of them back onto the couch, muttering soothing reassurances that feel futile against Virgil’s anguish, like a few meager sticks attempting to block a torrential river. But somehow, Roman must have offered some form of comfort to the Anxious Side, because Virgil’s sobs eventually subside. Roman wonders if Virgil will push him away, but he makes no effort to move, so the two remain still and quiet in each other’s arms, the silence only occasionally punctuated with a wet sniff. The silence is uncomfortable for Roman, who is so used to filling every moment with noise, but he allows it to linger. For Virgil’s sake.

After a few minutes, Virgil finally speaks.

“So, uh… Just to clarify. You… You don’t hate me?”

Roman’s heart breaks all over again.

“No. Of course not,” Roman declares firmly.

“...Really?”

Roman tightens his grip around Virgil, a few stray tears falling.

“Really.”

He states it like a promise, one he intends to keep until his dying breath.

“...Okay.”

Virgil’s voice is hesitant, lacking conviction, and Roman knows that Virgil doesn’t quite believe him. But that’s okay, because Roman will be sure to dedicate his every moment to proving he is a man of his word. It will take time, but Roman is nothing if not determined.

After another few moments, Virgil begins to pull away. Roman lets him.

“So… We’re cool?” Virgil asks.

“Cool as cucumbers,” Roman reaffirms, giving Virgil a watery smile.

Virgil chuckles shakily, and Roman’s chest does a funny little flip. Virgil scoops his phone from where he flung it onto the floor, then plops back onto the couch.

“So… Did you need me for anything?”

Virgil’s expression is tentative, remnants of suspicion still clinging to him like icicles after a winter storm, but he is giving Roman a chance. If Roman wants to try to make Virgil laugh, now would be the perfect opportunity.

But he looks exhausted. Their emotional conversation had likely taken a toll on the introverted Side. Even though Virgil indicated that he is willing to speak with Roman for a bit longer, Roman knows that a prolonged conversation is probably the last thing Virgil needs right now.

“No, I’m alright,” Roman says, “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Get some sleep, Ebenezer Snooze. Can’t have Thomas saying something embarrassing to a cashier at Starbucks, right? We’ll need you to help keep us in check, so you need to be well-rested.”

Virgil’s lips quirk, a ghost of a smile. While it’s far from the laughter Roman craves, it still fills him with a great amount of pride, because for the first time it’s truly meant for him. His heart flutters again, like a butterfly prepared to take flight, and he feels content. He waves farewell, turning to return to his room upstairs.

Except apparently, the couch has a vendetta against him. In a flash of pain and déjà vu, Roman’s leg catches the side of the couch, and he goes crashing down like a baby deer on unsteady legs.

He groans, slowly pushing himself up, when he hears a familiar sound.

“Pfft—!”

He whips towards Virgil, who has a hand covering his mouth.

“S-sorry,” Virgil says, his body shaking with repressed laughter, “You okay?”

Roman doesn’t know what expression he makes, but it must be hilarious, because Virgil can no longer contain his laughter.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Roman suddenly doesn’t feel so embarrassed anymore. In fact, he feels more like he’s flying on soft, puffy clouds.

“Your—hehe —your face!” Virgil squeaks through giggles.

Still laughing through his poor attempts to conceal it, Virgil kneels down to help Roman up.

“I’m sorry—hehehe—You’re not hurt, right?”

Something akin to concern suddenly flashes across Virgil’s features, and Roman momentarily panics, fearing that Virgil may stop laughing. He stumbles to his feet in a rush, determined to soothe Virgil’s worries before they can completely snuff out his joy.

“I’m okay! Really! Just a silly fall, no harm done.”

Despite his reassurances, Virgil’s laughter does subside, and Roman feels like a general watching his army get swept by enemy forces.

“I still shouldn’t have laughed. And after that whole conversation about being nicer to each other—”

“Virgil, truly, it’s okay,” Roman insists, “I’m tougher than I look, I can handle some heckling.”

Then, Roman suddenly remembers the past few minutes, where Virgil was an absolute mess in his arms because of awful things Roman had said. His eyes widen as he realizes his error, and he quickly backtracks.

“N-not that you aren’t tough for feeling upset when I said mean things to you! Anyone would feel upset—I mean—”

“Okay, okay, I get it, Princey!” Virgil interrupts, pressing a hand to Roman’s mouth to stop him from talking, and Roman goes incredibly still at the contact, “I know you didn’t mean it like that. And…”

Virgil’s expression softens, suddenly shy as he retracts his hand.

“I don’t mind if you call me those nicknames, or make jokes at my expense. I know now that you don’t really mean them. And…”

He cringes, as if already regretting the words he plans to say.

“I kinda… like the banter. It’s fun. Y-y’know, when you don’t actually mean any of it.”

Virgil’s cheeks are tinted pink. It’s absolutely adorable.

“Very well then, Stormcloud,” Roman says with a smile, “I look forward to it.”

Virgil appears momentarily stunned, his cheeks darkening, before he turns away in an embarrassed huff.

“Well, don’t let it keep you up at night, Mr. Bold and Brash,” Virgil grumbles, turning his attention back to his phone.

Roman grins, leaving Virgil to his scrolling, and he’s pleased to note that Virgil’s hands are no longer shaking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman blinks bleary eyes as he stares at what must be the five hundredth joke article he’s visited this month. His eyes dart to the time on the corner of his screen. 3 AM glares at him condescendingly.

But he can’t sleep yet. He’s so close to a breakthrough. He knows he is. He just needs to push on a little longer.

Now that he and Virgil have finally resolved things, Virgil is sure to be more receptive to his jokes. Roman now understands that what he had interpreted as stubbornness and judgment before was actually Virgil’s guard raised in preparation for an insult or deprecating joke.

Roman blinks rapidly at the memory, forcing away something other than exhaustion, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

They’re okay now. While Virgil may not be completely comfortable around Roman, he is willing to listen and give him a chance.

But that presents another problem.

Roman had previously believed that the problem was the nature of the jokes themselves, when it actually was his and Virgil’s strained relationship. Not realizing that, Roman had experimented with different types of jokes and narrowed his repertoire down to several categories, eliminating types of jokes that Virgil didn’t seem receptive to. Now, after months of work, Roman is back to square one.

It’s good to have more options, and from a logical standpoint, this development is entirely beneficial. But as an artist, Roman can’t help but feel a little frustrated at a month’s worth of work entirely down the chute.

But hey, it wasn’t all for nothing. Roman knows so many jokes off the top of his head that he could fill several books. If he plans correctly, he can probably get in several jokes with each interaction he has with Virgil from now on. And surely it can’t take too long to narrow down Virgil’s favorite flavor of humor?

Roman pulls up a document containing all of the jokes he had discovered in his research. It goes on for hundreds of pages, and the font is tiny.

Reasonably, if Roman is able to get in three to four jokes per conversation, and he typically sees Virgil around two times per day, then it will only take Roman…

Roman summons a calculator to quickly do the math. He winces. That’s a lot of digits…

Okay, so maybe he should at least try to narrow it down a bit.

Groaning, Roman rises from his desk and slumps to his bed. From his bedside table, he snatches a notebook covered in sparkles and with the words “Operation: Laugh Track” tastefully adorned on the cover. It’s almost completely filled with notes in Roman’s neat, curly handwriting, the text shimmering in red, sparkly ink. While Roman has a separate document on his computer where he keeps his growing supply of jokes, this notebook is dedicated to detailing Virgil’s reactions and speculating different methods of approach.

Roman sighs, noting glumly that most of the notebook’s contents are now completely useless, before turning to the very first page.

Compared to his later notes, the first few pages were written in a rush, the handwriting sloppy and the ink smearing in several places. Roman’s face heats as he remembers the breakfast that started it all, when he had first heard Virgil laugh. Roman had been so flustered that his mind could barely keep up, and he had opened the first notebook he could get his hands on and poured his heart out, like a poet starstruck by his first love.

As such, the first few pages were mostly an… embarrassingly detailed recollection of Virgil’s laughter: the way his eyes shone, the way he needed to clutch the table to keep himself upright, the way his lips parted into such a huge, happy smile…

Roman’s face burns hotter, and he quickly flips through a few more pages. Eventually, the text becomes slightly neater, as Roman had finally been able to collect himself. It details Roman’s determination to recreate the laughter, and several potential plans. Roman scans over a small section titled “Types of Jokes Virgil Might Like”.

“Dark Humor” is the first bullet point on the list, immediately followed by “Puns”. Roman had decided to focus on the latter, as puns were easier to find online and quicker to tell, allowing Roman to experiment with different jokes faster. Plus, Virgil usually responds positively to Patton’s puns, so Roman had concluded that corny humor was still his best option.

Roman pauses, then rapidly flips back to the end of the book to a blank page, scrawling the words “Things That Make Virgil Laugh”.

Compared to the other Sides (sans Logan, perhaps), Virgil is still very subdued when it comes to expressing emotion. However, ever since they had made a greater effort to include him, Virgil has opened up significantly. Smiles came more easily, and the ever-elusive laughter was slightly less elusive. In fact, Roman can recall several occasions that have produced giggles from the normally sullen emo.

For the first item on the list, Roman writes “Patton’s Puns”. While they don’t always make Virgil laugh, they consistently produce smiles, sometimes followed by an appreciative chuckle. Not quite the result Roman is looking for, but it’s a promising start.

The next item is “Logan’s Deadpan”. This is a bit more abstract, and not nearly as consistent as Patton’s jokes, but Roman can recall several occasions where a dry comment from Logan made Virgil laugh. Indeed, several of these moments made Virgil laugh even harder than Patton’s puns. This is closer to the result that Roman wants.

However, this approach presents more obstacles. Roman isn’t exactly sure why Logan’s comments make Virgil laugh, or what about the delivery is so humorous in Virgil’s eyes. He also doubts that he would be able to recreate Logan’s humor, given how Roman operates in grand displays, while Logan is not one for dramatics.

But it is still good to lay out his options, so Roman simply adds a question mark and moves on.

Something else that makes Virgil laugh…

Well, there is something that definitely created the result Roman wanted. It is the exact moment that incited Roman’s fervent plunge into comedy in the first place. The very first moment Roman had heard Virgil laugh.

Roman had fallen on his face.

Roman groans, his bruised hip throbbing slightly at the memory. His pride still hasn’t fully recovered since that incident. He has an image to maintain, after all, and the visage of a gallant prince is slightly skewed when said prince is on the floor. The wound had also reopened when he fell again this afternoon, and although Virgil had attempted to hide his laughter this time, the damage was already done.

Feeling slightly miffed at recalling such a humiliating moment, Roman decides to finally call it a night. He won’t be able to focus on his work when he’s in a bad mood. He returns the notebook to his nightstand, snapping his fingers to change into pajamas as he crawls into the silk covers. Another snap, and the lights turn off with a soft click. Roman sighs, unable to completely disperse the embarrassing memories. But accompanying the memories is the sound of Virgil’s laughter, ringing in his ears like twinkling bells, and Roman is suddenly much more reluctant to part with them.

Roman’s pride may have taken a heavy blow, but if it made Virgil laugh so beautifully, maybe it wasn’t all so bad…

Roman’s eyes fly open, and he shoots to a sitting position, his exhausted limbs crying in protest. He figured it out. A sure-fire way to make Virgil laugh, and to make him laugh hard. Best of all, it wasn’t something the other Sides did that Roman had to attempt to recreate. It was something Roman had done all on his own.

Of course! The solution is so simple! How had Roman not thought of it before?

Eager to write down the idea before it can escape, he grabs the notebook and once again begins to write. Sleep can wait a little bit longer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman sits restlessly on his bed. He hadn’t been able to sleep, scribbling frantically in his notebook until the sun peeked over the horizon. Despite the exhaustion that had seeped into his bones, Roman had risen from his bed and carried out his morning routine, dressed and ready to tackle the day before another soul had even stirred.

Patton usually calls all the Sides to breakfast at around 9 o’clock, which meant that Roman had several hours to kill before he could attempt his new plan. Those hours were filled with a sad attempt at researching more jokes and several discarded sketches. Eventually, Roman gave up on trying to distract himself, too excited to focus on anything.

Finally, Roman hears Patton’s familiar voice, and he shoots up like a dog rushing to enthusiastically greet their owner. Moving as quickly as he can without outright running, he stumbles his way downstairs. He is delighted to see that Virgil is with the other Sides in the kitchen, grumbling about waking up so early.

“Good morning, everyone!” Roman exclaims.

The greeting does its purpose. Everyone gives him their attention, including Virgil. Perfect.

Roman strides forward in long, graceful steps, a perfect antithesis to the event about to occur. As Roman rambles nonsense about how delicious breakfast smells, he angles his strides so that his leg catches the couch on his way over, similarly to his previous blunders. This time, however, Roman is prepared, and he slightly angles his fall so that the impact doesn’t quite hurt as much. Holding his breath and forcing his muscles to relax, he collides with the floor with a loud bang! To further sell the act, Roman groans, as if in pain.

And it works.

After a moment of silence, he hears Virgil snort involuntarily, then start to giggle, and before long he is laughing hysterically. Patton lightly scolds him, hands on his hips, and Roman resists the urge to tell Patton to cut it out. Virgil smiles apologetically, before rising from his seat, and Roman is momentarily terrified that he’s leaving, carrying his gorgeous laughter elsewhere.

Instead, he crouches down beside Roman and offers him a hand. Roman stares at it for a second, as if he has never seen a hand before in his life, before accepting it.

In the few seconds of contact they share, Roman is acutely aware of how warm Virgil’s hand is. He feels the rough texture of subtle calluses on Virgil’s fingers, and he wonders what kind of hobby the Side partakes in to achieve those calluses. Does he play an instrument? Does he create art? Would he be bothered at all if Roman were to join him—

Virgil pulls Roman to his feet, and Roman is stunned once again because holy shit Virgil is strong, and then Virgil lets go of his hand and walks back to his seat in the kitchen, and Roman feels cold.

“Are you alright, Roman?”

Roman is startled out of his stupor by Logan’s voice, and when he returns his attention to the table, he sees that all three other Sides are looking at him with various degrees of concern.

“You didn’t hit your head or anything, right?” Patton asks, walking over to check Roman’s head for bumps and bruises.

“Oh shit, you don’t have a concussion, do you?” Virgil suddenly speaks up, joining Patton beside Roman, “They don’t seem like a big deal, but I’ve heard that they can really mess you up. You don’t feel dizzy, right? Wait, there’s a thing that happens to your pupils if you’re concussed, let me grab my phone–”

Virgil rushes to turn on the light on his phone, his previously carefree demeanor suddenly reverting to a familiar anxiety. This tirade is very familiar to Roman, as Virgil would often lose himself in a hastily-rambled list of what could go wrong in any situation. When he was Anxiety, it would come out condescending, a silent reprimand for not thinking of all the potential dangers in the first place. Since then, Virgil has worked hard to soften his tone, fighting against the instinct that someone would interrupt or dismiss his arguments. And the other Sides have put in effort as well, giving Virgil room to say his piece and taking it into consideration, even if his conclusions are slightly exaggerated.

Still, some of that frustration had always lingered for Roman. He knew that Virgil just wanted to keep them safe, and that he wasn’t trying to ruin Roman’s ideas. But he still couldn’t help but be irked, and slightly hurt, when someone had only negative things to say about something he worked so hard on.

But this is different. Virgil isn’t tearing down Roman’s creative pursuits, exposing every flaw like a judge on a cooking TV show; he’s listing all of the possible negative symptoms that Roman could be suffering, occasionally glancing at Logan as if hoping the Logical Side will tell him how to defeat each and every one of them.

Virgil is feeling anxious for him.

As Virgil attempts to fuss over him, gently held back by Patton while Logan kindly debunks his reasons for concern, Roman realizes that he really likes seeing Virgil worried for him, seeing Virgil care about him.

If Roman wasn’t convinced to go through with his plan before, he certainly is now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman proceeds with his plan slowly, only tripping once every few days, and spreading out the incidents irregularly so as to prevent a pattern from emerging. He even practices stage-falling in his own room, although he fears that Virgil, who is always meticulous when it comes to Thomas’ stage performances (specifically the smaller details that could leave room for error, which would result in “complete humiliation”), would recognize his fall as unnatural. So while Roman does slightly alter his falls to prevent some pain, he still falls hard enough that small splatters of bruises trail along his hip and arm.

But Roman doesn’t care how much it hurts. He would endure falls five times as painful if it made Virgil laugh harder. But nevertheless, Roman’s plan works perfectly. Every time he would fall, without fail, Virgil would laugh. Roman would punctuate his fall with groans, perhaps a swear for colorful effect, and quickly swivel towards Virgil. He would pretend to glare at Virgil making fun of his expense, but it was really just an excuse to look at Virgil as he laughed, to soak in his beautiful giggles and to watch as his face lights up like a firefly. A light fluttering in his chest and a warm happiness would numb any pain Roman was feeling.

(And Roman may have been imagining it, but sometimes, when Roman’s fall is particularly funny, Virgil’s eyeshadow seems to sparkle in the light. He plans to confront Virgil about it later, but for now he’s content.)

Most of the time, Patton would rush to his aid, chiding Virgil for his behavior as he helps Roman to his feet. Logan’s reaction would always be much more subdued, a quirk of the lips or a sparkle in his eye the only indication of his amusement (although by Logan’s standards, he might as well be laughing just as hard as Virgil).

However, the best days are when Virgil comes over to help him.

He would clasp Roman’s hand for only a moment, giving Roman barely enough time to appreciate the slightly rough calluses on Virgil’s hand, which Roman has since learned is from several different hobbies he occasionally dabbles in, including playing the guitar and drawing. The warmth would envelop Roman’s hand, like he was warming numb fingers before a crackling fireplace, and spread from that one point of contact to all over his body. Then Roman would be pulled to his feet, and even after numerous falls, Virgil’s strength surprises him every time. Perhaps he could ask Virgil to accompany him on one of his adventures? He wonders how Virgil would appear decked in armor and with a sword in hand, ready to protect and defend…

Then it would be over, often accompanied by a quick examination of his person to ensure that he is unharmed, and a pat on the back if Roman is particularly lucky that day. And Roman would feel cold, like a window had suddenly blown open, beckoning frigid air into his once-warm home that would leave him shivering.

If Roman were to describe his predicament to Logan, to explain the rush of euphoria he experienced every time Virgil laughed, followed by a withdrawal that felt more devastating every time it occurr, Logan would likely claim that he’s developed an addiction of some kind. Roman wouldn’t be able to dispute it.

But it’s alright, because Roman never has to suffer for long. So what if he has to fall slightly more often? So what if not a day goes by where Roman experiences a dramatic tumble? So what Roman’s left side is almost entirely covered in bruises, like a canvas attacked in shades of purple and brown? Virgil is still laughing, and that’s enough. In fact, it’s perfect. Roman will gladly paint his body in bruises if it makes Virgil smile.

Roman should have known better. All good things eventually come to an end.

Things were going so well. Too well. Roman has seen enough theater to know that everything comes crashing down in the second half of the performance. Perhaps his hubris is to blame, or maybe he couldn’t see the warning signs through the rosy haze Virgil’s laughter always managed to produce. He had been so warm, so happy basking in Virgil’s sunlight, that he couldn’t see the clouds creeping along the horizon until they had completely blocked out the sun.

And once again, Roman is left fumbling, diving to recover something he didn’t realize had slipped through his fingers.

Virgil stops laughing when he falls.

He doesn’t stop all at once. The change is subtle at first, Virgil’s face still contorted in laughter as he helps Roman to his feet, but his laughter is slightly quieter, or he’s able to stop sooner. Then, it diminishes to a small chuckle, no longer so hard to control. Soon, Roman’s clumsiness only produces a teasing smirk, but Virgil’s eyes are no longer crinkled and shining from unrestrained laughter, instead reflecting confusion and concern. He’s starting to notice the pattern.

This will not do.

A joke loses its humor when repeated one too many times, and Roman knows this all too well. He has progressed well beyond the rule of threes, to where Roman’s tumbles are almost expected from the others. The novelty has worn off, leaving only worry regarding Roman’s personal coordination.

Roman tries not to panic. He had finally found a way to consistently make Virgil laugh, and he honestly doesn’t know what he would do if he lost that laughter forever. Patton’s puns don’t pack the same punch without Patton’s delivery, and Logan’s unorthodox sense of humor is nearly impossible for Roman to replicate. This is his only option.

Okay, so if he can’t change the punchline… maybe he can change how it’s delivered?

Yes, that could work. Maybe he could flail his arms a bit, like those inflatables often found at car dealerships. He could even use a bit of creative magic to suspend himself in the air for a second longer, like a cartoon character who has yet to realize they had sprinted straight off a cliff. A harder fall could also accentuate the comedy. That shouldn’t be too difficult to pull off. It might hurt a bit more, but he couldn’t care less.

Roman nods to himself, feeling a bit better at having a new course of action. He faintly hears Patton calling everyone for dinner, and steels himself for his performance.

Show time.

Roman exits his room, and he’s surprised to see Virgil leaving his own at the same time. Virgil smiles when he sees him, saluting with two fingers. Butterflies flutter around in circles in Roman’s stomach, but he manages a smile and a wave of his own.

They walk down the stairs together, exchanging small-talk and nicknames, just in time to see Patton place a steaming pot at the center of the kitchen table. Logan is assisting with setting the table.

As Roman and Virgil pass through the living room to the kitchen, Roman spots a familiar couch, and sees the opportunity to put his plan into action. He subtly moves towards the couch, bumping his hip against it at such an angle that he would fall forward. Roman relaxes his limbs, and after weeks of falling in this manner, he no longer feels the instinctual urge to throw his hands out to catch himself. As he falls, he manifests creative energy within his body, ready to be released in a thunderous smack! once he collides with the floor.

Except the collision never comes.

Instead, Roman falls into something else, and he feels two arms quickly wrap around and support him. Roman’s eyes fly open in surprise, worried that he may have accidentally fallen into someone, before involuntarily gasping.

Virgil’s face is hovering inches from his own.

Virgil had somehow whipped around and caught him. His arms are around Roman’s waist, holding him suspended above the ground like one would dip a partner during a romantic dance. His arms are so warm and strong and protective and it’s a good thing he’s holding Roman, because suddenly his knees feel weak with the desire to swoon. Virgil is looking deep into his eyes, his face a lovely shade of red and very close to Roman’s.

Virgil hastily manhandles Roman to his feet, once again astounding Roman with his unexpected strength, then awkwardly takes a step backwards, putting some distance between the two that Roman desperately wishes to close.

“S-sorry, didn’t mean to grab you like that,” Virgil stutters, and Roman wants to tell him that he can grab him as much as he’d like, “You were just suddenly falling and—jeez, Roman, be careful! That’s, like, the fifth time this week!”

“Virgil’s right, Roman,” Logan says, causing Roman to whip towards the table. To be quite honest, Roman had completely forgotten about the other two Sides. Both Patton and Logan look concerned, although there is another emotion hidden in their features that Roman is unable to identify.

“You’ve been awfully clumsy recently, Ro,” Patton adds, and the unidentifiable emotion vanishes, “Not that that’s a bad thing, but… You didn’t hurt your legs recently on one of your adventures, right?”

“No!” Roman is quick to reassure, flailing his hands, “I promise, I’m okay. I’ve just been a bit clumsier than usual. It’s that damn couch, it has a grudge against me, I’m telling you! It’s proving itself to be my most difficult adversary yet!”

Virgil smiles slightly at the joke, but Logan takes his words at face value.

“Well, that is something we can easily remedy. Perhaps we could move the couch elsewhere, or replace it with a smaller—”

“You don’t have to do that!” Roman interrupts, suddenly feeling oddly protective over a piece of furniture that had helped him make Virgil laugh so many times, “I was joking, it’s really just me being clumsy. It’s not because of the couch.”

The tension is back, the others looking even more worried than before, and Roman feels like he’s been cornered.

“It’s not like you to be so clumsy, Roman,” Patton says, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Roman smiles in what he hopes is in a reassuring manner.

“I’m okay, really—”

Virgil shoots to his feet, suddenly looking incredibly panicked.

“You didn’t hit your head recently, did you!?”

Roman is momentarily taken aback, and he suddenly feels slightly overwhelmed at Virgil looking at him with such intense worry. He had hoped they wouldn’t return to this subject.

“N-no, I didn’t hit—”

“Concussions can lead to dizziness, or a lack of coordination, right Logan?” Virgil presses on, ignoring Roman’s words completely, “He fell really hard over a month ago, right? Before breakfast?”

Logan nods, appearing deep in thought.

“That’s true, although he didn’t show any of the usual symptoms of a concussion afterwards. His consistent clumsiness started more recently.”

Logan turns to Roman.

“I know you said you weren’t injured recently on your adventures, but are you sure you haven’t been hit on the head by one of your, uh, “assailants”?”

Roman flounders helplessly, unsure how to exactly disprove Logan’s hypothesis. The truth of the matter is, Roman hasn’t ventured into the Imagination in a while, too occupied with researching jokes to make Virgil laugh. But he can’t say that. He would never live the humiliation down.

Patton moves as if to approach him, and Roman decides to put an end to the conversation before it can escalate any further.

“Darlings, I promise you that I’m fine! Look, the delicious dinner Patton worked so hard to prepare is getting cold. Let’s talk about this another time.”

Logan narrows his eyes, recognizing that Roman is deflecting his questions, but eventually sighs and takes a seat at the table. Seeing Logan yield, Patton and Virgil also reluctantly sit down, but Virgil’s eyes follow Roman as he walks over.

“Well, if you’re sure, kiddo,” Patton relents, “but you’ll tell us if something is wrong, right?”

“Of course!” Roman grins, his steps quickening as he makes his way to his spot at the table, an escape from the uncomfortable topic in sight, “Now, what’s for dinner–”

One moment, Roman is reaching for his chair, and the next he is feeling a familiar vertigo as he lurches backwards, his feet slipping out beneath him with a piercing squeak! Roman doesn’t even have a moment to comprehend what just happened before he hears a loud crack!

His world blurs, a rush of adrenaline struggling to catch up with the situation. He blinks open his eyes, his surroundings swirl around him like he’s looking through a kaleidoscope, and he can’t quite seem to focus on anything. Even his thoughts feel slower than usual as he tries to figure out what just happened.

He’s on the ground. He… fell? What could he have tripped on? He doesn’t think he bumped into any of the chairs. But Roman is having a hard time reaching any concrete conclusions, like his thoughts are a bit more slippery than usual, constantly squirming from his grasp like fish desperate to return to their ocean home. He feels dizzy and almost nauseous, a feeling similar to the drop of a rollercoaster, except it isn’t going away. In fact, it seems to be getting worse. Soon, it is joined by a dull, repetitive throb, like someone is using his skull for drum practice.

He sees… faces above him. His friends, although it takes a bit of effort to remember their names. Patton looks incredibly distressed, tears beginning to form in his eyes, as he fusses over Roman but doesn’t quite touch him. Logan grabs Patton by the shoulder to gain his attention, and speaks to Patton in a commanding voice. Roman is struggling to comprehend the words they’re saying, but Patton seems to have no trouble, because he nods shakily and leaves the kitchen. And Virgil…

Virgil.

Virgil’s face is deathly pale, and he looks shell-shocked as he simply stares at Roman. He presses his hand gently to Roman’s temple, and Roman has enough clarity to hopefully anticipate Virgil’s warm hand cradling his head. Instead, the touch is answered by an intense pain in Roman’s temple, and he gasps in surprise. Virgil doesn’t seem to hear him, and he withdraws his hand, the blood draining completely from his face.

The tip of Virgil’s fingers are red. That’s… that’s blood. Is Virgil bleeding? Did he hurt himself?

Roman struggles to make the connection, his head throbbing more intensely, as if trying to resist his efforts.

Virgil touched… his head. There’s blood on his head. He’s… bleeding?

Logan grabs Virgil’s arm and shakes him, saying something urgently. Virgil doesn’t respond, completely fixated on his bloody fingers. Logan shakes him harder, and Virgil flinches violently, looking like he’s going to be sick.

Through the dizziness and nausea, regret pierces through his thoughts like an arrow. He doesn’t want Virgil to feel sad. Why isn’t he laughing? Roman had fallen, right? Shouldn’t Virgil be laughing?

Roman tries to raise his hand to cup Virgil’s face, but his limbs feel incredibly weak. All he manages is a soft brush along his cheek.

“Why… not laugh…?” Roman attempts to speak, but his words slur like he’s several glasses deep into a bottle of wine.

Virgil expression shifts, flickering through several emotions so quickly that Roman’s frustratingly slow brain can’t keep up, until it returns to a devastating fear. If Roman’s arms didn’t weigh five hundred pounds, he would have hit himself for causing that expression. Luckily, his head is doing a fine job on that front, pain and nausea battling for dominance.

Roman feels his eyes closing on their own, and despite Logan and Virgil shaking him and calling a name that he realizes belatedly is his own, he slips into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roman wakes slowly, bleary eyes blinking away a dreamless sleep. The first sensation he feels is a throbbing, familiar pain pounding away in his skull. He raises a hand to touch the area the pain is coming from, and his fingers meet bandages.

Groaning, he pushes himself to a sitting position, slowly gaining his bearings. Walls decorated in velvet reds, a scattering of canvases and art supplies, and numerous twinkling fairy lights confirm that Roman is currently in his room, more specifically in his bed. Roman notices an additional blanket had been added to his silk covers, a baby-blue, hand-knitted affair with a slightly-skewed pattern of hearts. Roman also counts several additional pillows added to his already impressive collection, fluffed and arranged around him like a nest.

Roman smiles. Patton may be the self-proclaimed “dad” Side in the Mindscape, but he sure acts like a mother hen.

Roman moves to sit up further, but he meets resistance. Something heavy is resting on his legs. Puzzled, Roman looks down to where the weight lies, wondering if Patton had gone against Logan’s advice and adopted a pet of some kind. It takes a while to discern the shape, given the dimness of the lights, but once his vision clears, it doesn’t take long to recognize. Roman lets out an involuntary yelp, flinching back in surprise.

Virgil is kneeling at Roman’s bedside, head nestled between his arms and softly snoring. Despite Roman’s violent reaction, he doesn’t stir.

Roman’s headache suddenly feels far less important as he stares unabashedly at the sleeping emo. What is Virgil doing in his room? How long must he have been waiting there by his bedside for him to fall asleep in that position? And, most importantly, why?

Roman’s head throbs again, and he finally makes the connection between his pain, the bandages, and Virgil’s bedside nap. He was injured, and given how he was wrapped in bandages and moved to his bed, it must have been somewhat serious. But it’s difficult to think through his headache, and Roman grits his teeth in frustration.

Before he can ponder further, his bedroom door opens to reveal Logan and Patton, the latter holding a tray of food. Upon noticing that he’s awake, they both perk up.

“Kiddo! Oh my gosh, you’re okay!” Patton exclaims, although his voice is much lower than Roman expected, so it comes out like a stage-whisper. He rushes to Roman’s side, placing the tray on the bedside table.

“I made you some soup,” Patton says, his voice even softer now as he kneels next to Roman, “I know you aren’t technically “sick”, but hopefully it’ll help you feel a bit better.”

“Thanks,” Roman says gratefully, carefully maneuvering the tray onto his lap and sipping a spoonful of soup. It’s delicious, spreading a warmth that almost seems to chase away the pain.

“I am glad to see that you are alright,” Logan says, his voice also low and gentle, “We were all very worried about you.”

He frowns slightly, and his next words are slow and tentative, as if he’s carefully choosing what to say.

“I know you must not be feeling your best right now, and if you would prefer, we could save this conversation for another time. With that being said, would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Roman doesn’t answer right away. It’s difficult to think through the pain, and he is still having trouble remembering how he hurt himself. Still, Roman is not one to back away from a challenge, so he nods.

“Alright, thank you. And we can stop at any time if it’s too overwhelming, okay?”

Roman nods again, feeling slightly unnerved. He has no idea what Logan wants to ask him, but it must be serious, given both his and Patton’s expressions.

Logan takes a deep breath, then asks the first question.

“What is your name?”

It takes a while for Roman to process the question, because it was honestly the last thing he expected Logan to ask. His name? Why is Logan asking if he knows his name? Of course he knows his name! Roman wants to ask why Logan would ask something so obvious, but he stops, seeing the grave look on Logan’s face. This question must be important, even if Roman doesn’t yet realize why, so he decides to table his curiosity for now.

“My name is Roman.”

Despite the simplicity of the question, as well as the obvious nature of the answer, Logan’s shoulders relax. He seems incredibly relieved, like Roman just told him that a dangerous medical operation was successful, rather than just saying his own name.

Logan hesitates again at the second question, but presses on.

“Do you know… our names?”

Another curve ball. Roman feels even more bewildered, but continues to humor Logan.

“You’re Logan, and he’s Patton. The guy sleeping beside my bed–” Roman’s words stutter when he momentarily turns his attention back to Virgil, and he hopes that the dim lights are enough to hide his blush, “–is Virgil.”

Logan smiles widely, like how a teacher would praise a student correctly solving a difficult math problem.

“Good. That’s very good.”

Roman can no longer hold back his overwhelming curiosity, and so he gives in and voices his confusion.

“Why are you asking me these things?”

Logan’s smile vanishes, and Patton frowns with concern.

“Do you… not remember?” Logan asks slowly.

Roman’s head throbs, as if trying to answer the question for him, and Roman hisses in pain. The memories are still very fuzzy, like they’re hidden behind thick glass.

“Bits and pieces,” Roman answers honestly, “I’m assuming I hit my head, right?”

Logan nods.

“A few days ago, you slipped on some water that had spilled onto the kitchen floor. You fell and hit your head on the tiles. There was some minor bleeding, but the injury wasn’t too severe. We still decided to disinfect and bandage the wound to prevent infection.”

Roman nods along, his memory of the event slowly returning.

“While the cut on your head wasn’t serious,” Logan continues, “you did hit your head rather hard against the floor. You seemed to experience some difficulty focusing after you fell, so we concluded that you may have experienced a concussion. Rather ironic, given what we had been conversing about right before that very moment.”

Right, the dinner. Roman remembers them pressing him about his increased clumsiness, to which he managed to deflect their questions. He had then rushed to his own seat, eager to escape their interrogation.

It had all happened so fast. But Roman can remember the moment he fell, the sound of his head banging against the tiles, and the dizziness and nausea that followed.

“Yeah, I think I remember,” Roman says.

“That’s good,” Logan says, looking relieved, “One thing that we were most worried about was possible amnesia, which can sometimes accompany a concussion. That’s why I asked you those questions. I wanted to confirm that you didn’t suffer any memory loss.”

Roman nods, finally understanding.

“I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. My head is killing me, but otherwise I feel alright.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Logan smiles, “and I’m sorry to hear that you’re still experiencing some pain. I suspected as much, since headaches are a very common symptom of head trauma, so we have made a greater effort to keep our voices low. We can also provide you with some pain killers, if that would help?”

Roman nods earnestly, eager for even a momentary respite from the pain. At his response, Patton smiles and leaves the room to fetch the medicine.

“While Patton takes care of that,” Logan says, “would you mind if I asked a few more general questions? While I’m very pleased that you remember your identity, as well as ours, it would be good to ensure that you haven’t forgotten anything else.”

With Roman’s approval, Logan begins asking another series of questions, asking for general facts like the year, or which state they live in, or the current U.S. president. He then shifts to more recent, significant events, like what Roman gifted Patton for his most recent birthday, or the most recent video they filmed together, or the day that Virgil revealed his name.

Once Virgil is mentioned, Roman gathers the courage to ask what’s been on his mind since he woke up.

“How… How long has he…”

Patton, who had returned with the medicine during Logan’s questioning, follows his gaze to Virgil’s sleeping form, and he smiles.

“He was beside himself with worry.” Patton explains, “We tried to get him to sleep in his own room, but when I came to check on you in the middle of the night, he was right back here.”

“I believe he wanted to see that you were alright with his own eyes,” Logan elaborates.

Both of their expressions are knowing, and Roman feels himself blushing.

“He was that worried about me?” Roman asks, feeling incredibly touched.

Patton’s smile takes on a mischievous edge, curling like a cat’s.

“He was,” Patton grins, “He really cares about you, y’know?”

Roman’s face grows hotter, but he can’t help a dopey smile from spreading on his lips as he turns to Virgil, diligently guarding Roman even as he sleeps.

Suddenly, Virgil begins to stir.

“Oh! That’s our cue to leave!” Patton announces, grabbing Logan by the arm and dragging him towards the door.

“Wait, what?” Roman startles, “Where are you going—”

“I’m sure you two have some things to talk about,” Logan says, eyes twinkling mischievously, “We’ll leave you to it.”

“What do you mean—”

The door closes with a soft click, leaving Roman alone with a slowly-waking Virgil. The Anxious Side yawns, rubbing his eyes, before his gaze falls upon Roman. He freezes in place, and Roman is just as stunned.

Virgil isn’t wearing his eyeshadow.

The lack of dark make-up, coupled with unruly, sleep-tousled hair, has given Virgil a gentler look, almost innocent. His eyes, usually stark against black eyeshadow, sparkle and shine like flickering candlelight. To top it all off, Virgil is bathed in the warm glow of Roman’s fairy lights, softening his sharp and angular features. And amidst it all is a discovery that causes the butterflies in Roman’s stomach to throw a party.

“You have freckles.”

Virgil snaps out of his stupor, his hands flying to his cheeks with a squeak. However, his hands aren’t big enough to cover his ears as well, and their red hue gives away Virgil’s embarrassment.

“N-no I don’t!” Virgil declares vehemently.

“Yes you do!” Roman exclaims, leaning closer to Virgil so he can get a closer look, “You totally have freckles!”

“It’s just the light!” Virgil attempts to argue, leaning away from Roman’s awe-struck gaze, “It’s too dark to see! And you have a concussion, so you don’t know what you’re seeing!”

“My vision is completely fine, Phoenix Wrong,” Roman counters, grinning when Virgil blushes hard enough that his freckles contrast against the red, making them stand out even further, “I also haven’t experienced any hallucinations or memory loss since I woke up.”

“O-oh,” Virgil stutters, “That’s… That’s good.”

Roman laughs, unable to hold it back any longer. Virgil is just too adorable. Virgil scowls grumpily at the laughter, lowering his hands to cross his arms and giving Roman a wonderful view of his beautiful freckles.

“Why would you hide them?” Roman asks, “They’re so pretty.”

Virgil’s eyes widen at the word “pretty”, and he blushes harder, much to Roman’s delight. He then turns away, embarrassed.

“...They’re stupid,” Virgil mumbles, “Ruin my image.”

“I don’t think they’re stupid,” Roman frowns, “They’re cute.”

Virgil chokes, his hands clutching his arms tighter, as if resisting the urge to once again cover his face.

“Yeah, but I’m not cute! I’m Anxiety! Anxiety isn’t supposed to be “cute”!”

Roman wants to argue against that, to present a long list of evidence he had compiled over the past month, but he refrains, knowing that Virgil would probably not appreciate it. Instead, he settles for a compromise.

“Well, I think they’re lovely,” Roman says genuinely.

“You’re lying,” Virgil shoots back immediately. Roman gasps in indignation.

“I would never! Honesty is a necessary virtue for every prince!”

The theatrics have the desired effect, and Virgil snorts, some of the tension leaving his body.

“They still look stupid.”

“Patton has freckles,” Roman retaliates, “Are you saying that Patton looks stupid?”

“Of course not,” Virgil scoffs, “He, like, defines cute. He’s the fucking Heart, for fucks sake. They suit him. I’m not… That’s not me. I’m not cute.”

Roman sighs, knowing that he won’t be able to change Virgil’s mind anytime soon, even if he so earnestly disagrees with him.

“If you say so,” Roman relents. Virgil sighs in relief, the blood finally leaving his cheeks. He slowly begins to stand, groaning at the sudden shift in position, and Roman winces sympathetically. Holding such an uncomfortable position for so long couldn’t have done his back any favors. After stretching out his sore limbs, Virgil hovers awkwardly, appearing unsure if his presence is still wanted. Seeing this, Roman scoots to the side and pats the now-empty spot on his bed. Virgil blushes, but still gingerly settles beside Roman.

He’s gone completely silent, biting his lip and messing with the hem of his sleeve. Something seems to be on his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Roman asks.

Virgil flinches, hand reaching to clutch at his arm.

“It’s nothing,” Virgil deflects, “Don’t worry about it.”

Roman raises an eyebrow.

“Well now I’m definitely worrying about it,” Roman says, crossing his legs and shifting so that he’s facing Virgil, “That’s, like, literally the worst thing you could have said if you didn’t want me to worry about it.”

“No– I just–” Virgil fumbles with his words, squirming under Roman’s determined gaze, “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a big deal if it’s bothering you.”

The blush returns with a vengeance, creeping down Virgil’s neck and to the tips of his ears.

“What’s wrong with you!?” Virgil groans, bewildered, “How can you say stuff like that with a straight face!?”

“I’m just built different,” Roman replies with a smile. He cradles his face in his hands, arms perched on his crossed legs, and stares Virgil down with wide-eyed attention.

Virgil hesitates, but something in Roman’s expression must convince him, because he eventually concedes.

“It’s about… something you said. Y’know, right before you fell unconscious.”

At these words, Roman is gripped with an ice-cold fear. He can’t remember exactly what he said after he fell, but given Virgil’s reaction, it must have been bad. Did he reveal his plan? Did he confess how utterly smitten he has become with Virgil’s laugh? With Virgil himself?

“You were asking why I wasn’t laughing. Like you… expected it.”

The memory hits Roman like a baseball bat to the face. He had said something along those lines. Oh shit, that’s basically a confession, right? Virgil must have figured out his plan. Or at the very least, Logan had drawn the necessary conclusions and promptly shared his findings with Virgil. Either way, the result is the same.

Oh gods, Roman feels like he might melt from the heat of his embarrassment. His face is no doubt the color of a deliciously ripe tomato.

He expects Virgil to look uncomfortable, if not outright disgusted. He knows how silly he must have appeared to have spent days looking up every joke under the sun, just to recreate a single sound that completely undos him. And it’s definitely extreme to continuously hurt yourself for another person’s amusement.

It was too much. He’s too much.

Roman usually prides himself in the sheer magnitude he conducts himself in. His presence fills a room, his voice commands attention. For him, too much is never enough. He always needs to be more, to go beyond the limits that had previously held him back, to break the walls that hold him captive. He is color, he is music, he is imagination incarnate. He is grand, dramatic presence. And that is probably the last thing Virgil wants.

Virgil, snarky and defensive and introverted. Virgil, mellow and muted and subdued. Virgil, the soft whisper advising caution, the shadows that warn of potential danger, the hero in villain’s clothing. He is darkness, he is trepidation, he is a knight without armor, loyalty and diligence without the shiny exterior.

Roman is Creativity, noisy and boisterous and loud. Virgil is Anxiety, dark and subdued and quiet. They are like water and oil, fire and ice, Patton and spiders, and a million more clichés that Roman wishes he could rewrite to fit his desires. They just aren’t compatible, and it was stupid of Roman to think otherwise.

Roman braces himself for rejection, but yet again, Virgil surprises him.

“Do you really think so low of me, that you expect me to laugh while you’re bleeding?”

But the conclusion he draws is even worse than Roman could have anticipated.

“W-What?”

Virgil’s expression hardens, and if it weren’t for the way he was rapidly blinking, Roman would think that he was simply angry.

“I thought we were okay now! You said you didn’t mind if I teased you! But I would never–”

Virgil takes a shaky breath.

“Do you really think I’m the type of person who would laugh while you’re bleeding out!?”

“No! ” Roman shouts frantically, “No, of course not!”

Roman rushes forward to pull Virgil into his arms, but Virgil evades his grasp, his shoulders beginning to shake.

“You said that I’m not the bad guy anymore!” Virgil cries, “You said that I’m good ! That I make you guys better!”

“You do!” Roman reassures, “Gods, Virgil! You do! Every moment that I spend with you, I become a better Creativity. I become a better me. Virgil, you are not the bad guy. You are one of the kindest, most selfless people I’ve ever met. You work so hard to protect us without expecting anything in return. You continuously go outside of your comfort zone to accommodate our needs. You are wonderful. I’m so sorry I made you think otherwise.”

Virgil doesn’t seem convinced, and despite his best efforts, a few tears fall, glittering under the fairy lights like tiny cascading stars.

“Then why did you think I would laugh when you were in so much pain? That’s not something a good person does!”

“I didn’t think you would laugh at me!” Roman yells desperately, “I wanted you to laugh at me!”

Silence.

“Wha… What?” Virgil whispers, sounding absolutely gobsmacked, “Why would you… Huh?”

Roman looks down at his hands, unable to stomach whatever look of disgust Virgil must be giving him.

“I… wanted you to laugh,” Roman confesses, ears burning, “That’s why I tried to fall earlier that day. That’s why… I’ve been falling for the past few weeks.”

Virgil doesn’t say anything, and Roman wonders if this is what dying feels like.

“I’ve been trying to get you to laugh for over a month,” Roman continues, “You didn’t seem to like any of the jokes I told you, but then I remembered that you laughed when I tripped, so… yeah.”

Another minute of silence, so palpable Roman can barely take it.

“So… all of the jokes, all of the falls…” Virgil speaks slowly, as if trying to parse the meaning of the words coming out of his mouth. “...it was all just to make me laugh?”

“Yeah…” Roman sighs, feeling utterly defeated.

“But… why?”

Roman laughs, a pathetic, broken sound. Does he really need to draw this out, to humiliate himself further? A warrior is already dead once the fatal blow is dealt. One doesn’t need to bother themselves prolonging a battle that’s already decided.

But Roman can’t refuse Virgil anything. He’s already proven that he would throw himself to the ground countless times for this man. So really, Roman has no choice but to admit the truth.

“You have the most beautiful laugh, did you know that?”

Virgil makes a choked sound, like a bird caught by the neck.

“It’s true,” Roman chuckles, not giving Virgil any chance to dispute it, “Your laughter is like… It’s like leaves dancing on an autumn wind. It’s like the thrum of a guitar building up to an electrifying solo. It’s like shooting stars streaking across the sky, one after another. It’s so…”

Roman’s chest heaves, and he suddenly feels overcome with emotion.

“Brilliant.”

Virgil gasps, his voice wobbling, and Roman can’t help but look up. Silent tears are pouring down Virgil’s cheeks.

“You can’t–” Virgil’s body shakes involuntarily as he fights back sobs, “You can’t mean that!”

“I can, and I do!” Roman insists, “You are amazing, Virgil! Just as brilliant as your wonderful laughter!”

“Stop!”

“I heard you laugh a single time, and I thought I might die if I never got the chance to hear it again.”

“Stop it! You’re lying!”

“I’m not,” Roman sobs, his voice a desperate plea. He reaches towards Virgil again, and this time he doesn’t resist.

“You are beautiful, Virgil,” Roman professes, pulling Virgil to his chest, “You are every bit as beautiful as your laughter. Gods, just a simple smile from you and I lose my mind. Do you know how gorgeous your smile is?”

Virgil tries to protest, but he can’t get a word in between his sobs. Roman hugs him tighter.

“I’ve created countless works of art, and none of them hold a candle to your beauty. I’ve had nights where I can’t sleep because I’m haunted by your breathtaking eyes. You have such wonderful eyes, did you know that?”

Indeed, even when they’re filled with tears, Virgil’s eyes are no less beautiful.

“You are wonderful, Virgil. You are kind, intelligent, and unbelievably funny. I can’t comprehend how I ever could have thought that I hated you, because now my favorite moments are the ones I get to spend with you. And my greatest wish is that you would allow my company for a little while longer.”

Roman closes his eyes, a few tears escaping.

“...But I understand if that is no longer possible. It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable, my dear. I just wanted you to understand how incredible you are. If you so wish, I will ensure that we only encounter each other when necessary and give you the space you–”

Virgil punches Roman on the arm. Hard.

“OW!” Roman yelps, grasping his throbbing arm. The punch was particularly painful, as Virgil had hit an area covered in bruises. “What was that for!?”

“You’re an idiot,” Virgil growls, “Literally the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”

Roman opens his mouth to protest, but he’s cut off once again when Virgil rockets back into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“You… Y-you…”

Virgil squeezes him, his next words coming out in a wail.

“You’re such a dumbass and I love you so much!”

Roman’s heart decides it’s done with simple gymnastics and leaps so high that it soars and lodges itself into Roman’s throat. The butterflies are having a rave in his stomach, EDM and flashing lights and all. He can’t breathe, but breathing has never felt less important than at this very moment.

“Y-you–!”

“I love you! I love you! I love you!” Virgil howls, clutching Roman so tightly he might actually be cutting off blood circulation.

Roman, quivering from dancing butterflies and his wannabe gymnast heart and him feeling literally every single emotion at once, crumbles like a house of cards, the two of them falling together into silken sheets and a knitted blanket patterned with hearts.

“I love you, too.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s a beautiful day in the Mindscape. The state of Florida had decided to bestow mercy upon its residents with a perfectly sunny day. Sunshine poured through windows throughout the house, basking the rooms in a warm, cozy glow. On perfect days like this, Roman would normally venture off into the Imagination, the cheerful weather sparking inspiration. If he didn’t feel up to a grand adventure, he would go for a walk outside, seeking interesting encounters or simply enjoying the fresh air. Suffice it to say, Roman does not like to let such beautiful days go to waste.

But today, Roman is not in the Imagination, nor is he outside. The inviting sunlight peaks through Roman’s bedroom window, which the Creative Side pointedly ignores. Instead, he is curled up in his bed, writing snippets of poetry in red, sparkly ink. Sitting with Roman is his reason for not leaving the house. Virgil is lying down perpendicular to Roman, back supported with a few of Roman’s many pillows and legs draped over Roman’s own. Like Roman, he also has a pen in hand, except instead of poetry, Virgil is drawing.

The atmosphere is quiet and peaceful, like the haze blanketing the world just before sunrise. Normally, Roman would avoid silence at all cost, unable to endure a single moment of boredom. But right now, he is content to sit in complete silence with his favorite person in the world, basking in each other’s company.

…Well, maybe not complete silence. What can Roman say, old habits die hard.

“Hey, Virgil?”

Virgil looks up from his sketch.

“Yeah?”

Roman resists the urge to smile and give himself away.

“Are you a broom?”

Virgil tilts his head to the side, like an adorably confused puppy.

“...because you’re constantly sweeping me off my feet!”

“Pfft—!”

Surprised and flustered, Virgil dissolves into giggles, a lovely shade of pink blooming on his cheeks. Despite his embarrassed state, Virgil doesn’t bring a hand to cover his face. He doesn’t hide his laughter anymore. At least, not for Roman.

“God, that was awful, ” Virgil laughs.

For Roman, that’s more than enough encouragement to carry on.

“Are you a parking ticket?” Roman says, his grin widening, “because you’ve got FINE written all over you.”

Virgil laughs harder, bending at the waist over his sketchbook. Amidst his hot-red face, his eyeshadow shifts to a sparkly lavender (and wasn’t that a delightful discovery on Roman’s part).

“Hey Virgil!”

Virgil can barely speak through his laughter, but he tries.

“Ye—hehehe—y-yes?”

Roman pauses, allowing Virgil to regain a bit of his composure, so he can tear it back down again.

“You’re so beautiful that you made me forget my pickup line.”

Virgil snorts indignantly before falling victim to another powerful wave of laughter, tears pooling in his eyes and threatening to fall. The laughter is contagious, and Roman can’t help but join him.

Gods, how did he get so lucky?

“H-hey,” Virgil says between bouts of laughter, “Hey, Roman?”

Trying to reign in his own giggles, Roman responds.

“Yes, Stormcloud?”

As a less-seasoned performer, Virgil isn’t quite able to stop himself from grinning ear-to-ear before telling the joke. But nevertheless, he delivers it with enough gusto to make Roman proud.

“I think there’s something wrong with my eyes,” he states, trying to feign seriousness but failing miserably, “I just can’t look away from you.”

Roman howls with laughter, Virgil quickly joining in, and the two are a giggly mess.

Even after a year of dating, Virgil’s laughter still takes Roman’s breath away. And making Virgil laugh? It’s Roman’s favorite thing to do in the world.

Well… Maybe not his favorite. There is one thing that’s even better.

“Hey, Virgil?”

Virgil turns to Roman, still giggling, lively and breathtaking and beautiful.

“Yeah, Princey?”

“...Kiss me?”

Virgil’s smile softens into something saccharinely sentimental, and he doesn’t hesitate to lean over to Roman and grant his request. Butterflies erupt in Roman’s stomach as he pulls Virgil in closer, feeling content and warm and loved.

When the two part, they can’t stop themselves from laughing again, each filled to the brim with pure, unrestrained joy.

#sanders sides #prinxiety #virgil sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides virgil #sanders sides roman #myfics #google docs and AO3 decided it didn’t want to format correctly #so yay 1 hour fixing spaces around italics!#but it was worth it #(will really appreciate anyone pointing out weird spacing!)#hope you guys enjoy!

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