Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Virgil has some bad habits.

Lots of them, actually. He chews his nails. He grinds his teeth. He slouches. He stays up too late too often. He is self-deprecating to probably an unhealthy degree at times. He picks his skin. He snaps at people when he worries about them. He can be messy. He blasts music way too loud through his headphones. He tends to hiss at people instead of communicating his feelings. He still uses Myspace. Flaws.

But so what? Sue him. He’s got flaws. What are you gonna do about it?

Virgil never pretends to be perfect. He leaves that sort of bullshit to the others. Patton, Roman and Logan try that sort of thing every day in different ways, the pack of idiots. Maybe that’s what made them so easy for Thomas to handle at first. Perfect docile little sides with no real underlying issues. They were kinda adorable back then, those three. Virgil ruined that dynamic pretty quickly. Course he did.

The whole perfection thing for any of them went straight to hell pretty soon after. Virgil got to introduce Thomas to the fun fact that his beloved sides had flaws. And Virgil was a great example of that. Thomas had no clue what was coming, what he didn’t know about himself. Maybe deep down Virgil knew it wouldn’t last, but change is awful and uncomfortable. Ignorance is bliss, for Thomas at least. Virgil doesn’t like not knowing. Then they had to stage that damn fake courtroom.

It was the worst, and he means that. Even if he calls most things ‘the worst’ including but not limited to mornings, decaf coffee, himself, etc.

And yeah, Virgil doesn’t think he is the absolute worst (mainly because Patton would yell at him if he dared say such a thing, and yeah maybe eventually he started to believe it) but he certainly is not among the best. Maybe it’s childish or overly simple of him to even try and separate them into better and worse, but he is past caring. Anyone who accuses him of being stupid for that is the exact type that he would classify as one of the worst.

It was the worst, and he means that. Even if he calls most things ‘the worst’ including but not limited to mornings, decaf coffee, himself, etc.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself they should do.

They actually give him a lot of grace.

Maybe too much sometimes. It’s not like he’s very good at giving any back. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on. There were a lot of things he didn’t like to dwell on, even though his job is to dwell on uncomfortable things. But sometimes Virgil just runs. Runs as fast as his legs can take him. Fight or flight. That’s him. Fighting is good, yeah, but he can’t fight forever. 

Damn it. He’s getting stressed.

Focus on the cave, Virgil.

Virgil takes in a slow breath, letting the damp dark air coat his insides. His soul is soothed by the moisture. Every deliberate inhale is a lulling comfort. It is like the antithesis to smoking. Or at least he imagines it is. Thomas never tried smoking a cigarette before, so Virgil can only guess. In his mind though, he imagines that it burns and claws at his raw throat. That it would dry up the moist, delicate lining of his insides. It would attack and steal. Not nurture. He can imagine painful, hacking coughs as his mind lit up with fleeting foggy joy that aches like scorched earth after he is all used up and discarded.

Not like what he feels now. Like the warm wet air is soaking into his wet, fleshy insides. The sopping wet oxygen slathers on more to what was already there, making him feel heavy, like a soaked sponge, but in all the right ways. Like he is more solid. Like putting a smooth, buttery lotion on skin so dry it was starting to crack. Like licking dust off of chapped, splitting lips. Nothing is like being drenched in cool, sweet moisture.

Nobody and nothing can touch him here. Here in his beautiful haven where he can see through the haze. Virgil hates the haze. He hates the dry cloud of thick lies that sticks to the air up there. Upstairs, far up the stairs.

Virgil swings his feet lightly. Below his sneakers, one untied lace dangling past his soles. The fraying, dirty, once white string hovers a few inches above the water. If he tried sitting on the very edge of the jagged stone, and stretched his legs down, maybe he could kick the surface of the water. Maybe he could feel the water soak into his shoes and socks. Maybe he could feel the cool, balming temperature of the water. He could let the water cling to his damp skin, hugging his cells until the water warmed to his body temperature.

But he doesn’t.

He settles for just breathing it in. He’s laying down on his back, letting the cool smooth stone press against his back. Even through layers of black polyester clothing, he could feel the lack of give in the cold rock. He shifts his skull, feeling the imperfect unwavering surface roll against the bone that encased his metaphysical brain, if it even lay under the thin shell of bone, fake skin, flesh and tissue. He settles for moist rock and rogue falling frigid drops of dark water. He settles for knowing nothing lay in the dark above and below him.

Nah. He wasn’t settling. He was almost happy, actually.

There in the dim dark cave, he can breathe. Virgil likes the moist air and the gentle rumbling of a river that moves regardless of what anybody does. He likes the inky black water and the smell of freshwater with a hint of something almost spicy, in an earthy way. The gentle rushing and gurgling sound acts like a padding around his head, softening the rest of the horrid world.

The water flows unceasingly

Virgil hums, something soft and light, harmonizing with the babble of the water running. He likes how dark the waters are, how it reflects any light right back at him, keeping whatever lies below the surface to itself.

Such a thing should have terrified him. Not knowing potential dangers, not knowing the threats, not even knowing if something was dangerous, it should scare him. Sitting on a ledge overlooking an inky expanse should have scared him. It should have made him suspicious.

But it does not.

The water does not run fast or harsh, it is a gentle current. Virgil even knows there is a pretty convenient, solid little ledge he could climb up if he ever fell in. He stared at it many a time, not just because it was a comfort, but because it was almost enticing. He could jump into the water, and there would always be a way out. He could just jump in, join the ever sung song that beckons him with open arms. He wouldn’t, but he could. He would always have the option.

He fantasizes about it. That delicious moment when his feet come crashing through the surface of the water. When the tantalizing cold will refresh his tired skin. Not knowing where the bottom of the water is, like free falling into refreshing forever. It is lovely and murky and enveloping his body, mind and soul.

But he didn’t. Not today, but one day he could. 

Not seeing through the water was comforting. It was almost the water’s way of speaking to him. It told him that he didn’t need to know. That what lay below did not affect him, that it was hidden and not something he needed to worry about. Not a lie, just a shield. Like a pair of soft hands he trusts gently covering his eyes. The water was always there for Virgil.

Only for Virgil. An entry only for him.

Men do not enter by this one, but it is rather a path for immortals.

It’s hard to find the water, or at least it used to be. It’s not hard for him anymore, but for anybody else? Probably impossible. Because it is for him now,

The Mind is a strange place to try and live in. The well-worn paths are, for lack of a better word, far more solid than other places. It’s easy to exist in places where every inch is defined and well imagined. The rooms they stay in every day are almost as solid as reality. Every little surface has been touched at least once, each corner glanced at again and again. Each piece of wood or carpet or tile has been stepped on. It stays in place when you look at it. The Sides still have their imaginary bullshit like conjuring and teleporting, but the backdrop is pretty normal unless intentionally adjusted.

This rule of thumb only applies to the commonly used areas. Other places, places used only on occasion or constructed off of one of Thomas’ memories … aren’t so cooperative. Maybe at first they were, when they were shiny and fresh and new. But over time, it changes. Things flicker a little, or don’t look right up close. It gets old, fading with the memory or need for it. Sometimes the neglected hallways that adjoin their domains look funny the next time you pass through it. Other times, it branches off into a different direction. That closet you used that one time has a slightly different handle, but you can’t prove it because you don’t remember the old one, and the door certainly can’t remember if you don’t.

Usually, that crap isn’t a big deal. The Sides usually just rise up or appear in different places. Why waste time walking when they don’t even really need exercise? It’s mostly pointless. But when they do walk, chances are, the in between places might look a little funny. And the rarely used places might need some refreshers. Just think a little harder about the details, look at the corners for a sec, focus on the memories or tweak a few things. No biggie. The important, everyday rooms stay the same so who cares?

It’s the other places that are more uncomfortable.

Theoretically, Virgil could get up from any place, think of a door, and walk forever through an amalgamation of nearly anything. Memories, dreams, imagined daydreams, places from books and movies, colors, concepts, anything that Thomas’ mind has collected and dumped into a great big pot of imaginary soup. If Virgil walked far enough, he could probably end up in the idea of hair gel.

It’s one of the many, many, many weird ass things about not being real. And yes , Virgil has had many an existential panic about it over the years. But he tries to keep that sorta panic reserved for Thomas and not his own existence, if he can help it. Which he only occasionally can. 

The twins and Patton are so used to this fact of their life that they don’t tend to worry about it, it’s all any of them have ever known. Janus just uses it with the barely miffed countenance of a New Yorker using the subway, the pretentious asshole. Always a mild eye roll when the hallways act up or a condescending sniff when the walls warp.

It was Logan who was a completely different story, their poor Logic can barely stand it. The main reason Thomas knows so little about their strange daily lives is on account of Logan’s refusal to investigate it very far. He usually refuses to use it or touch it, he can barely acknowledge it most of the time. Their rather liquidy state of reality defies all common sense and is never quite consistent enough to understand. They’ve all acquired an instinct for it, but instinct isn’t always explainable. Their existence is hardly explainable, another thing that Logan can’t always cope with well. Logan will only walk down heavily treaded hallways, will only occupy strongly established rooms if alone, and will exclusively rise up to any space that has a hallway he does not trust.

It isn’t the type of thing anybody has ever really said out loud, but they all know. Virgil supposed they just spared Logan a little mercy. It’s probably hard being Understanding himself when the very fabric of his reality cannot be understood.

Virgil himself goes through phases of panicking about it and being too bored by it to care. He goes through waves. He can never remain stagnant, never get too used to any of the fears and worries that plague him. He must remain alert. Forever and always.

His cave is different though. The water flows unceasingly. His cave with his water and the river and the damp air. Virgil can’t prove anything, but it’s different. Something about it soothes his fears instead of multiplying them. It’s a secret though. It has to stay secret. In such a murky world, full of whispers and murmurs, the waters are a striking contrast.

The waters tell him about the whispers. The ever-flowing springs.

The waters warn him about the truth. The water is true. In a world that seeks to tear him out hiding and rip him apart with lies and cheap tricks, truth can be found. Hidden in those deep recesses lodged away in the shady corners of Thomas’ messy human brain. Truth can be found.

Home isn’t so safe anymore.

Virgil didn’t always call the place he lived now home. He was below, before, trapped where beasts like him must be. Now it was different. He lived among the doves now. Gentle little white birds roosting in a home lovingly built to house the little creatures. Virgil was not one of the intended inhabitants, but he’d earned his spot. He protected them. When careless fingers push through the holes of the enclosure, wriggling and stretching toward his delicate charges, he’s the one who bites. He’s the one who will scratch or urge the birds to run in a flurry of feathers and flaps. He is a protector. Call him what you want, passion, war, love, teeth. When the outside tries to put their disgusting fleshy fingers through the chicken wire, Virgil is there to bite. 

Now the threat lies among them, a wolf nestled between sleeping sheep. Yellow eyes lit with a false softness. Just beneath pale lips lie dripping venom, sharp teeth, a forked tongue.

It takes a lot for Virgil to keep his teeth to himself.

He’s a dog. A guard dog. Forever stretched out in a sunny spot, but never fully asleep. Deep sleep is a foreign concept. He’s always listening, always keeping an eye out. Blunt teeth in abundance, an iron jaw to wield them. Spiked collar meant to control him more than hurt another. The heavy, gruff animal lying at the foot of your bed, never more than a few steps away. Deep growls and a lazy huff when you want to play with him, but never quite above bringing that ball back to you. Corded muscle built out of a long day of laying in the grass, but always at your disposal. Maybe he’ll give you a bit of attitude when you deny him something, but deep down you know. He’d lay his life down for you. Your children. Beneath coarse fur and the long-winded sighs of a large dog, there’s an undying loyalty. Should the world fall to pieces and no loyalty be found amongst once good men, a good dog remains faithful.

The water flows unceasingly.

Virgil held the sides of his head. It was getting a bit much. The caves made him … contemplative. He gets lost in thought. His mind wanders so far that it’s hard to call it back sometimes. It grows in intensity after some time. He starts to get lost in a weird yet comforting sea of intricate metaphors and strange parables. It’s just the water trying to steer him in the right direction though. There’s no malice behind it, but it can get overwhelming. He’s probably hit his limit for the day.

Longingly, Virgil sits up and stares at the lonely waters below.

Beautiful.

The water flows unceasingly.

Virgil doesn’t usually like beautiful things. Maybe he doesn’t trust pretty things. Or perhaps he just secretly wishes he himself was a beautiful thing. Instead of the cracked marble that he imagines when he looks at his own two hands. The ornate and the gilded are out to get him. Sweet perfume is a cover for rotting meat. Gold paint drips from sharp teeth. A mesmerizing yellow eye that—

No. Stop it, Virgil.

He rubs his eyes. He was doing it again. He needs to leave before it gets weirder. He doesn’t wanna. But he knows he should.

But the water calls gently. The wisdom residing in caves shall deduce fountains of intellectual waters to him.The water beckons, with the gentle caress of one who cares. A mother with her beloved child. What is home if not a sense of safety, however frail? What is love if not an enveloping warmth you can drown in?

The water stares back up at Virgil. Every child dreams of a world built only for them. Eyes trained only on them.

This is the eye that he wants to exist within the center of.

Virgil shakes his head. Okay. Time to go.

Chapter Text

He is draped over the couch as Virgil walks in through the front door. His every limb seems to have been carefully arranged, with crossed legs artfully angled, hands pretending to have been thrown haphazardly in his lap, like the wind could have blown them into that careless position.

But Virgil knew better. The air of faux casualness, the way his half-lidded eyes may appear to be lazy but are watching with the intensity of a predator watching its prey. There’s a coolness to a lion resting high above its territory, sunbathing on a rock. It lays with its throat exposed as if vulnerable, but all the creatures on God’s green earth know better.

Internally, Virgil paces the walls of his mind like a prisoner in a too small cage. He’s running so fast without going anywhere, like sprinting in a hamster wheel. 

Virgil didn’t leave the waters in time, that thing was happening again. The cave sharpens Virgil’s senses. It makes the world known to him, in all of its uncovered, unjust glory. The armored shell that is protective deception, Virgil feels as if he has pried his fingers below the edge and pulled up, out, tearing it from the vulnerable, pale flesh hiding below. Truth. Sight. Wisdom.

The cave is sight.

And at the head of the harbor is a slender-leaved olive and near by it a lovely and murky cave. 

It takes time to dull those sharpened senses again. It is like adjusting to being in the dark again, his mind reels as he slowly loses that extra instinct. So for now, Virgil is cursed with eyes. True eyes. Eyes that peer past the thin deceptive membrane that usually veils his blunt judgment. Like a breath of life being pushed into dead lungs, Virgil’s tired, dirty eyes are touched by the benevolent hand of the water.

And now he can see .

What a blessing and a curse it is to truly see .

Eyes that stay unclouded. Eyes that no man may restrain and veil. Eyes that do not fall for the folly of hell and its relentless attempt to deceive him. He will not be deceived.

At least not by him.

His yellow gloved hands are laying over top one another. The base of one palm sits over the end of his wrist. Black dress pants don’t quite conceal black socks that run beneath his leather dress shoes. The shoes are polished to perfection, shined enough to see a warped reflection of oneself if peered into long enough.

Virgil’s churning hatred grows. His black shirt is perfectly pressed, save the slight crease where the third button from the top is strained. It’s subtle. He liked his shirts just a touch too tight there. When the capelet is gone, one’s gaze is naturally drawn to his lean chest instead of the watching eyes shifting in his sockets. The vain bastard.

Mismatched eyes roll to the side, looking him over with that ever-present smugness. Virgil watches as the eyes swivel down, then up, taking in every flaw he has. He feels raw, like his skin has been torn up from his flesh, pulling his protection from his fat like pulling on a loose thread to unravel a worn out sweater.

“Evening, Virgil,” he says. The way his name rolls off that forked tongue, like he’s playing with it. Playing with his meal before he ends it all. Swishing it around like one does at a wine tasting before spitting it into a bucket.

Virgil doesn’t answer, he just glares. There’s a bitter resentment brewing in his chest and he wills it into bleeding through his eyes. Tears can be of sorrow but Virgil’s are so often hot with fury.

“We’ve missed you,” he continues, the slightest tilt of his head accompanying the movement. His thin lips point down in a small frown. The lower eyelid on his good eye comes up in an analytical squint, but only barely. The twitch is so slight. He’s feigning that lopsided concern again, but it’s a cover. Careful deductions are being made rapidly, coming as natural as breathing. He has been fashioned from nothing but the underhanded and unseen sly deliberations of a sinner.

Not to fall for it, Virgil hardens his heart, or perhaps it has been hardened for him. “Don’t speak for them,” his mouth is laced with iron like a property gate, sharpened at the top and too tall to climb.

There’s a pause designed to shame him. He exhales slowly, eyes lightly closing for a second as if in pained patience. It's a trap, even closed eyes can be watching. With the weary good naturedness of the wise and kind, he smiles bitterly. Lies. Lies. Lies.

“Fine, Virgil. Then maybe I missed you. How’s that, hmm?” His voice drips like honey out his mouth down his lips, running to his chin and clinging to the soft tissue of his exposed neck.

Virgil runs his tongue across the back of his teeth, they feel sharper in his mouth, like he could cut his own gums just by biting down. He glares unyieldingly.

“Is that really so hard to believe?” He presses, as if he’s caught Virgil in a web. That damned smug smile plays and toys on his lips like a top spinning along the edge of a table. His yellow eye seems brighter, like he’s caught a piece of the sun for his own. “I just care,” he says as he uncrosses his legs and adjusts the cuff of his dress pants. Perfectly elegant.

“Liar,” Virgil spat out, angrily thrusting his hands in his pockets. It was a lie. He doesn’t ‘ just’ do anything. He’s a two-faced conniving snake.

Just like the cave reveals to him.

There’s a weighty pause, as he seems to spin Virgil in his mind, looking for a new angle. Virgil can see the way his eyes scan him, those perceptive pupils prick him.

“ We’re concerned,” he tells him gently. It’s not quite a delicate voice, but the type one uses when breaking bad news to a child. Virgil isn’t focused on the tone though. No. His blood boils.

‘ We’re.’

As in ‘me and Patton.’ As in ‘remember how he betrayed you?’ As in ‘we are against you together.’ As in ‘ who’s on the outside now, Virgil?’

Virgil felt water begin to drip down his face, falling from the imaginary heavens. Not tears. No. Too cold for that. The water is more than cold, it’s icy water like an ocean wave crashing against a shore in the dead of a winter night. Refreshing but startling as it sprays his pale skin. The temperature is so low it seems to burn him before the cold starts to set in. The frigidness sends a shiver across his body, goosebumps rise up as the shock takes him off guard.

Water. Water. Why is he getting drenched in the middle of the living room?

Why?

Why would it–

The cave wants to help .

The rush of unbearable dizziness nearly knocks Virgil off his feet as he is hit with it. The room spins and he stumbles before catching himself.

Blink.

There is no sense but the gift of sight. If the nerves within his body still function, they do not do him the decency of cooperating. He is no physical being, not even the crudely shaped pretense of a body he usually resembles. His is simply an understanding detached from any form, and the aftertaste of adrenaline hovering above the ground in a cloud. He isn’t a body.

Yet he can see.

In the center of a faded pink desert there is a yellow sun. The sand pale like blood that has been watered down and left to dry. The sand is parched and desperate to take where it can, be it greed or simple animalistic desperation one may not say. It sucks the lifeforce of whatever wander’s legs are unlucky enough to find themselves trekking across its rolling hills and sloping mountains. 

In the center of a sickly sky there is a yellow sun suspended in a cruel expanse.

The sun is watching, always, it is watching. For there is no night and no moon. No respite from the fiery beam of light. There is no world of stars to look upon in the dead of night. It is eternal. The black slit down the center of the yellow sun is an unyielding shade of darkness, with no discernable end to the inky void. The yellow sun turns and rolls in its paper dry residence in the sky, unwaveringly following any poor fool of a traveler unlucky enough to have caught its piercing attention. 

The yellow sun never missed a thing, for all things resided below, uncovered.

What goes on below the inch of flesh that covers one’s corporeal form is not hidden from all eyes. What sounds does one’s body make that even the owner does not get the privilege of listening to? What shapes do one’s mouth form while they lie? 

The yellow eye doesn’t have to wonder. It knows.

When it blinks, if it ever does, that will be the opportunity to weep. To stare into the face of its eye and sob is to tear one’s own chest in half, displaying a beating heart slowly cooking under the heat. Don’t let it win in the last ways it has yet to conquer you. Do not falter.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it, Virgil.

He won’t. He won’t let him win.

“Virgil?”

He forgot about the fangs. Oh god.

How could he forget the fangs?

Sweet smelling breath like syrupy antifreeze coats the inside of a raw pink maw. A trail of saliva runs from the side of the mouth to a canine. Teeth sharp as daggers glint in the warm low light. Maybe they pierce, puncture, then drain the blood from an unsuspecting neck. Maybe they just tear you to shreds. Maybe in a passionate bout of heat, lips are slipping and sliding across one another, and in a shocking turn of unforeseen terror, the fangs are locked around your mouth, ripping, pulling. There may be passion, but there is no love in such things.

The forked tongue reaches out like a finger hooking your chin. Your face is jerked upward.

Your eyes meet and you are lost to the vast sky.

Still, there are no stars.

Blink.

A yellow man is standing by a stark white hospital bed in a dim room.

The sickly colored light cast shadows in the little corners of the large room. The man’s shadow is warped and too long, twisting along the waxed floor.

There’s a frail child nestled into the cold white sheets. He’s so much smaller than the bed, so much smaller than the gray world he has been brought into. His gaunt face is nearly as sickly pale as the bedding. Doe eyes like melted chocolate, robbed of what warmth they may have once held. Shaky smiles that smell like weakness, taste like vulnerability.

The yellow man holds the child’s tiny hand. He is somber. His gentle touch is a lifeline more so than anything the hospital may provide. He slowly brings up a soft glove to delicately rest over the child’s eyes, blocking the little boy’s vision.

“Don’t look.” The yellow man whispers, a small, reassuring smile on his thin lips that the boy cannot see, but can manage to hear. That’s what matters.

And the boy obeys. There is apprehension in his weary little face, but trust doesn’t always thrive in absolute security. Fear of the outside, the below, and the above often fosters a stronger faith than any peace ever could. With no one else’s hand to hold, any hold could be considered warm.

There is a burden, a weight unlike he’d previously known upon the man’s shoulders, like large hands are slowly pressing him into the ground, holding his shoulders and pushing . Pushing and pushing in the hopes he will finally lay down and accept his defeat.

But the child anchors him to this world. Nothing matters more than the sickly boy on the too large bed, whose eyes he hides from the stark cold room they’re residing in. His precious eyes need not be subjected to its hopelessness.

The medical equipment begins to grow angry, frustrated, uneasy, like spooked animals in a herd. It furiously beeps and blares, urgent noises filling the sterile little room. Panicked footsteps thunder down the echoey linoleum halls outside. The boy stiffens and tries to gently pull the man’s wrist down, to see what is going on. What will become of him? What is coming?

The yellow man whispers a sweet reassurance, keeping his hand over the boy’s eyes. He knows that it is not time for the boy to see. Only the yellow man’s eyes are strong enough to know, and he will carefully ensure that it stays that way for now.

As if a professional, the man reaches over the boy’s head with his free hand, carefully retrieving one of two small clear masks attached to a variety of things the boy doesn’t understand. Sometimes the boy is frustrated by how little he understands about his own little room. Gently, the yellow man slides it over the boy’s mouth, securing it safely.

The boy blinks slowly beneath the man’s hand. He doesn’t fight it as he feels his body lull, going to sleep. The yellow man’s face is impassive, but he is not infallible. The back of one of his gloves tenderly traces the side of the boy’s sleeping face, and there is a tangible shake in his fingers. It is painful. It is real. He may not be infallible, but he is strong. The boy is asleep, deeply once again. 

Such a peaceful expression.

He enjoys the moment for barely longer than the span of a breath.

The man knows he is a hypocrite at times, such things come with the job, he supposes. He adjusts his gloves, slowly walking away from the side of the bed. He then walks to the door and opens it, staring out into the vast expanse in the form of the sea.

He lowers his eyes.

Blink.

Virgil stares at him. He feels strange now, finding himself back in the living room he’s so comfortable in yet so agitated by all at once. It doesn’t look right, though. Because the carpet is gone. There is no real floor, even.

Oh, and he is frozen still. Like a statue, he doesn’t so much as breathe. He has one foot barely touching the ground, like he was stuck in a photograph, one catching him just beginning to run forward. Strange, so very strange.

The ground is a few inches covered in water, and it’s beautiful, like a mirror it is so still. The living room is reflected in the darkness. The water gently ripples around his legs, gentle, so very gentle. Virgil’s grungy tennis shoes and the cuffs of his skinny jeans are soaked. It’s cold.

The water does not touch him . It skirts around him , lapping at an invisible border. It angers the water to not be able to lick his dress shoes, wet his skin, engulf his ankles. The air is damp and heavy, but his skin is still dry, almost flaky. A shed is approaching. Virgil used to care.

He looks tense, his scales glimmer coldly in the light. His jaw is tightened in some amount of restrained distress. One hand concealed in a glove is outstretched as if to catch something.

Virgil is on edge, he’s awkward and uncomfortable. When is he not? No, he knows the answer to that. When he’s angry, he is sure of himself, but it’s a fleeting feeling before the doubt creeps back in to haunt him. But at least the water is there. The water is a comfort, even if it isn’t enough to fully soothe him. The water around his ankles laps at him in a gentle, rocking rhythm. It’s tender, like a melody not meant to be heard but felt, sensations on his skin approaching and receding like a chorus that swells but never dwells long in any one way.

Virgil comes a little closer to the frozen snake, his calloused fingers worrying his left hoodie string. It’s a habit that has left the strings ratty and worn. He probably noticed the habit. Of course he did. He sees too much. The water detests him . He has his own eyes, his own sick perceptions. The water hates him . He is shrouded in a dry haze of stupid deception. The water hates him . Virgil hates him . He thinks he hates him. It’s hard.

The silent sound of the water is beginning to get to him. Like when he’s down in the cave, but he’s not in his cave. Ah, but his mind longs to return. It’s where he belongs, isn’t it? Maybe his mind never truly left the cave. Maybe he never should have left at all.

Oh. Oh, he’s getting so dizzy. The water is beckoning.

Virgil slowly sinks to the floor, onto his haunches, then about to half fall into a sitting position. The water is soaking through his pants. That’s okay. It’s alright with him. The water may go where it pleases.

From where he’s so low on the ground Virgil notices that it looks almost as if his hand is reaching for him now. Like a desperate attempt to snatch him away.

Blink.

The world goes back to normal so quickly that the air feels ripped out of Virgil’s lungs. Like he’s been thrown against the ground and had the wind knocked out of him. The water is gone like it never existed. Like as if the tide could recede, taking the dampness of the sand with it.

“ Virgil!”

Virgil looks up as the gloves hand grasps his shoulder as Virgil finds himself hitting the ground. Did he fall? He sure doesn’t remember falling.

“Let go, Janus,” Virgil finds himself snapping. He harshly shoves the gloves off him.

“You collapsed. Calm down, take it easy. Here,” Janus extends a hand to help him back up to his feet. Worry swims in his eyes like tadpoles in a pond of tears. No .

He doesn’t accept the help, instead sending a glare brimming with hatred. Janus doesn’t know what Virgil saw, what he still sees. He knows better than to trust a snake. “Get off me.”

Janus sighs again. He does that often. It makes his blood boil hotter. “I’m not the reason you fell, there’s no need to be upset with me , now come on. Up you come,” he reached out again.

“Just shut up, and move your hands before you lose them,” Virgil growls.

What’s gotten into you?” Janus shakes his head like a tired parent, the conniving, infuriating, slimy bastard. “Stay put then, I’ll call Patton, since you’d likely throw a tantrum if I dared look you over.”

“You’re not calling anyone, you bitch. Leave me alone. You shouldn’t be up here anyway, you don’t belong here,” Virgil says through his teeth. He feels like a caged animal, biting and growling through a chain-link fence. He feels like his blood has been replaced with an aimless vitriol.

Janus raises an eyebrow, not nearly as offended as Virgil craved him to be. No. He’s seeing again. He knows. Virgil feels sick. He knows. He knows. He knows.

“… you’ve been going again, haven’t you?” he realizes, and it’s hardly a real question, because he knows, they both do. “Or did you ever really stop?” he murmurs, more to himself.

Panic, dread, fury, it all comes together in a horrible concoction that burns red in his belly. Virgil feels his hackles rise, his spine hardening and his teeth begging to be uncovered by his lips. “That isn’t any of your fucking business.”

There is a graveness in Janus’ disgusting, poisonous, yellow-colored eye. “You know what it does to you. Why do you keep letting it—”

“Shut up! I am not falling for this,” Virgil hisses, clumsily yet aggressively getting to his feet. “I hate you. I hate you and I know what you’re doing. To me. To Patton. To Thomas. I know. I can see . So don’t you dare try me again because I swear that I will tear you to shreds with my teeth.”

Janus does not get angry. Nor does he look afraid. Instead, he looks more sad than Virgil can recall seeing him in a very long, long time. A soft expression of a bittersweet fondness lines his face like faded smile lines. His shoulders slump in a disappointed tiredness. There’s a tiny shake of his head.

“Oh, Virgil,” he says softly, “what has it done to you?”

Virgil flees. He runs. He sprints off to his room without looking back. Up the stairs, his sneakers thundering loudly against the carpet. He can’t stand to look at that snake any longer.

The water flows unceasingly.

Chapter Text

It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine. Virgil is fine.

He feels fine. Normal. He just lost the ball for a sec back there, he’s just tired. He’s just stressed out. It’s all Janus’ fault anyway. He wants to hide, be caressed and enveloped by more than a warm, living being.

But he can’t. He spent too long in the cave; his frail little mind might be less clouded than some, but he can’t take the intensity of the water for very long. And that isn’t the water’s fault. It’s not . Anybody dense enough to look at the water and find blame in it should have their ability to speak revoked, their tongue ripped out, because that’s a foolish, disgusting, purposely misconstrued version of the truth. The truth is that the water is pure and clear, Virgil just isn’t strong enough, but he will be one day. He will be more, never enough, but more deserving of more time with the beautiful water and the wisdom it bestows upon his unworthy self.

For now, he’s fine.

Of course it is. He went toe to toe with Janus without falling into his coils. The snake’s body had no chance to ensnare him, circling round and round, slowly, agonizingly choking the life out of him. No. Virgil lives to bite another day.

Victory does not taste sweet though. It tastes more like blood from biting his tongue and sweat from running out as fast as his legs would carry him.

His tattered, stained black sneakers are wildly thundering across the heavily trodden carpet. The sound is a hollow thudding in a not quite rhythmic lament, not a victory cry. The throbbing in his head and his flailing heartbeat only add to the dissonance. It is a three-channeled track that overlaps, doubles then multiplies into a language he speaks all too well. It is panic. It is pain. And It is dry.

And it’s such a dry sound, devoid of the damp sound of life.

Isn’t that fascinating? Life is wet and death is dry.

Life starts with liquid, in every sense. Birth, conception, survival. Moisture. Water. The flow of the water is the heart of humanity. Of all life. Not just for a civilization, not just for food and drink to be at all possible, but how it is intrinsically intertwined with life. The condensation on your breath. The film that coats your eyes. The ends of your fingers. The saliva swishing in your mouth. You’re mostly water.

Virgil imagines the sound of his feet hitting the floor is not a dry sound, but a wet one. Like the babbling, churning, swift sound of water rushing past untethered.

The small amount of relief distracts him, but in bliss comes blindness.

Virgil slams into a decorative little table he doesn’t remember being there. He trips over it, his knee knocks into the vase of flowers that had been sitting on top. The ceramic shatters, spilling sharp fragments of it to the floor with the flowers and water that had been in it.

He growls as he catches himself with the wall, accidentally shoving a few framed photos off the wall. One of Patton breaks apart as it hits the floor, the frame falling into pieces. He curses under his breath, a bit more venomously than necessary, probably, but he doesn’t care.

Slowly, he sinks to the ground, getting on his knees, wary of the glass. His blood was still roaring in his ears, but the exhaustion was starting to hit him. He feels like shit.

It’s then when he realizes he’s a couple yards from Janus’ room. Of course the bitch managed to trip him up even now, everywhere he goes, everywhere he rests he is somehow reminded of that slimy snake. He rolls his eyes and scoffs under his breath but figures he might as well clean up a little, the others use this hallway too. He’d feel like an ass if they cut themselves or whatever.

But he stops.

These were some weird ass flowers, he reached out to pick them up, but paused to squint at them. With a frown, he picks up one of them by the pokey stems, the flower dangling limp at the top. He turns it, examining it. He’s no flower expert by any means, there’s plenty of common ones he knows nothing about, this one really is weird.

The flowers are a dark purplish red, he decides. Though they are almost black under a low light. Though maybe like a dark wine would be a better way to describe it, before you hold it up to the sun. The shape is weird too, tons of petals that sorta fan out from the center, all kind of scoop shaped but pointed at the ends.

Virgil stares at them.

“You good, dude?”

Virgil snaps his head to the side so hard he feels a pop. Ow.  Standing above him is just Roman, dressed in one of those stupid smoking robes, a red one. His hair is in pink curlers, and he looks both confused and somewhat concerned. Just a trace of a liquid face mask not quite removed is still on his cheek.

“I’m fine,” Virgil glares challengingly, as if he was not sitting in the middle of broken ceramic, picture frames, and a toppled table.

‘Yuh huh,'' Roman nods skeptically, shifting his feet to avoid getting the soft sole of his glittery slipper impaled on a broken piece of glass. He nudges a flower with the tip of that slipper, looking equally confused by it as Virgil had been.

“You just sitting around for fun or …?” Roman prompts.

“Tripped on Janus’ shit,” Virgil muttered, gesturing at the little table.

“Yeah. I heard that,” Roman says, tapping his chin, “I think I was having that dream about meeting Lin Manuel Miranda again, you know the one. That lovely little escapade where I’m portraying Eliza, but I was supposed to play Laurens/Phillip. I was all like dude, am I playing your wife or son, Lin ? But we got that figured out before somebody woke me up. At first, I thought Lin just ate shit on the Hamilton stage, but it was actually just you. You were the one eating shit.”

“Yeah. I figured that part out,” Virgil said flatly, tapping the flower against his knee in agitation. He was still on the floor.

“Soooooooo,” Roman says awkwardly, raising an eyebrow. “You come here often?”

“Shut up,” Virgil grumbles. Honestly he didn’t really mind Roman too much these days. With most of the sides being full of shit with bricks for brains, Roman wasn’t so bad. It was, frankly, ridiculous that Roman was one of the only sensible people lately, who wasn’t dumb enough to fall for Janus and his tricks, but it was a ridiculous time.

“Need a hand?” Roman offers, extending a palm.

“Did you moisturize before you came out to help me?” Virgil snarks, talking out the bottom of his mouth.

“Duh.”

“Then no,” Virgil grimaces, before helping himself up with the wall, still clutching that weird flower in his free hand.

“You know,” Roman yawns as he scratches the side of his head where a pink hair roller was, “it is stupidly early for both of us.”

“It’s like 6:00 or 7:00 or something, yeah.”

“What?” Roman makes a face, “No. It’s like 9:00, dummy. Again, early for you or me. Especially me, I need my princely beauty sleep, you know, to look my best,” he preens.

Virgil’s eye twitches. Has it been that long? It couldn’t have been . That wasn’t. Surely Roman was just stupid. He had to be wrong. He didn’t spend much time in the cave, he couldn’t have. His brain consistently reached the limit at the hour mark, he went in at 4:00AM then after he hit the cap, he went and argued with Janus. The fight didn’t last more than 20 minutes. It shouldn’t even be 6:00 now that he thought about it. 9:00AM had to be wrong. It had to be.

“ Hello ? Earth to emo?” Roman snapped his fingers in front of Virgil’s face, startling him.

Virgil hissed as he jolted back into the moment.

“ Rude ,” Roman sniffed.

Virgil shook his head, sucking air through his teeth in frustration. What time was it? What—

Blink .

A hollow pit is carved into his body, he can feel an absence growing in the very fabric of his being.

Then the trickle of water begins to murmur. Virgil can feel the water beginning to fill him up. If raindrops were fingers, then the emptiness within his body would be slowly caressed and explored. Virgil was so used to battling an agonizing, insatiable craving, a clawing sense of absolutely nothing. It is such a deep, cold nothing that makes the space between his ribs feel like an inhospitable expanse. Only once he opens his heart like a heavy vault door, letting the water begin to trickle in, until screams are just gurgles under the waves. There is no nothing after that. The water opens his eyes, it reminds him what he is.

Virgil can see.

Look

at it,

Virgil.

He does not wish to see sometimes. Virgil shudders as the powerful sensation rushes through him, his blood stream like a rushing rapid. He’s barely adjusted when he realizes that Roman is still there.

Roman’s once soft brown eyes are now unrecognizable. The teasing glint was gone, replaced by blood. It is all blood. Not even as if his eyes had been punctured or forcibly removed. Pools of a deep crimson red fill the space where his eyes should go. The surface tension is a hair’s breadth away from popping, to spill the blood down his tanned cheeks like pricking a bloated water balloon with a needle.

There’s still that playful pout on Roman’s lip, the one he makes when he’s teasing and taunting but happy to be picked at a little too. Combined with the haunted loss of his eyes, it’s a mockery of Virgil’s friend. It is disgusting.

A weak, wet gasp escapes Virgil, it takes him several seconds to even begin to process what he’s seeing. His legs jerk backwards, he almost flees on instinct but he stops himself. He can feel his heart racing, and he reaches out before thinking better of it, staring with wide eyes that start to sting.

The true dread starts the longer he stares at the crown.

It would be incorrect to say that Roman was wearing a crown on top of his head, because it is not quite true. But there is a crown, wrought from what could be the finest gold. It’s masterfully thin and sharp, those delicate strands are weaved together roughly into an intricately twisting halo. It’s elaborate and sharp, with pointy prongs like tiny thorns meticulously arranged along the strands of gold. Yes. There is a crown, but he is not wearing it on his head.

The crown is in Roman’s head. If he were made of clay, then the crown would have been set along his skull, then pushed down, sinking into his head like Roman is made of wet earth. It’s more than just sickening, it’s hauntingly beautiful. It’s a mockery. It’s a special blend of cruelty. Yet it’s ethereal  like an ancient painting.

It’s like being lost, staring at the heavy-laden figure in the center of an old painting, Italian made, pale skin and a golden sun rising in the sky above the head of Christ. There is a majestic quality in the sadness that has been infused in every delicate brush stroke. As the viewer moves, the varnish catches the light, shifting and flickering. The gold leaf foil is not only a symbol of honor and wealth, but victory.

There is no victory to be found in this despairing scene. There is no loving artful touch. It may be a presentation, but it is not one of hope or reverence. This is the cruel truth of a broken spirit.

Fresh blood trickles down Roman’s perfect temples like sweat. Thick droplets of blood slide down his soft, unmoving skin.

It is almost majestic even still. The rueful smile and the empty eyes, the dramatic bathrobe and plucked brows. Roman was not meant to be crucified. He was meant to be praised. The fruit of his labor is not fine wine or aged cheese. It is more suffering. It is to be hated. It is to be betrayed with a kiss.

Syrupy sweet words spilling from thin cold lips. Unblinking yellow eyes.

Virgil can’t make himself move, can’t make his throat cooperate and say something. What is he even trying to say? Is he screaming or crying? Running to or from the bloody scene?

There is a frenzied temptation to reach out, touch the skin of Roman’s soft hand. Virgil is shaking, but he forces his hand out, the tips of his fingers brush over Roman’s knuckles.

Roman’s skin is cold to the touch. His hand is hard like rock, smooth like polished stone. Virgil clutches his own hand, finding a powdery white substance on his fingers. He rubs the dust between his thumb and index finger, staring in foggy horror.

When he looks back up, Roman is not there.

Instead, there is a statue. White stone and massive, far bigger than Virgil, bigger than should fit in the hallway. Ten feet tall at least, one beautiful stone arm is stretched out into the heavens, corded muscle on display. A long cape wraps around him and into the air, flowing in the implied wind carved into the stone. His jaw is sharp enough to cut something soft. The eyes are blank but present.

“R—Roman?” Virgil whispers.

And the statue comes tumbling down. Crash after crash as the stone cracks and thunders in its glorious destruction. The large chunks of stone shatter and splinter as it hits the ground, sending sharp shrapnel-like pieces into Virgil’s too soft skin.

He winces and falls backwards as pain lights up his shin from a rogue piece of pointed marble. As he falls, the dust hits him, clogging his lungs and burning his eyes. It hurts. It’s dry. Everything hurts. The attack on his ears fuses with the pain beginning to take him over.

He looks back down at the flower he’s been holding as a sharp pain pricked his skin. The flower was a large red rose, perfectly in bloom. A thorn had pierced his palm, a tiny droplet of red blood swelled into a slightly larger one.

He licks it without a second thought.

It doesn’t taste like blood.

Blink .

Virgil throws open an old door carved with ancient images of women, one that creaks on its hinges. He doesn’t even remember when he started running.

He shoves away branches of the old tree that has bowed down into the walkway. It grows from the rock, spreading up and over in a gnarled yet majestic mass. Not yet ripe olives tumble to the ground like pebbles as he disturbs the branches, he’s not as gentle as he usually is.

He stumbles in, his sneakers scraping on damp stone ground as he sucks in a desperate breath of refreshing wet air. He chokes, coughs, rubbing his mouth with his musty sleeve.

The sound of water welcomes him home.

Chapter Text

Virgil is kneeling, close to the edge of the slick rock as if in prayer, but he does not look for grace in the heavens, but below. 

How many hours have passed? Or has it been mere seconds? Does it matter?

Drip

Drip

Drip

Water drips from the rock ceiling, falling into puddles around him. He gets lower, easing onto his hands and knees to get closer. His broken, trembling fingers extend down past the jagged end of the overlook. His hot tears trickle down his cheeks, hitting the cold dark stone below him, mixing into the chilly puddles already nestled into the imperfections in the rock.

The water flows unceasingly.

The pools, the pools, beautiful pools. It’s so dark in the low light, and as he teeters on his knees, gazing down into the depth, it’s like staring into an all-encompassing black pupil. What is looking back at him? The water. The water looks back and it is smiling like a benevolent deity, all knowing, all loving, all for him. All for Virgil.

Promises can be made without words. The waters do not speak with a tongue, yet it writes him poems penned with an awe inspiring dedication and golden grandeur. Virgil can only pretend to be worth it, be remotely capable of returning that level of loyalty.

Drip

Drip

Drip

He can not quite see himself in the fragile surface of the rushing water, but sometimes he imagines he can. Virgil stares with wide, unhindered eyes, and he catches glimpses of his own silhouette. Somewhere in the water there is a place for him, he just has to keep staring. He’ll find it one day, one day the water will clear enough to grant him sweet belonging, sweet respite.

Virgil breathes in through his nose, trying to get every inch of him infused with the wet air. It smells so good, he wants to bury his brain in it. A fresh, moist, floral scent. A little lemony, dewy. He wants it. He wants more. He wants to lick the calcium off the walls and run his tongue over the wet pebbles on the ground. It sounds so strange but feels so right, so instinctual.

That safeness, he wants to ingest it. He wants to consume and be consumed. He would let the cave eat him for only a few bites in return. Maybe a mutual destruction through simultaneous mutual destruction would be more poetic, but Virgil doesn’t care. Tear him apart, he doesn’t mind, the bliss is worth more.

His beautiful cave …

What happens outside is untrue and unjust. What happens inside is kind and correct.

He could only imagine being so virtuous. So all knowing, all loving, all consuming. Sitting cross legged at the edge, feeling his spine waver and lean in, like it was made of metal and a weak magnetic force was drawing him in.

The sound of the water, the sloshing, the bubbling, the way it runs and runs like blood through veins. Life force. Love. The water crashes against the sharp edges and corners of the stone, but water cannot be cut. Not like skin and flesh, not like Virgil. He wants to be like water. He wants to be so fluid, so unbreakable. Somebody unbreak him. Oh God, somebody unbreak this broken fool.

Drip

Drip

Drip

What if he leapt in? He can imagine the refreshing bliss, the way his body would strengthen tenfold, like being dipped in the River Styx, but there is nobody to haul his body back out of the water. There would be no need. His entire being could be cleansed and whole for perhaps the first time in his metaphysical existence. He would have no weakness, no unprotected secret. He would just be eternal.

The water is so dark he can’t see his reflection, so he imagines an upside down Virgil to stare back at him, peering at him from below the bottom of his shoe, rippling and waving in the pool. That Virgil is free.

That Virgil knows the unbridled love of the water. It knows what it is like to be fully submerged in a beauty unlike any human or nonhuman could imagine. It knows how to worship. How to be revered.

It would be so easy. So easy to just stand up, stand up and take one big step forward. So easy…

He hums a little song, some pretty, reflective piece he can’t remember most of the lyrics to. The song oddly stirs in his gut. His low, creaky voice starts to mumble the words as he rubs his hand over the wet rock like he was petting an animal.

“I didn’t know I had a dream.

I didn’t know until I saw you.

So would you tell me if you want me?

'Cause I can't move until you show–”

The water churns, there’s a rumble like a volcanic eruption on the horizon, ready to incinerate every piece of life it can get its hands on.

Dread pools in Virgil’s stomach as his mouth goes dry. No, no, no, no, no no no No No NO NO NO NONONONONONO FUCK.

There’s a sound like broken nails dragging hard against a chalkboard and a despicable figure leaps out of the waters below with a grating scream like a knife against pavement.

Virgil screams in some mixture of rage, horror, and fear. He slips on the wet rock and falls backwards. The impact sends him smacking his skull on the ground with a wet thwap that makes his vision stop working for a moment. He doesn’t get a chance to recover in time.

The intruder cackles and leaps for him, like a chimpanzee, all wide smiles and too many exposed teeth. He’s dripping wet with water that does not belong to him, and gleeful with an edge of carelessness that stings like smoke in Virgil’s eyes.

There are few things Virgil does when backed into a corner. Woven into the fabric of his being are few instincts, but those few are reliable like nothing else. He doesn’t think before he moves, he doesn’t have to.

Virgil first kicks out his legs with a wild snarl like a feral dog. The impact lands with the sound of raw steak against a wall. He is stronger than people would guess, more ruthless than he seems. Virgil can feel himself hardening like water being frozen into ice.

The force of that kick is almost strong enough to throw the figure back down into the water, but not enough. He recovers his fall and turns it into a crouched landing before launching another twistedly joyful attack, reaching for Virgil’s neck.

Virgil wastes no time lamenting the failed move. It’s fine, the water should be left untouched by the unworthy, but the unworthy should be punished. The unworthy should be left unprotected to burn in the fiery daylight that exposes their egregious sins against the benevolent. 

His peace has been disturbed. The water has been violated. 

As the sinner pounces onto him, Virgil utilizes his nails next, short and blunt and painted black, chipped, but slashed out with enough force to pierce the dry flaky skin of the intruder’s cheek, drawing thick green ooze instead of wet blood. His fingers go in deep, like he is scraping soft butter.

The scent of stale vinegar floods Virgil’s nostrils, his eyes sting. Disgusting.

He pulls his fist back and swings it wildly, meeting far too many ribs with a satisfying crunch and squelch. He feels his knuckles burn with the impact in a way that isn’t all bad. Actually, it feels good, just. He does it again. Again. Again. He moves to different, untouched parts of the body, places to destroy.

His nose shatters under Virgil’s tight fist, he elicits a loud squeal of delight that makes Virgil’s skin crawl. With a loud growl, Virgil grabs for the throat, ready to squeeze until his hands met in a clasp.

But the intruder gets him spring like legs beneath Virgil, and with a thrust, Virgil is thrown off him. He hisses as he hits the ground and scrambled to get back up for another round. Virgil only slows for a moment as his rage festers. He’s staring backwards with eyes that glow with fire. His mouth is full of teeth in a white row, fearful and daunting.

With a sound that tears from the pit of his chest he body slams the intruder into the sharp, rough wall.

He starts ripping out hair, from the intruder’s scalp, then from the mustache above his lip. He tries to rip off his ears too, and in the dark he feels thin cartilage and damp skin peel off like he was preparing to eat an orange. The pieces of thin flesh jingle and jangles at the dozen metal piercings flop about.

Virgil stamps his ratty shoes into his opponent’s knees, there’s a snap and a pop as the knee collapses backwards, sending him to the ground. Virgil isn’t done, the cave has been sullied and though the cave does not ask for vengeance, a grave disrespect has been levied against him. Against the water.

Fuck. Shit. Die. Stupid piece of shit. I hate you. I hate you. Damn it, I do. Shit. Fuck.

He pauses just long enough to wipe blood from his nose before he brings his elbow down on the figure, who’s so mangled that Virgil can’t tell what part of the body he is even injuring.

He throws himself on top of the giggling freak, beginning to claw and scratch and bite. Yes, biting. Sometimes he thinks he was made to use his teeth. His canines sink into tulle and sequined clothing before finding the tender skin to rip through. Flesh turns into moist putty under his fingernails, bone cracks and snaps like pieces of dried pasta. Decorative bells rattle and tinkle as he kicks whatever is left of that spine, feeling each fracture and collapse under his foot.

Virgil’s foe is barely more than a mound of what barely qualifies as rotting human remains. Eleven still, it giggles manically as Virgil stumbles backwards, struggling for breath. Blood rushes from his head, leaving him faint and pale. What few breaths of air he manages to take don’t seem to land.

He’s shaking, he tries to get closer to the water but he’s too weakened. He then collapses to his knees, it sends pain through his legs. In a daze, he looks down, staring at the putrid liquid covering half his body. It’s green, chunky. He runs his finger through a patch on his leg, and upon closer inspection, he has to clamp his hands over his mouth to stop himself from puking.

The goopy mess behind him begins to make horrible squishing sounds as the remains slowly move like a living slime, forming back the revolting mass into what it was prior, a horrific puppet meant to be a human. An imitation of a person, who under just below a thin layer of skin, is anything but. Bones snap back into place with pretty little pops like fireworks going off inside of gelatin.

Why? Why did he go so far? It was too much, Virgil did too much.

Virgil collapses into a sitting position on the ground, choking down a hoarse sob. Tears are running down his face.

Drip

Drip

Drip

“Now that was a good time, Virgie,” Remus giggles tiredly. He pushes his eyes back into place with a pop. He shoves his teeth back into his gums, as they were hanging too low.

“I hate you!” Virgil shouts, throwing a rock at Remus’ head and missing dramatically. His tears are too abundant to see right.

“Here, you’re all weepy and wet. Let me get those,” Remus says as he strides forward jovially, mostly human shaped. He does a little cartwheel before he lands on his feet in front of Virgil. He kneels down on Virgil’s lap, sending pain through his legs at the weight. They’re face to face, his breath smells like salt.

“Ow!” Virgil sounds almost whiny, tears still leak from his eyes.

Remus chuckles. “Psh. Baby.”

Virgil scrubs tears from his eyes until Remus takes hold of his arm and wrenches it down. Then Remus firmly takes the back of his head and tilts his face upward, looking toward the roof of the cave.

“Remus–”

Remus grins before clamping his mouth around one of Virgil’s eyes, his tongue is both prickly like a cat and slimy like a giraffe’s, he suctions his lips around Virgil’s left eye, blinding him halfway as his sharp tongue laps up the salty tears on his skin and in even directly from his eye. The tongue wriggles and slides across the surface of Virgil’s eye that he somehow can’t close. It hurts. Oh, it hurts.

Virgil screams and flails, but he’s too weak, too human. Remus is too strong. 

Remus is covered in that viscous green goop that should’ve stayed inside of him when he reformed, but it did not. Remus did what he was supposed to, never what anyone wanted him, never what feels right to the rest of them. His nature is as kind as a hurricane, there’s no room for love in a storm. Remus did not have to hate in order to be cruel to what was sacred and protected. He thrived in the unnatural, in the unwell.

Virgil can feel the sticky green gunk clumping in his hair where Remus’s hand is holding his skull in a vice-like grip. Remus has hands like bird claws when you cannot quite see them in the dark. He does not have to make them into something seeable when they cannot be seen.

Remus moves like he’s rocking his body to slow, sensuous music. He slithers like a slug, somehow even with his mouth on Virgil’s face, he’s whispering about Virgil’s unwinding, his slow beautiful unwinding, falling into pretty pieces he can pop into his mouth and chew.

Virgil screams again and pushes Remus off, tucking into a ball and feeling choked, panicked sobs rip out of him like pulling a weed out of the ground by the root. He rubs his eyes and cries, even though the pain completely dissipated the second Remus removed his tongue.

“You’re delicious today, Virgie,” Remus giggles, a little winded from going so long just sucking and licking Virgil’s fucking eye. He sits on the floor and stretches his legs into the air, grabbing his own feet and kicking them with glee. “You haven’t taken on this yummy little flavor since your last cave hook up, and even then, not this strong.”

Still shaking, Virgil screams into the rock below him, his body is tingling and pricking in awful discomfort.

“Your thoughts are so finger-licking good. I just love when you taste scummy. Like mold, old fish tank water, or the algae that floats at the top of an untouched little bog. I love hitting that bog. Mmmmmm .”

Virgil pounds his fingers into a half inch deep puddle of water he’s sitting in. He needs help, guidance. He can’t be okay here. His mind is stretching like a rubber band about to snap, but in the midst of it all, he remembers. The water flows unceasingly.

“You know who I’ve decided to hate lately? The Morgens , awful singers in my opinion. I tried bringing them into a little wet dream I was cooking up, but they got in the way, brushing their hair and shit–” Remus rambled to himself, bending each one of his fingers back into proper position.

“The water flows unceasingly,” Virgil whispers his mantra as his fingers grasps at the puddle. He did it too hard, his cuticles are bleeding, mixing with the water in the dark. He claws at the puddle, pushing his hands into the stone as the rough pebbles scattering the surface prick his squishy palms.

“So I followed them up the path past the olive tree to see– wait. Hey! Virgin. Virgil. Dude. What are you mumbling about? I’m trying to yap forebodingly,” Remus groaned, throwing his head back childishly.

Virgil swallows his tears, feeling them run down his throat thickly. “ The water flows unceasingly. The water flows unceasingly. The—”

“ I’m sure it does, My Chemical Piss Pants, I’m sure it does,” Remus puffs out a laugh, turning over to rest on his front.

“Shut up! You shouldn’t be here!” Virgil screams, pounding one fist against the ground. The cave doesn’t want Remus here. He doesn’t want Remus here. Nobody wants Remus here but Remus. Thomas doesn’t even want Remus.

Remus sighed, then stalks over on all fours, tilting his head like a creaky doll. He grins, his teeth are whiter than should be possible in the dim, and too sharp.

“Fuck off!” Virgil screams, throwing a weak punch that barely manages to so much as rustle the frills on the goopy jester costume Remus is wearing.

“Bud,” Remus sighs, rolling onto his back with his limbs curled up like a dog stretching on the floor, “you gotta stop drinking the Koolaid. Or in this case, questionable pond water I guess.”

Virgil scrubs at his aching eyes, pulling his knees up to his chest. “ Shut up.”

“Seriously. Before you start making out with a puddle again, Mr. Rawr XD.”

“That didn’t happen!” Virgil’s voice cracks. He throws another rock, this one making contact with Remus’ shoulder.

“ Sure , Virgalicious, sure ,” Remus snorted.

“Just leave, you stupid rat,” Virgil growled, “you’re ruining everything. You always ruin everything.”

Mercifully, Remus got up, snickering. “That’s my thing, buddy bud. Maybe I’ll go play with Tommy, I bet he’s missing me. I’m gonna go kiss him, you know, smexy style. That’ll mess him up for a week.”

Virgil snapped up, glaring. “Don’t you dare—"

Remus stuck out his tongue and dashed for the exit, Virgil chased after.

Chapter Text

Virgil loses sight of Remus quickly as he chases him through the winding, rustic halls. The cave always nestled itself into dark corners, well past the overgrown vines and roughly hewn stone passages that fill so much of the unending space of Thomas’ mind. Only allure guided Virgil through these tunnels, the draw lived inside him, nudging him in the right direction.

Leaving is harder. No instinct guides him home should he choose to walk instead of rise up. Going home without an anchor is like taking a blind hike. Leaving without a destination always felt pointless. Hollow.

He grumbles to himself as he realizes Remus is gone, either appearing somewhere or just manipulating the paths to move faster. He was so good at making his way around the Mindscape. Remus navigated it without issue, unlike the rest of them. Even Roman wasn’t a match for Remus in that regard. Though he was certainly more comfortable with the fluidity of their world.

The darker side of creativity is a swift creature, who toys and taunts with the fabric of their reality. He’s impish, if you ask Logan, who may or may not mean it affectionately, nobody can tell. Remus pushes and pulls and plays with the concepts of time and space, clipping through earth and looking through what they imagine to be solid. He warps and squishes whatever he pleases. Their metaphysical reality was not very concrete, to Remus, he looked through it all like it was just pea soup. Where the other sides see a mountain, he sees nothing more immovable than Jello.

Virgil is out of breath by now. He groans and kicks a piece of stone that used to be part of the ancient-looking carvings that adorn the cavern tunnel walls. He can’t remember the last time he really looked at them in the low, bioluminescent light that comes from the strange moss that grows in patches along the path.

He stares at the carvings, they are clunky and crude now, but it is not hard to imagine them once being beautiful and fresh. What now looks rough and indiscernible may have once been many fine lines and precisely carved detail, lost to time. It’s silly, none of this is really old at all, but the deception remains. History has been invented and forged; imaginary years have rendered the message lost before it could ever be found.

The aged and weathered rock depicts two women-adjacent creatures. One is in the air, with the large, majestic wings of a bird, as well as the hard thin legs of one as well. Her hair cascades around her as he rises into the sky. The lack of detail makes it hard to be sure, but it seems like her lips are parted, perhaps in a song. She looks joyful, free.

Below the winged bird lady is another woman. Though his one resides in the sea. She’s seated on a rock, poised seductively. Her bottom half is like that of a fish, making her a mermaid, he supposes. She’s noble, powerful, just as alluring as the woman in the sky. Virgil can almost imagine her singing as well, calling out, like a bird singing in the morning.

The carved water, as rough and damaged as it was, seems to move. Like one of those optical illusions, where a completely still picture seems to shift and swirl. He knows it isn’t moving, that the water is not real, but does the water know?

Does he?

He shakes himself out of it, remembering that Remus was up to no good. He focuses for a moment before sinking out, rising up again in Thomas’ bedroom.

Virgil, thankfully, is not met with the atrocious sight of Remus doing any sort of Remus typical activity.

Instead, Thomas is on his bed, upside down, phone in hand. He’d been working and editing all day, ignoring a few text messages that had been stressing him out. A throw blanket was tangled around his legs, and his blue light glasses that Logan had pestered him into buying were on his head, decidedly not being used.

Remus nowhere to be seen, apparently having been bluffing, or perhaps more realistically, he immediately got bored and changed his mind. If Virgil had to guess, he would wager that Remus was playing with cadavers in his dead people dungeon or hunting Roman for sport with a fishing spear.

He’s mildly pissed off. He got all worked up over nothing. Remus wasn’t putting his tongue anywhere that Virgil would have to deal with, for now at least. Thomas looked perfectly untouched, peaceful, even.

The room is warm, so he pulls his hoodie off, leaving him in a plain black muscle shirt. He just drops the hoodie on the floor to be retrieved later. For now, he’s ready to be with his person again. It’s been almost a week, and it’s time to come home. That’s all it is, isn’t it? Coming back to his person, his purpose, his creator. He’s loyal, no matter what his dumb ass of a man Thomas can be. At the end of the day, he will come home.

Virgil approaches the bed, pulling the blanket off Thomas’ legs. “Hey, Thomas.”

Thomas looks up with a smile, holding his phone to his chest loosely, not turning it off, but lowering it for a second. “Virgil! There you are, it’s been a while.”

“Eh,” Virgil shrugs, snapping the blanket to spread it out. “Been busy.”

Thomas nods rapidly, sitting up. “With what? I’ve missed you, you don’t uh, don’t hang out as much as you used to. Not that you have to, obviously, you like your space. I respect that. Duh. I was just asking, and you don’t have to answer! I was just making conversation because it’s been a while—”

“Thomas.” Virgil sighs, trying not to get annoyed at the eggshells Thomas so instantly walks on.

“—but you like a little bit of secrecy, maybe not as much as some, but definitely some. I never want to trample on your style, bud. But I worry, which, ha, so do you!” Thomas continues to ramble in that awkward friendly way he does when he’s nervous.

Alright. Nevermind. Virgil’s getting a little annoyed. “ Thomas.”

“Just know that you’re missed. Oh, but totally not in a guilt trippy way, I’m fine without you. No. Wait, not like that. I just like when you’re here, but I am not upset when you’re gone. Hopefully I don’t sound upset, because I am not—”

“You can stop now,” Virgil says flatly.

Thomas keeps on going, “so you share as much or as little as you want, buddy. You can do whatever you want, and if you want to talk about it, we can! Or can’t. Or no, that sounded wrong. But you know what I mean when I say—”

Virgil rolls his eyes and quickly spread the blanket over Thomas’ head and held it down, trapping him under the fuzzy fabric. “You can shut up now,” Virgil says smugly.

“Noted,” Thomas nods under the blanket. His voice is muffled.

“Good.”

“I did miss you though,” Thomas says again a little teasingly.

“Ew. Don’t be all mushy,” Virgil chuckles, squeezing Thomas’ blanketed form harder.

“Too la-a-a-a-ate. I missed you and you missed me, probably.”

“Not too late, just shut your trap,” Virgil snorts

“Never!” Thomas jeers as he escapes from under the blanket with a playful yell. He tries to flip it over onto Virgil but misjudges and misses. His blue light glasses go flying off his head.

“Ooh, almost got me, tiger,” Virgil grins, jumping onto the bed. He holds up the blanket again and pounces gently again. He entraps Thomas from the shoulders down as his victim laughs and rolls over.

“Virgil!” Thomas protests, laughing. He didn’t often get this version of Virgil, but he was right. It has been a while. Thomas manages to yank the blanket off, seize a pillow, and smack Virgil with it lightly.

Virgil falls back dramatically, pretending to be out for the count. He collapses in a heap. “Gah!”

“Got ‘em,” Thomas rolls his eyes quite fondly at Virgil’s fake death. “Should’ve thought about that before attacking me in cold blood.”

“It’s true. Hitting the gym has made you unstoppable.” Virgil snorts from where he was playing dead.

“My muscles,” Thomas nods in agreement.

“What? No, not those. The fact you still work out when other people are still at the gym has made you some sort of otherworldly monster. We used to just turn around and leave anytime somebody started using any of the equipment within ten feet of us.”

“I am the bravest boy ever now,” Thomas says with mock seriousness.

“That, or…” Virgil sits up, a coy smile on his lips, “you’re actually a clone.”

“Uh huh, totally.”

“I’m serious, the government is gonna start doing that, Reddit is pretty sure. Maybe they started with you ,” Virgil grinned deviously.

“Totally. They would absolutely start with a Youtuber,” Thomas says with a chuckle.

Virgil lunges again, rather gently pinning Thomas down with a pillow across his neck. “Alright, buddy. Who are you and what did you do with Thomas Sanders Junior?”

“ Junior ?!” Thomas laughs incredulously, pushing the pillow away. He kicks lightly at Virgil’s side.

“You heard me,” Virgil says, suppressing a laugh. He repositions to pin Thomas down with his side again.

“Never heard of him,” he grins, before pushing his knee into Virgil’s side quickly, knocking him off balance. He tumbles onto his side into a pile of covers Thomas had pushed to the side of his bed. They wrestle back and forth for a bit, nobody actually trying very hard, but enjoying the tussle.

For a bit, Virgil lets Thomas win, rolling over like a big dog playing with a child, but his benevolence only went so far. Virgil pulls a particularly sneaky move and gives the sheet below Thomas an impressively strong, sharp tug. Thomas faceplants into the bed with an “ oomph !” that makes Virgil cackle menacingly.

Thomas’ phone ends up being thrown to the edge of the bed, and Thomas immediately goes for it to make sure it doesn’t fall off the side. In the process, he nearly tumbles off himself, but Virgil is quick to grab him by the back of the shirt and pull him back up, phone and all.

“Do not break your skull open for your iPhone, dumbass,” Virgil chides lightly. He puts the blanket over Thomas properly though, tucking him in without really thinking.

“Whoops,” Thomas shrugs sheepishly, opening his phone like the quick dopamine addict he is.

“Oh, geez. Since when is your phone on bright mode, you psychopath? Gross, dude,” Virgil looks disgusted, shielding his eyes from the white flashbang screen.

Thomas looks unconcerned, already scrolling twitter. “It updated. I was too lazy to fix it.”

“Sheesh. Here, gimmie,” Virgil plucks his phone out Thomas’ hands and very quickly changes the settings. Then, in a moment of charity, he picks up the discarded blue light glasses from the floor and puts them on the bridge of Thomas’ nose, taking a second to straighten them.

“Forgot about those,” Thomas comments lightly.

“Well, do Logan a favor and at least wear them to save your eyes while your brain rots. That way we ruin our attention span and hopefully not too much else. I dunno, he’ll scold us if not,” Virgil shrugs, tossing Thomas his phone back.

“Probably won’t change much. I’ll be in trouble for something or other,” Thomas chuckles, but there was an undertone of slight bitterness that Virgil doesn’t usually detect. It makes him frown.

“… Uh huh,” Virgil says warily. He’s about to try and expand on that when the phone pings. A text. Virgil can feel Thomas’ heart rate go up just a touch. Ah. That kind of text. 

Thomas is already engrossed in that special little text, so Virgil stands up, grabbing his hoodie from the floor and shrugging it on.

“Going already?” Thomas looks up from his phone, a little disappointed.

“You’ve got plenty to entertain yourself with,” Virgil says with a fond eye roll. “Unless you need help figuring out what to say,” he offered.

“Oh, well Patton and Janus were here like an hour ago and kinda helped me on that front,” Thomas says offhandedly.

Virgil’s pulse speeds up. “… Oh. Did they now?”

“Yeah, it was pretty helpful. Last couple of days, they’ve been around a lot, so I’ve been able to think through it all. Might take it slow, like Janus suggested.”

Virgil manages to look calm. Too calm. Far calmer than he feels. Patton and Janus haven’t been involved in the boy at all lately. It’s been Roman and Virgil helping Thomas work up the courage to make this work. Not them . So what? Now they just wanted to waltz in after the hard part was over?

“No Roman?” he asks lightly, putting his hands in his pockets. He did his best to look only boredly interested.

“A little!” Thomas nodded absently, “but mostly Jan and Patton.”

Jan. Well isn’t that cozy.

“Huh. Well, just summon me if you need another opinion,” Virgil offers with a polite smile. He’s seething internally. His blood feels hot and furious. 

“Will do!” Thomas says with a thumbs up, though he’s itching to get back to his phone. Get back to those texts. Get back to using all that advice he got from that snake .

“Bye,” Virgil says with a two fingered salute as he sinks out, trying to keep the venom out of his mouth. He doesn’t want to aim that at Thomas. Never at Thomas. He slips up sometimes, gets aggressive with the person he loves more than anybody else, but he isn’t doing that now. He knows who he is angry at. He is ready to bite.

He has a bone to pick.

Chapter Text

Virgil came up upon the door at a swift speed. He was on a mission, and God help anything that got in his way. He was done avoiding and just getting out of the room as fast as possible to avoid a tense confrontation. He was over it.

The door was orangey, in that distinct shade of wood that people in the 90s and early 2000s seemed so fond of. It was a little chipped and worn down, as if it really was from back then. A wide collection of stickers adorned the door, all at varying levels of being peeled off or unrecognizable.

A cluster of cat stickers with encouragements around them were stuck on at eye level, some so fresh looking they could’ve been put there yesterday. A few others could have been there for a decade. A sticker of a knight was placed way up high, along with some Disney princesses, most of which were Cinderella, they were a bit older, with a few newer looking stickers from more recent princess movies. Towards the bottom of the door there was a sparser collection of smaller stickers, a few astronauts, a dinosaur, a few decidedly realistic animals, and a tiny unicorn, all on the much older side.

Lots of other, less organized stickers dotted the rest of the door, many of which were getting pretty gross looking from age. Though a few looked brand new. A few spiders, a begrudgingly adorably drawn rat, and an unsettlingly illustrated man with two faces.

Not subtle. Don’t act like it is.

Virgil doesn’t give them a second glance as he kicks the door open with his grungy sneaker and a loud snarl. It swings open with a creak and a crash as the other side of the doorknob slammed into the wall. He storms through the doorway without shutting it behind him.

His stomach turns in disgust and anger as he walks in on the revolting scene in front of him.

Patton and Janus are together at a small table, seated on a little chair on either side. Like a fucking tea party. Two long since drained, now empty cups are set in front of them, a scornful piece of evidence that they had spent some quite time together.

Janus is holding a wine glass, Patton too. That’s new.

All of it is new. All of it. And all of it bad.

Patton had chosen to trust Janus of all people. Patton chose Janus’ advice. Patton chose Janus’ company over his own. Patton chose to ignore Virgil’s warning. Patton chose Janus. Patton chose Janus over Virgil.

He clenches his teeth, glaring daggers at the pair of dirty traitors.

The two are staring at him, raised eyebrows and in Patton’s case, slightly widened eyes. They’re looking at him like he’s the irrational one. Like he’s the one in the wrong. How dare they?

“… See?” Janus said to Patton slowly, not taking his eyes off of Virgil. He sets the wine glass down. He looks concerned, but hardly surprised. He very subtly adjusts his glove, pulling a beaded bracelet of some sort below the yellow fabric. It was blue.

“Yeah … I see what you mean,” Patton says with a slow nod, also not looking away from Virgil’s angry form.

They have been talking about him. They’ve been discussing him. Janus has been whispering about Virgil into Patton’s ear, making things up. Lying. Telling Patton about the water, about how Janus didn’t believe him. Traitor. That fucking snake.

On top of it, Patton is wearing a matching bracelet. A matching bracelet. They are matching. Virgil takes a slow breath to control himself before he breaks something. Because they are matching .

Virgil feels his blood roaring in his ears, but he can’t properly communicate if he loses it just yet. He bites the inside of his mouth until the dull ache gets sharp enough to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“ Shut up .” Virgil says darkly, pointing at Janus. “You’re messing with Thomas. You’re going around me and Roman’s back. You’re sneaking around. You’re a bitch, you don’t know what’s best for him. You can’t hide from me, I know you. I know what you’re doing.”

“Virgil,” the accused says slowly.

“I said shut up !”

Janus coolly raises his hands in surrender, that stupid bracelet still hidden under his glove as if Virgil didn’t already see it. “Happily, Virgil dear. But let’s calm down a moment, hmm? I will shut up, though I recommend you talk with Patton here. I can take my leave, but perhaps you would benefit from talking to a … friend ?”

Virgil is just about to break somebody’s nose, and he had a certain person’s in mind.

“Well sure, bud,” Patton nods along kindly. “No pressure, no pressure. I know we’re, uh, we’re going though it right now, so I’d understand if you don’t want to. Just know your pal Patton is here with two big old listening ears, mmkay kiddo? Or uh, Virgil. Just Virgil. Sorry,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m fine ,” Virgil says in a low, husky, dangerous tone. He is clenching his fists hard, so he shoved them into his pockets.

“And that’s okay too!” Patton chuckles weakly. “No pressure, just like I said. I just wanted to offer.”

“Why?” Virgil presses, eyes locked on him like prey.

Patton realizes he’s on thin ice. He nods placatingly, absently stretching at the beaded bracelet around his wrist. The knife in his back twists furthermore. “Well, uh. You know…”  Patton trails off nervously.

“I mentioned my concerns,” Janus intervenes smoothly, in that same infuriatingly calm and serene tone of voice. As if he’s better than him. Wiser. More rational.

“What the hell are you saying behind my back, Snake?” Virgil turns his fury onto the other side. He comes closer, scowling.

“Nothing of importance, Virgil. All I said was that you seemed troubled, alright?” the snake says soothingly, in that disgustingly patronizing voice that makes Virgil want to wrap his sweaty hands around his throat and stop him from using it at all.

What did he tell Patton? What did he say? What lies did he spin? Did Janus tell him about the water? It makes him feel cold with dread. Did he tell him? Do not dare tell Patton about the cave. Nobody else can know. Cruel. Cruel, don’t be true. Janus is spreading his lies. He can feel his sweaty hands start to tremble.

“... you told him.” Virgil says hollowly, his empty gaze burning holes in Janus’ skin with his eyes. The betrayal aches like nothing else. He didn’t even think he trusted Janus enough to feel betrayed by anything he did. It hurts . It burns. It feels like a blunt steak knife is carving out where his stomach should be.

“Virgil,” Janus sighs, before taking a large drink of his wine, finishing it off. “I didn’t mention anything specific, truly.” he licks a drop of wine off his bottom lip.

“You’re lying ,” Virgil growls, but he’s sounding frantic, his pitch rising in a panic.

“No, I am not,” he insists gently, he puts the glass down “Virgil—”

“You’re lying ! You always fucking lie ,” Virgil clutches at the side of his head as his panic grows and swirls like a cyclone in his chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t see.

“I did not tell him anything you wouldn’t want me to, Virgil. Look at me,” Janus says firmly.

“ Shut up!”

“Virgil, kiddo, I have no clue what you guys are talking about,” Patton says gently, looking genuinely confused and concerned by it all. He looks to Janus helplessly, then to Virgil again. “All Janus told me was that you seemed to be struggling, I’m sorry. It’s okay, okay?”

Virgil looks up, feeling his vision trembling. “… Say it again,” he says hoarsely.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Virgil,” Patton says again, his face pinched with empathetic concern. 

“... again.”

“Virgil, kiddo. I don’t know what’s going on. I would like to, if it means helping you, but I don’t know anything. Okay?” Patton says softly, looking at him like he was a frightened, injured animal backed into a corner.

“I– okay. Okay,” he said slowly. He still feels tense, still feels frantic, but he wants to calm down a little bit, at least just a little bit.

Patton nods encouragingly. “That’s good, good. It’s all gonna be okay,” he slowly gets out of his seat.

“Wait! Stay back!” Virgil growls, sharply shifting his weight to the foot closer to them, like a threat of attack. His heart rate spikes again.

“Okay, okay, I’m sitting, it’s okay,” Patton says, sitting back down, though he looks torn. His mouth is pressed into a worried line and he doesn’t take his fretful eyes off Virgil’s shaking form. “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo. Take a second.”

Virgil holds himself, feeling his body tremble and his head spin. Somehow in the midst of the panic and adrenaline, a tiny part of him is relieved. He believes Patton, at least mostly. Janus didn’t say anything, probably good. It’s okay. He just needs to ride out the attack, just calm down a little. He wants a hug. He wants to bite somebody. He wants a hug.

“Can I come over …?” Patton asks softly, seeming to sense some of the conflicting emotions in him.

Virgil hesitates, but slowly nods.

Blink.

He feels the water make impact with his body, like a bucket of water has been thrown at him, sending a cold wave of shock through his too hot system. He gasps for breath as his body recoils from the cold. He frantically wipes his eyes so he can see.

The room is dark. The walls look smeared with dirt and grease. Grungy handprints can be seen dragging up and down along the walls like one trying to claw upwards.

Normally the room is filled with natural and sunlight from the large windows on all sides. In the evenings, a half dozen yellow hued lamps bathe the walls in that nostalgic wash no longer seen often in modern white light LEDs. Now the room was dark and dingy, with exactly one large spotlight coming from an endless, empty night sky peering down at them.

The spotlight descends unkindly in a blazing hot burning stream of light. It is unforgiving.

Patton kneels on the floor, one of his palms flat against the faded brown shag carpet. His figure is hunched over in pain and distress. His other hand holds the wine glass from before, but he’s crushing it in his hand.

The blood drips from his hand, making an array of dark red spots in the carpet below.

Patton is not wearing his glasses. Instead, his eyes are bound by a long strip of thin fabric. The blue fabric is silky like satin, decorated with little black flowers. The blindfold is so long that it draped down his shoulder then ran down his side like a waterfall, pooling at the floor by his knee. It caught the light brilliantly.

Janus staggers out from somewhere, previously cloaked in the grungy dark. He limps from the dark, pausing halfway on his path to Patton. Half stepped into the light, his face was divided down the center. The scaled side was laid bare by the stark light, the other was still enveloped by shadow.

He stares at Virgil blankly, but not without intention.

Virgil notices with no small amount of dread.

Janus tears his eyes away, slowly kneeling beside Patton. He runs his yellow gloves over his sweaty hair, smoothing it back delicately. His skin is pale and dry, too much so. His body looks weak and heavy ladened. There is something wrong with him, and he knows it, something painful and weary is being housed within him.

Patton makes a dry choking sound, coming from the very center of his miserable being. His hands crush the sharpened remains of the wine glass he was still holding. A fresh, particularly deep cut in his hands sends a thin stream of blood to the carpet, making more of a puddle. There is no dripping sound.

Janus pulls off both of his yellow gloves, revealing hands that shy away from the stark light above them like a helicopter beaming an indicator over a fleeing target being closed in on. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from what searches for them, from what chases.

With dry, dry hands, Janus unties the fabric wrapped around Patton’s eyes, letting the blindfold fall away, into the weak puddle on the carpet.

For a moment, Patton’s eyes are open. There are too many eyes within Patton’s eyes.

Janus takes the underside of Patton’s jaw and tilts the other side’s head upward, those eyes being blinded by the inescapable light that is so hellbent on drowning the pair.

With his free hand, Janus reached down Patton’s throat, shoving past teeth and tongue and maw to get his fingers down up to his elbow. Patton retches and convulses, but Janus remains steadfast. Gentle, but steadfast.

Janus pulls his arm free, fist closed around something small. He drops the object without care.

It is a photo. A crumpled, wet photo of a toy car. The type toddlers can get into and push with their feet. The classic red and yellow one.

Patton breathes deeply, as if he had been unable to do so properly before, but Janus is not yet finished. He takes Patton’s jaw in hand again, then takes his gloves off. He wads them up in his fist before shoving it down Patton’s throat, slowly at first, but Patton starts swallowing, chewing them. Janus does little else save hold Patton’s head up as the gloves are digested.

Blink.

                                                                         Virgil!

                                                         Virgil!

                                         Virgil.

                         Virgil.

Them.            Virgil.                           you.

                         Virgil.

                                         Virgil!

                                                         Virgil!

                                                                         “Virgil!”

Virgil is screaming.

The room is warm and clean and yellow again. Sunlight warms his skin. The carpet is clean and free of blood or any other noticeable bodily fluids. The charming knick knacks and well loved furniture are back to where they belong. All is back to how it should be. He is screaming.

The screaming is hurting his throat.

The sound hurts his ears. Hurts his body. His vocal cords feel as if they are popping and snapping like too taut rubber bands, or chopping like the way a helicopter’s blades sound after getting fast enough.

He is still screaming.

“ Virgil ! Come on, look at me!” Janus is raising his voice. He is far, far too close to Virgil. He’s kneeling next to him, they are both apparently on the floor of Patton’s room. Virgil is screaming still.

Patton is a mere two feet behind Janus. He has the correct number of eyes within his eyes. The regular amount of eyes express worry, concern, affection. There is clear distress and worry lining his face. It should be comforting, but it is not. It may not be real. Nothing can be real.

There are lies in the walls.

Virgil keeps screaming.

“Virgil, please !” Janus begs. It is a horrible sound. Something is wrong with Janus. Something evil and cold. The water wants him to know, wants him to understand. The weight of such a calling is like being chained by the neck to an ocean.

Virgil can’t tell if he’s screaming anymore. Does it matter? Reality keeps moving, life goes on, no matter how tangible life may be.

“That’s it, just relax,” Janus says, seeming to think he’s the one helping. He does not help. He causes this. It is his fault. It must be.

Virgil stumbles to his feet, alarming the other two. Janus makes a disapproving sound and reaches out to hold down Virgil’s shoulder.

He doesn’t think twice before he shoves Janus hard with his shoulder, knocking him onto his side. Janus yelps in surprise as he tumbles backwards. It’s a good sound. The impact of Virgil’s shoulder against his body is real and solid. It reminds him that no matter how sick and deceptive Janus may be, he’s too real to be invincible. Too real to escape truth in the end.

He leaves.

Nowhere is safe.

And yet the water flows unceasingly.

Chapter Text

and at the head of the harbor is a slender-leaved olive

and near by it a lovely and murky cave

sacred to the nymphs called Naiads.

Within are kraters and amphoras

of stone, where bees lay up stores of honey.

Inside, too, are massive stone looms and there the nymphs

weave sea-purple cloth, a wonder to see.

The water flows unceasingly. The cave has two gates,

the one from the north, a path for men to descend,

while the other, toward the south, is divine. Men do not

enter by this one, but it is rather a path for immortals.

Chapter Text

Virgil can see through the walls.

Slowly, it seems that he is rising above the illusion of captivity. He is more than what the fake tunnels and passages would have him believe. The waters show him who he truly is, what he truly is.

Pure instinct is what keeps people alive. The split-second decisions to fight or flee is what makes even the softest person capable of living to breathe for another day. The pure power of adrenaline, motivated by a strong enough panic, that is true survival. That is a very powerful gift.

And that is Virgil. Before there were ethics, there was terror. Before there were carefully crafted systems to manipulate, there was panic. Before there was understanding, there was the urge to flee. Before there were dreams and nightmares, there was the urge to bite and scratch until freedom could be achieved.

Survival is older than anything else, because without the tools to secure another sunrise, there is no civilization to see another sun set over them.

Some part of Virgil knows this to be intrinsically true. Some part of his nature is ancient and untamable. That part awakens in the cave down by the water.

His mind grows stronger, stronger than he ever thought it possible to become. Virgil is learning and growing, like an ant hill, buzzing and wriggling as the mound expands. Above, below, all around. Come too close and a thousand insects descend upon your skin to bite and burn like fire in your veins.

The water knows this to be true. The water wishes to grant Virgil the mercy of sight.

And Virgil is beginning to realize that he may just be strong enough to take it on. For the sake of his person, himself, his loved ones. The gift of truth and understanding is a heavy weight to bear indeed, but who better to understand than Survival? Who better to know and protect through an unclouded mind? Beautiful water, how you know best for him. Wisdom may never be his forte, but truth is what matters, is it not?

Virgil doesn’t remember where he is. In and out of the cave is all beginning to feel the same. Two worlds are bleeding together like watercolors on a wet page. His mind stays with the water even when his body moves about, but that makes sense, doesn’t it? None of it is real flesh and bone, nothing is real save his mind and the truth.

He runs his hand over the floor beneath him. He’s on the floor somewhere. His room, maybe. The dark shadows are not wet enough to be the cave, and he is too at ease to be elsewhere. Another caress of the floor reveals it to be carpet. Yes, yes, it is his room. His little haven away from his haven.

Blink.

The water is not as cold, this time. It was more gentle. Virgil’s eyes and arms were open, ready to receive. Because of this inner posture, the water was not a chilly blast like being hit with a tidal wave or attacked by a heavy storm. It was a cool, soft mist, like being at the zoo and getting one of those animal themed fans that spray water to keep you cool. It was gentle, almost playful. The water felt no need to fight for his attention.

His mind was open, listening to the sweet song of truth.

It’s been a long time since he had seen Logan. The thought to check on him crossed his mind a few times, but he never quite went through with it. There was so much else going on. Anger and solidarity were stronger emotions than just … neutral. How oddly fitting, in a bit of a sad way.

He’s heard nothing bad, which was good. So everything was good. Logan may not have been taking a stand, or picking a side, but he’s making things run, keeping Thomas in one piece. It’s fine. They are fine, he and Logan.

Well, Virgil is fine. He is quite well, actually. Perhaps the same can’t be said for Logan.

Virgil stares up at his ceiling, but he is not on the floor. He is not staring at his ceiling. His stomach flipped, as if he were upside down. He can feel his damp hair hanging forward, like he was on his hands and knees.

The ceiling is not the ceiling. The floor is not the floor.

Virgil feels like a spider crawling up a wall, unblinking eyes spread out to see everything around him unceasingly. He is comfortably perched with his limbs to anchor him upside down. A spider on the ceiling. A spider watches without moving, without malice nor compassion. Just a bug, just a little thing that sees what you do when nobody is looking.

Logan is sitting on his bed. The bed is black with tiny, subtle constellations dotting it. It is probably accurate to the night sky, as Logan would probably refuse to display something inaccurate so blatantly in his space. It is strange to see him sitting on his bed at all, he never uses his bed for anything but sleeping. Logan says that the bed should be left alone unless sleeping, as a best practice. It is one of those things that Virgil remembers quite well but never actually does.

Another thing Logan never does is try to kill himself, but that’s happening too now, apparently.

Virgil twists where he’s stuck to the ceiling, wishing to get closer, to see better. It’s hard to make very much out from where he is. But there are other ways to See without the use of eyes. He strains his ears and stretches to get just a few inches closer to Logan. Regret flares as his ears recoil away from the newly found sound.

 Virgil makes out the distinctly foreign stifled sobbing noise from below.

That … that is not normal either.

Logan has both hands around the end of his striped tie. He is pulling. He is pulling very, very hard. Virgil can hear his muscles straining. He can hear the sound of his tendons stretching and flexing as he tugs harder and harder. He can hear Logan’s throat constricting. He can hear the air having a harder time getting up and down his windpipe. He can hear the trickles of sweat going down the side of Logan’s temple. He can hear the tears welling up in his eyes as one drop at a time runs down his face.

They are sounds not meant to be heard. Virgil begins to feel like he’s violating something here. He should not be watching this, he does not want to watch this.

And yet he cannot look away.

Every new tear that runs down Logan’s face seems to anger him. Each one makes a fresh heat flare in Logan’s rolling gut. His knuckles are white from how tightly he’s gripping the tie around his neck. Every single tear, each barely unrepressed sob, he pulls harder at his own neck for every new offense. His heartbeat is wild in his ears, yet it’s growing weaker.

It isn’t working. This exercise in self-discipline isn’t working and he is angry. He is seething. How dare his own body betray him? How dare he fail at his own purpose?

Logan has strange tears. The tears are too thick and glossy, tinted like olive oil. They stick to his skin and move unbearably slowly. They mock him. They are not real water. It is very unfortunate.

Virgil can only watch where he’s stuck to the floor that is not the floor, looking down at the ceiling that is not a ceiling. It is so very uncomfortable. Logan isn’t supposed to cry…

It is then when Logan’s anger burns hotter, he releases one of the hands gripped around his tie, yanking his soft throat to the side. He holds his free hand below his face, staring at the way he’s holding it like an animal claw, fingers bent and ready to scratch.

Logan holds his tie at a sharper angle, pulling his head around like a bad dog on a leash. He seems to make a decision.

Logan plunges his free hand into his chest, it goes through with a loud squelch and a squirt of something hot and viscous.

Virgil finds his eyes blurring, from what he isn’t sure. His face feels wet and hot and salty.

In the foggy mist that Virgil’s eyes seem to be producing, he can only hear the fleshy sounds of a body being torn to pieces. It keeps going. Logan’s shadowy form is aggressive and jerky as he uses his dull nails to shred what is imperfect into imperfect ribbons.

The floor is being stained with far too many colors. The constellations on the bed cover are being tarnished, becoming very scientifically inaccurate. Very, very inaccurate.

Virgil’s throat hurts watching. It all hurts. He finds himself mouthing Logan’s name weakly, as if he could change anything, as if he was seen at all. He has all the right words to say, but no way to say them. Nobody to listen to it. It is a painful thing to be anything at all, and more painful still to be an invisible thing.

It keeps going, the bloody, self-induced one man massacre. And by the end of it, Virgil can’t see Logan. Logan never left, but there’s no Logan in front of him.

Blink.

Virgil shoots up from his bedroom floor with a loud gasp, as if he’d been saving the opportunity to inhale for far too long. He scrubs at his face, finding it slick with tacky tears. He nearly loses his balance as he stands up in a tizzy.

That one hurt. That one felt horrible. That one wasn’t okay.

He rakes his sweaty hands through his crusty hair, making it to an even frizzier mess than before. He paces the room, trying to catch a feeble breath. He’s lightheaded. He’s scared. He needs to do something.

Run a mile? Hit something? Hide under his bed?

He chooses the first option, flinging open the door and sprinting down the hall at full speed. He needs to outrun the fucking heebie jeebies flowing through his skeleton. He’s all backwards. Without so much as tying his untied dirty shoelaces, he takes off down the hall.

“ Woah ! Virgil! Pardon me, what are you doing?”

Virgil narrowly avoids tackling the person in his way. He dodges, tumbling against the wall, nearly knocking a mirror to the ground. His soul seemed to take a few steps without him before colliding with him again, leaving him with a nauseating vertigo.

“Uh—” Virgil is about to give a hasty apology, but he can’t quite get the words out, he feels pale. His heart drops into his legs.

“Virgil?” Logan frowns, tilting his head in that curious, almost robotic manner he does so often.

“Logan…” Virgil says weakly, staring at the decidedly not mangled and mutilated Logan standing in  front of him alive and well. Still, he feels lightheaded seeing the real thing. It’s been so long since he’d seen him, but only moments since his vision.

“Yes, that is indeed my name,” Logan nods awkwardly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Are— has, ah,” he pressed his lips into a line. He’s struggling. “Well. It has been some time. How … How is everything?”

Virgil can’t stop staring. “…sick.”

“As in the good sick or the bad, illness sick?” Logan squints his eyes, pursing his lips.

“Yeah.” Virgil nods distractedly, staring at Logan’s eyes. They were red, a little swollen. His glasses were a little smudgy. Not normal. Not right. Not right at all.

“… I see. That’s good, I suppose, right Virge?” Logan tries slowly, still baffled, and a bit twitchy, but clearly trying something. It isn’t working. Is he okay? Is something wrong? Virgil’s gut tells him that he’s looking at the remains of tears, but Logan doesn’t do that. That can’t be right.

It’s fine, it has to be. Logan is fine, it’s all fine. He just needs to get back to the cave. His cave. It will all be okay.

“I gotta run, Logan,” Virgil finally says, tearing his eyes away, down to the ground. He can’t look anymore, it’s making him feel bad. Guilty. Angry. But it’s fine.

“Oh. Right. Of course, later then.”

Virgil can’t remember whatever hasty goodbye he gives as he leaves. It’s back to the cave. Back to the water. It’s safe there.

Chapter Text

Virgil is standing at the edge of the ledge, letting the sound of the water lead his mind. His feet are hanging over the rough stone edge. That shoelace he keeps forgetting to retie dangles a few inches lower, closer. One day. One moment. His time will come. It must.

If his thoughts are a little paper boat, then he is adrift in an ocean that knows best. It is a reverent place to be.

But he is plagued by one question. One repeated over and over until the echoes of each plea are bouncing against the walls, joining and doubling until the roar of his blood running through his veins is matched by the roar of anguish in his head.

Why can’t he be more worthy yet?

His empty, empty body is filling with his own sorry woes, instead of the water he craves to swell up with. Make him a worthy vessel, he doesn’t care if he isn’t ready. Virgil wants to be everything and more, all to please the only thing that matters at all. Perhaps the logical part of him knows it isn’t his time, he is not ready yet. He must continue to grow stronger,he  must grow more worthy. His strength is pitiful, though his resolve is strong. It is a prison to live in.

Virgil has to wait.

He starts to walk out of the cave, his cave. His stupid, weak mind has to leave before too late. Before he physically couldn’t. He scuffs his shoes along the floor.

But he doesn’t want to. He wants to be consumed. He wants to drown and suffocate in a roar of painful bliss that overcomes every bit of doubt and weakness that bridles him. He wants to be pummeled by waves. He wants to open his lungs and never breathe back out, too full of that sweet, cold, frothy water. Too full of a truth and understanding too majestic to hold.

Virgil craves it. He is insatiable. His mind keeps spinning. The water is rocking him, mentally? Physically? Doesn’t matter, he’s swaying back and forth. He’s falling to a rhythm; his mind can fade away. He can’t stop imagining lying on his back in the center of the water, rocking with the waves.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

The cave knows best. It knows it isn’t time yet. The cave knows, it’s so knowledgeable. So smart. It loves him, it won’t flood him yet, no matter how much Virgil begs. He can’t stop fantasizing; it sounds just so delicious . The prospect is tantalizing. It is beautiful.

His teeth are clenched hard, he’s grinding them. Slowly, he drags himself out of the cave, lingering as long as he can manage. He passes the old carved door, closing his eyes in frustration. Yes, the waters flow unceasingly, but how can he live knowing they flow without him? With no one to bask in the presence of their tides?

Take off your shoes, the water shouldn’t be disturbed by impurities. This is a sacred space.

Strip away your clothes and cast them aside, lest any artificial barrier stop you from being truly embraced by the unending arms of the water.

Close your eyes. You have not the strength to gaze below the surface of the running waters.

Do not hold your breath, you have no need for air any longer. There is only water and becoming one with the water in a crashing symphony in which you join the choir of waves and splashes below. Join the song greater than any melody your lone, dry voice could ever manage by itself.

Oh god…

He’s so ready… so unbelievably ready.

Wait.

Virgil blinks several times, shaking his head. When did he walk back in? He’s standing at the ledge again, much much closer to stepping over the edge. That’s not right.

Or is it? It would be so easy to jump. So easy to plunge into the cleansing water below. So easy to drown. He could just jump. Maybe it is his time to prove his undying devotion. Even the wisest may not have the courage to be made righteous. Maybe a fool can achieve purity in ways that the scholar cannot. A fool unbridled by the chains of understanding. Maybe…

No. No, it isn't time yet. He isn’t ready. Not yet. Not yet. Not quite yet.

He drags himself away. It’s hard, but he forces himself to sink out. It feels disrespectful to do so in the cave, but he can’t handle the long walk out like this. Not while the sweet dewy scent of the cave beckons him to stay too alluringly. Not while the waters mist his skin, and the waves sing to him.

Once he rises up in the commons area, he squints and covers his eyes with a growl. The living room is bright, obnoxiously so, with sunlight. The windows are open, it looks like mid afternoon when the sun is at its most relentless. The dim cave from before made the contrast especially unbearable.

The room is warm and inviting, cozy and neat, but just lived in enough to feel welcoming.

“ Stupid ,” Virgil mutters under his breath, rubbing his eyes to make the stinging stop. The sun is bright and painful and he hates it. He drags himself to the kitchen.

When was the last time he ate something? When was the last time he sat down at a table? A few days? Longer? Time is bleeding together, not that it really matters, he supposes. Who cares what day it is anymore? Though a shiver of nerves runs though his body anyway, the prospect of not knowing is frightening.  Ugh.

He grabs hold of the refrigerator door handle and gives a lazy tug. It pops open. Technically he doesn’t have to eat at all, but it helps. Feels good, lets him think more clearly. Virgil roots around the contents of the fridge, pushing aside fruit and leftovers. In the very back, he can make out some mac and cheese stuffed into a too small Tupperware.

With a shrug, he pulls it out, discarding the red sticky note on top with Roman’s swirling handwriting. The note has roses doodled on the corner.

Virgil absently closes the fridge door with his foot as he pops the lid off but lets out a very embarrassing sound when the closed fridge reveals Janus, who had been standing behind it for hell knows how long.

“Ah! Fuck !” Virgil hisses, baring his teeth and clutching the food to his chest defensively. His heart is beating wildly from the fright. It makes him angry,

“Ah, good afternoon, Virgil. Funny running into you here,” Janus says as he examines the ends of his fingers, as if his gloves weren’t covering his nails. He looks more weary than usual, despite the unbothered façade.

“Leave me alone, I’m just eating, you freak. Not funny.” Virgil is scowling, nose scrunched up in a disgusted crinkle. He tosses the Tupperware lid in the general direction of the sink. It slaps the counter and falls to the floor.

“ Tsk tsk. I’m allowed to use this kitchen now too, Virgil. What if I’m also hungry, hmm?” Janus says patronizingly, as he plants the tip of his leather dress shoe squarely on the sticky note Virgil had thrown aside. A tiny, self-satisfied smirk crossed his half reptilian lips as he looked down at Roman’s ‘ reserved for the prince’ written claim to the food.

“I don’t care. Leave.” Virgil is not subtle as he brushes past Janus, bumping his shoulder into the other side’s.

Janus doesn’t seem bothered by the impolite gesture; he just brushes an imaginary speck of lint off his caplet. “Aw, you’re no fun. Maybe I want to steal Roman’s food too? Did you think about that?”

“You don’t eat at this time in the day,” Virgil mutters out of the corner of his mouth, opening the microwave and tossing the container in. He slams it shut. It made a satisfying sound.

“How sweet, you remember my eating habits,” Janus smiles thinly.

“Go choke on your own tail,” he punches in a time on the microwave with more force than strictly necessary.

Janus gives a sigh, as if disappointed in Virgil’s behavior. Almost as if he hadn’t been the instigator of the squabble. It was like he just couldn’t help but nettle Virgil at every turn, poking and prodding. He makes it look so easy. That stupid smug smirk fades for just a moment. “Alright, alright. I’ll take the high ground. I’m sorry, okay? Why don’t we try again?”

“ Leave .”

“Virgil,” Janus says again, sounding more serious. “I mean it, I am sorry. We can be nice, me included.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Virgil rolls his eyes so far back it nearly gives him a headache. Worth it though.

The humor is completely gone from Janus’ eyes now. “Virgil.”

“Can you leave now? Your presence makes my food taste sour,” he muttered, leaning his head against the glass of the microwave. The hum feels good against his forehead. Probably giving him radiation poisoning though. Maybe not good.

“Virgil, we really do need to talk.”

“’ Virgil , we really do need to talk,’ ” Virgil parrots back mockingly. “Don’t care. Leave.”

Janus presses his lips into a taut line. “I hate to do this, believe me I do, but we’re worried about you, understand? Not just you but everyone around you, don’t you see what’s happening? You’ve gotten in deeper than you can handle and it’s time to seek help. I am here for—”

“Hold on. Hold the fuck on. Is this a fucking intervention ?” Virgil stares in an angry disbelief. His mouth is half open from the sheer audacity.

Janus stops, blinking slowly. He squints. “… no .”

Virgil scoffs loudly, crossing his arms. “This is an intervention. Oh my god. You’re trying to— Psh. Absolutely not. You’re such a piece of shit. Really? Just you staging this? Cornering me alone ? What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking ,” Janus says through his teeth, “of not spilling your little habits to the other sides. Because I maybe, just maybe, know it would cause you great mental anguish, you blockhead. Almost like I respect your privacy or something equally ridiculous as that. Maybe I just so happen to know a group intervention would freak you out. Not that it is an intervention or anything, because you would completely hate that. This is … a heart-to-heart conversation about your destructive habits. Nothing else. Completely different. Totally.”

“Screw you!” Virgil snaps as the microwave starts blaring. He rolls his eyes and opens the door, grabbing his food and only mildly burning himself on the hot plastic. He bites his tongue and drops the container on the counter, the mac and cheese sizzling. “ Shit .”

“Virgil—” Janus sighs again.

“Shut it before I throw something at you. I don’t care. I don’t care about this, I don’t care about— I don’t care about you . Scram, now .” Virgil’s voice is weak, it’s wavering. It’s stupid. So stupid. He’s just angry, that’s why his voice is so creaky. Not because the look in Janus’ eyes is killing him. Not because he believes a word the snake is saying.

“Virgil please,” Janus says again, taking a step forward but seeming to think better of it. He leans backwards a bit without retracting the step. “I want to help. Let me. You are struggling, just ask me. Please,”

Virgil rolls his eyes and pushes his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Don’t beg, you’re too high and mighty for that .”

“I can worry about my pride another day, Virgil dear. Focus on you. Come on, you’re in too deep. It’s happening again, don’t you remember last time? Do you not remember what it did to you? Remember how it ends? How it always ends?” Janus presses, in Virgil’s eyes he seems to grow larger, stronger, more like he’s looming over Virgil’s head.

“It is not the same, shut up. It’s not!” Virgl bristles. His hands are fists in his pockets. He’s pushing the soles of his shoes into the floor.

“ Yes, it is , of course it is. You just can’t see it. You’re confused,” Janus insists sharply, the intensity in his eyes is growing.

“No! No, I’m not! You’re lying again. You always lie. You lie and confuse me on purpose!” Virgil shouts, grabbing at his hair on either side of his head. His heart is hammering. He’s getting shaky. His body is fighting itself, like when one has a fever that defends the body while wreaking havoc on itself at the same time. How dare he talk like that? LIke he knows anything? It’s despicable. It’s evil.

Janus shakes his head, growing more frustrated, desperate even. It’s a trick. It has to be a trick. “You know that isn’t true, you know it. You’re the one lying, and it’s to yourself, you imbecile. I am trying to help you. I am the only one trying to help you, because I am the only damn person who has seen this before!”

“Shut up!” Virgil screams and drags his hands roughly down his face, as if he could peel the panic off his skin. “You— you monster. You’re using me! You’re so awful! But I won’t fall for it. I won’t.”

“You know that isn’t true, I pulled you out last time, but you’re almost too far gone, Virgil. The cave, that place, it corrupts you, Virgil. It hurts you.” The building anguish in Janus’ voice is like ants crawling around in his skull. It’s driving him mad. Janus is just pleading now, begging even. It’s horrible. It’s nauseating.

“No! No! You corrupt me. You do! It’s all you. You’re just mad that I won’t fall for your tricks anymore. But I won’t fall for them again. Never. I know better. The waters teach me,” Virgil says through his sharp teeth and wet mouth. He’s so angry. He’s so conflicted. His voice is flimsy.

“Virgil, Virgil ,” Janus puts up his hands as if to calm him. He smooths over his voice, beginning to sound gentle, understanding. Safe . “it’s alright, look I’m sorry. I got over excited, yeah? I apologize. Let’s calm down for a moment, let’s be sensible. You managed it last time. It’s okay, let’s just talk it through, nice and slow. We have plenty of time, isn’t that right?”

“ No ,” Virgil clawed at his hair. “No, no, no. Just stop . You lie… you always lie,” his voice cracked. Tears are filling his eyes.

“You’re afraid, I know, Virgil. You’re scared, and it helps with that. Well, at least you’re deluded into thinking that it helps you, but it’s hurting you. That is what it does, Virgil, I thought we got through it last time,” Janus looks pained, disappointed, concerned. He sighs, “there are parts of the minds that we aren’t to touch—"

“No!” Virgil interjects, anger starts to stir in his gut again, overpowering the panic and despair already there. It’s almost a relief. “No, you aren’t to touch it. It doesn't want you, know why? You’re a liar. The waters are clean, not like everybody else. Not like you .”

Janus clenches his teeth, looking slightly panicked at losing the ground he had been gaining. He shook his head, looking incredulously at him. “Virgil, I’m begging you. Listen to yourself , please. Even Remus is worried about you, Remus . Remus came to me this morning, see how far you’ve gone?”

Virgil feels his stomach drop. “you’re … you’re plotting together now?! You and Remus? You’re sick, you’re twisted. God, I hate you! I hate you!” he shouted, eyes wide and frenzied.

“ Shit. You’re losing it,” Janus says faintly to himself. “Virgil, buddy, calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself, yourself and Thomas. Is that what you want?”

“You’re lying,” Virgil says darkly. “You’re manipulating me, you snake. You sinner. You monster .”

Janus makes a strained sound, nervously tugging at his gloves. “Virgil, please. Please. You know I care, don’t be stupid. Despite everything, you know it. Think about it, come on now. Who stopped you from drowning last time?

“You stopped me from getting to the truth! Not again, not again, I won’t let you do it again,” Virgil says breathlessly. His chest is heaving. His head is spinning.

“It’s destroying you! Listen to me damn it!” Janus growls, waving one arm around. “You aren’t listening!”

Virgil shouts no particular word, he isn’t sure if he should curse or cry. He rubs his face harshly. He wants to run. He wants to hide. He wants to hurt something. “No, no, no, no. The water flows unceasingly. The water flows unceasingly. The water flows unceasingly. ”

“The fuck?” Janus makes a face, hesitating. He looks thrown off. “Virgil, stop that. You’re blabbering nonsense. No, you’re going insane. What are you even saying? Just— just stop that.”

“The water flows unceasingly. Two gates. Men do not enter by this one, but it is rather a path for immortals. The water flows unceasingly,” Virgil mutters some more, trying to focus. Focus on the truth. Focus on the water. The water is true and just and pure. The water is safe.

“Virgil!” Janus grabs Virgil’s arm firmly, worry is unabashedly filling his eyes. “Listen to me, I am begging you. You’re spiraling—”

“Don’t touch me!” Virgil shrieks, his fist curling into a ball and cutting up through the air before he can even think to stop himself. His knuckles meet skin and bone.

Blink .

Chapter Text

Virgil gasps as a spray of water flies into his face, forcing his eyes shut. The water is hot, steaming, maybe even boiling. He wants to scream in pain rather than the shock that comes with being splashed with cold water. This is different. Very different.

He tries to frantically get the hot water out of his eyes, but his hands are held firm by something warm and soft, yet too strong to pull away from. All Virgil can do is sputter and shake his head. It hurts. It hurts. The water isn’t supposed to hurt. Why does it hurt?

By the time his eyes aren’t burning, and his face isn’t stinging, his lungs are beyond tired. The room is dim, it’s the first thing he starts to notice. Yet in the darkness, there are small pockets of light, he squints as his vision starts to sharpen up again.

Candles?

Dotted throughout the area there are candles, clustered together in bunches in a multitude of places. The little flames flicker, casting dancing lights around the dark room.  The whole room is shadowed, with just the little candles doing little to reveal much else about the environment.

There is a large, heavy, metallic click from high above his head, and a light turns on. It’s blinding, it’s hot as hell. It leaves him looking down to escape the flashbang effect tormenting his eyes. He just can’t catch a break. His vision, even with his eyes scrunched shut, is swimming with bright spots. His ears are ringing.

As soon as he can manage it, he snaps his head up to look ahead. The second he does so, Virgil jumps, because he can see what is holding his hands still.

Janus.

“Shit! Hey—” Virgil yanks his hands back but can’t free them.

The other side is in a fine suit, black with gold accents. He’s got a yellow tie dotted with tiny black flowers as a pattern.  A gold lapel pin in the shape of an eye without an eyelid stares up at him. Janus’ bowler hat is nowhere to be seen, and his fine brown hair is slicked back exquisitely. For a moment he thinks the gray streaks he’s noticing are a trick of the blinding spotlight baking him alive, but no. He really does have gray hairs, it makes him look so much older.

“What are you doing?!” Virgil demands, trying to yank himself free to no avail.

“Nothing at all. Here …” Janus says softly, lifting one of Virgil’s hands in his own yellow gloved ones. His other hand positions Virgil’s free hand to rest on his upper arm. Finally, Janus rests his hand very high on Virgil’s side, nearly to his back.

Virgil looks down at himself, having to do a double take. He’s in a suit too, black, no purple accents like he may have preferred or even expected. Fine leather dress shoes have replaced his old sneakers. He’s wearing a silver seashell pin on his breast pocket.

“What do you—”

Virgil goes silent as the mournful cry of a single violin loudly sounded from somewhere in the room he couldn’t make out. He startles again, looking around frantically into the dark. The music, wherever it is coming from, is dark and brooding, yet quick. There is an intensity in its sharp, brisk notes.

The violin is suddenly joined by more. So much more. A grand array of instruments, a full orchestra hidden somewhere in the watchful dark

Then Janus starts moving, dragging Virgil along. His steps are wide and precise, moving swiftly to the sharp pace of the music. He turns his neck with each few steps, like a beautiful bird. He is smooth and elegant, as if the rapid, graceful steps are as second nature to him as breathing is.

The spotlight follows, but not perfectly. There’s a slight drag to it. A small delay. Like whoever is operating it does not know quite where they will be going next. It wobbles and refocuses again and again, only half on them most of the time.

“Hey! Stop it!” Virgil growls as Janus leads them in a multitude of brisk spins. Each rotation done in a few wide steps that seem to be part of some greater, wider orbit he is too involved in to see.

The music continues, the rise and fall of the quick notes is so close to being words. Like if he focused just barely more, the grieving melody would tell him its tragic tale. Or is it angry? There are hints of a passion, but not a gentle or even patient variety. Is the music setting its woes ablaze or mourning beside the smoldering remains of what wronged them? Either way, it is dangerous. It is hardened. It’s hot and fiery.

The sound is within him, it’s in his feet, because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot help but move with the dance. He’s not sure if he’s too afraid of falling if he dare try and stop, or something more is forcing him.

Janus’ pace is rapid, but Virgil keeps up, stepping in sync with him against his will. It takes all his focus to keep up, but he does not have the ability to stop altogether. His grip on Janus’ hand is tight and tightening even still to the swell of the music.

The spotlight sways and drifts as they twirl, bathing only half of Janus’ face properly in its beam of light. For a moment it is the scaled side, then the human, then the scaled again. As they spun and danced, Virgil almost grew dizzy trying to focus on either aspect of Janus’ face.

Gritting his teeth, Virgil none too gently yanks them in the opposite direction they were going, sending them both stepping quickly several feet to his left instead of right. Janus follows the movement, keeping his poised rhythm without tripping or stumbling even once.

The music’s intensity peaks and gets choppier.

With a sharp huff, Virgil pushes his newly found freedom. He pulls backwards, taking fast short steps to try and throw Janus off, but it doesn’t work. Janus effortlessly follows, nearly floating along. He even releases his hold on Virgil’s side, pulling backwards while pushing him forward. Before he can understand what’s happening, he’s spun, fingers grazing Janus’ as he releases his grip long enough to complete the turn.

The music goes light and high.

But he takes Janus’ hand again, getting swept back into their former positions, now even closer, chest to chest. For a moment, the closeness, the physical presence of another being that firm and unmoving, it’s like a cup of warm tea. Or the shelter of a parent. It’s overwhelming.

He grits his teeth. The music grows more intense.

Virgil is powerless in his rush of conflicting emotion. Janus takes the lead again, heading straight ahead in the original direction Janus had been guiding him towards before. Virgil stares at the ground as their dress shoes criss-cross and step in a conflict he doesn’t try to stop.

“Make it stop. Now,” Virgil says lowly, staring at Janus’ impassive expression. The music grows deeper.

“This isn’t me, Virgil dear.” Janus shifts direction, gliding with Virgil in tow. He rolls his neck backwards as they curve. The spotlight shines down on his pale, exposed neck. Virgil finds himself doing a similar movement before stopping himself, angrily squeezing Janus’ hand tighter in whatever retaliation he can manage.

Virgil is about to come up with a very nasty word to use when Janus spins him again. Piano music takes the forefront of the song as the violin steps back, growing more sinister, more ominous.

They keep dancing, the light does a better job following the pair. Janus’ human side of his face is consistently shadowed. His yellow eye seems to glow with the distant candle flames surrounding them.

The orchestra goes moody again, there is resent in each flawless note.

“Then the water is showing me,” Virgil hisses, bringing his face closer to Janus’ threateningly. “It’s showing me the truth. This is you. That is you,” he juts out his chin, indicating to Janus’ shimmering scales catching the light.

“Of course it’s me,” Janus says quietly. “As is this,” he turns his head, perfectly timed with a long stretch of a long violin note. His human side of the face is all Virgil can see, his eyes are closed almost peacefully.

“No, it isn’t. That’s the lie. That’s the bait. The truth is here, it’s in the water. It’s in me,” Virgil says harshly, ripping his hand off of Janus’ upper arm and flinging the other out. The piano music goes delicate and airy. With a small sigh, Janus takes the cue, spinning like a tiny dancer in a music box before rejoining Virgil again.

“Maybe there is some truth to be found here, it’s hard to say. But either way, would you be able to tell?” Janus murmurs, taking the lead back so gently Virgil barely notices.

“Don’t play with my head,” Virgil scowls. “Look at you. You’re leading me away, you’re inhuman, you’re trapping me. You wrap yourself in fancy shit and big words until I’m lost in your deception. What is it? All that is gold does not glitter?”

“I could say the same applies to certain other aspects of your current life,” Janus says quietly, barely a trace of tangible disapproval. They shift to the lowering tempo of the violin, which has taken to solo work again.

“Don’t piss me off.”

Janus hums softly, bringing his arm around Virgil’s waist, lowering him so that he bends backwards with his stance spread wide. It is a dip which they hold, the graceful position leaves them both silent for just a moment, Janus staring into Virgil’s face. Virgil stares back, the blinding white of the spotlight above them is all encompassing save for the bit of shade Janus provides by hovering over him.

With some horror, Virgil notices the stream of blood that begins to leak from Janus’ nose. It’s not a small amount either, it runs down his pale skin, crashing into his lips.

“You’re bleeding,” Virgil says breathlessly, almost pulling away.

A drop of blood trickles down further than the rest of the mess. It lands on Virgil’s cheek. It’s warm. He doesn’t move to wipe it off, he’s too horrified. The music goes sharper than ever, rapid like a spiraling heartbeat, almost discordant.

“A small price to pay, if it meant getting close enough to just try and comfort you,” Janus whispered softly.

Blink.

The crunching sound of snapping cartilage hits his ears before he can even open his eyes. Hot blood coats his fist.

Janus makes a truly pitiful noise, covering the lower half of his face. He coughs hoarsely, eyes a little wide. He stumbles to the kitchen tile but doesn’t quite recoil from Virgil. His yellow gloves are turning orange as the blood gets smeared further into the fabric.

Virgil stares, petrified. The sudden, empty, complete absence of music feels startling. He stammers out nothing, just blank noises. He backs up, bumping into the counter. His head is spinning. His eyes are wide.

“Just— Just hold on. One moment,” Janus says hoarsely, wiping his bloody nose with shaky fingers. He’s so painfully clearly rattled.

“You—” Virgil’s throat tightened up.

Janus shook his head quickly, trying to sit up, but wobbling precariously. He clambers to hold onto the side of the cabinet to keep from falling. “It’s fine, just don’t leave. One second, just hold on, please. It’s alright. All is well.”

“Janus—”

Blink.

Virgil is twirling again, feet moving unhindered along the floor as the music comes back full force. They’re dancing faster, almost too fast for Virgil to manage. Janus is in front of him, as calm as before. He looks sad, but not surprised.

The orchestra is less angry and more panicked. There’s a pounding beat that matches his anxious heart.

Janus is still bleeding. Fresh red blood trickles down his skin, all the way down his neck and into the collar of his yellow dress shirt. The spotlight is even brighter than before. Janus’ gloves are nowhere to be seen, it’s his bare hands holding Virgil’s. He genuinely cannot remember the last time Janus touched him without a barrier.

It’s hard to breathe. Virgil chokes out a strangled cry.

“What’s happening?” Virgil whispers, desperate for an answer. His throat is tight with unshed tears.

“Truth, I suppose.” Janus murmurs. He is still bleeding. The eye shaped lapel pin is gone, replaced by a fresh tulip tucked into his breast pocket.

They slow.

Janus dips Virgil once more. And with all the gentle fondness in the world, he traces the side of Virgil’s face with the back of his hand.

The music grows louder than his own thoughts. Then it cuts out entirely once again.

Blink .

“Please, Virgil! Just hold still!” Janus is begging shamelessly; blood is dripping from his most certainly broken nose. He’s on his hands and knees, struggling to get upright. He’s wheezing.

Virgil just shakes his head faintly, he can’t tell if the hot liquid on his cheeks is somebody’s blood or somebody's tears. His hands are wet. Janus’ cheek is swelling. “No, no, no, no, no—"

“Just don’t do anything rash, please? Virgil— just— Virgil!”

Virgil screams and claws at his eyes. “It’s a lie! It’s a lie! It has to be a lie! Damn it!”

Blink.

They’re still dancing, still swaying. The music is too loud to hear the soft words Janus is saying. Surely they must be tender, gentle, soothing words. Virgil just cannot hear them. The music is too loud. Everything is too loud.

They keep making those large, fast circles, like planets in orbit around the sun. But there is no sun. There’s no destination. Nothing to circle around. They are adrift in a watchful nothingness that stares back at you if you dare stare at it in return.

The music is fast and off key, frantic in pace and confused as too many instruments do the same thing at once.

“What— what’s happening? It’s not supposed to do this. It’s not supposed to happen like this. What are you doing?!” Virgil shouts, struggling to break free of the dance.

He takes another step in sync with Janus, but there’s a splash of water. He looks down with wide eyes. The dark floor is flooded with a few inches of water, soaking his shoes and pants.

Janus doesn’t seem to notice. They just keep dancing, each step hitting the thin surface of the water like stomping in a puddle.

“Janus why?!” Virgil demands.

Janus doesn’t answer, he just keeps going, gazing at Virgil and only Virgil. He slowly reaches forward to fix a flyaway. He licks the tip of his fingers before smoothing back Virgil’s hair gently. The gesture is so quick and natural, it’s horrifying.

Once again, he is let go of long enough to be spun gently.

Blink

Virgil doesn’t open his eyes for more than half a second. He just pushes his body forward as hard as he can, making impact with another solid body. His hands rip forward, clawing at whatever they can find. Virgil has hands that break.

The unenlightened are no people for him to live among.

Terror and anger and a bitter, bitter fury light every bit of his body in an all consuming fire. All he wants to do is burn something. Chain something down and set it alight then drown the remains. Drown himself.

There are eyes everywhere. There is blood on his hands. No small amount of blood.

Maybe he likes it. Or maybe it is just what he was made for. To sit among the fallen wicked and bathe in the glory of a holy victory.

Blink .

Virgil yanks a violin out from the darkness that watches, that urges, that sees him. He’s holding it over his head before he can decide if he even wants this. It feels good in his hands, holding the neck as tightly as he can.

The water has risen, instead of ankle deep, he’s knee deep in salty water. It’s cold and comforting, rippling around him excitedly. Devoid of solid warmth. It soaks into him.

He brings the violin down with every ounce of force he possesses. It shatters, making sounds like human pain and suffering. The rest of the orchestra does not mourn its loss. It all swells at once like manic applause, screeching and squealing as their strings snap, pipes smash, and wood splinters.

Whatever is left of the violin still in his hands, Virgil brings it down again. The sound of breaking and crunching is like being called home. Glee so overwhelming it hurts sends his breath lurching.

The music goes high and strained.

He swings what’s left of the violin into the darkness with all his strength. The candles topple over. The darkness lights up instantly, flames spreading like a match to gasoline. The walls, the ceiling, it’s all on fire. All burning and castling light on him, standing in the center of the destruction. In the middle of an oval arena.

But Virgil is safe in the water. He is safe even now, surrounded by screaming instruments, congratulations, and flames.

Blink.

Virgil’s aching hands meet rough, wet, familiar stone. The sound of waves and rushing water fill his ears like refilling up a dry cup when parched. The wailing echoes of a dreadful violin fade fast from his mind before he can grab onto the memory. He’s completely out of breath, his body is shaking from exertion like he’d sprinted full force for miles upon miles. His muscles ache and burn.

He crumples to the ground, wheezing. Everything hurts.

There’s a moment of blissful safety. He’s back where he belongs. He’s back home. Back to truth and righteousness. There’s no confusion here, no moral battle. Just that gentle embrace he’s so used to.

But the sweet relief is short-lived as he looks down at his hands. He goes cold, eyebrows furrowing. He bites the inside of his mouth.

Why are his hands coated in blood? Is it even his own?

The blood is fresh and thin. Enough to think he had just now dipped his hands into a pool of it. The red is a striking shade even in the low light of the cave. The smell is strong, stronger than the scent of the water.

What did he do? What did he do? What did he do? What did he do? What did he do?

Chapter Text

Blood on his hands. Blood in the water. Blood on his hands. Blood in the water.

The air is heavy and dense. It’s more condensation than air. It seeps into his lungs. The water paints his skin, settling moist little water droplets over his cold, clammy body. He is coated in a wet breath, like he had been gently set on the tongue of the cave, and he is feeling the deep inhale and exhale of the benevolent being that lets him reside there.

He is laying face down in a shallow puddle, it is not very easy to breathe, but he angles his head just right. With his chin propped up on a pointy ledge in the rock, he gets just enough air to keep from suffocating. He wishes he required less of that air, that he could replace it with more water.

More water. He needs more of it. Needs to truly be forever intertwined with the water. He wants to drift through ponds, lakes, rivers, oceans. No, no he needs a flood. He needs a flood just for him.

A flood to wash away his sins, his guilt, his clouded vision and his inner torment between what is true and what his all too mortal heart yearns for. He craves a flood to wash away the blood on his hands.

All hands drip with the blood of the innocent. Everyone at some point has been the innocent whose blood has been spilled. Everyone has spilled blood. Everyone’s hands are covered in blood.

But can’t blood be beautiful? Can it not represent sacrifice? Passion? Love? Blood seals oaths and blood can mark both the beginning and end of life. If water is life and the lack of it, death, what is blood?

Blood on his fingers. Blood smeared up to his wrists. Blood caked under his fingernails. Blood in the water. Blood dripping over the hallowed cave floor.

The water flows unceasingly. The water flows unceasingly. The water flows unceasingly.

Why should it not flow unceasingly through him? Flow through and around him. Do not heed his body as a physical obstacle but embrace it as a part of the current. He will gladly fall to the untarnished bottom of the ocean bed and gaze up at the only thing that loves him truly. May algae coat his body, may the aquatic creatures use him as home and meal, may the water grow familiar with rushing over his motionless figure, until his every edge and crevice is a smooth as river rocks.

Virgil wants to sink into the abyss. To lay in the dark under gallons of water, where the sun does not quite manage to reach its cruel, powerful fingers. Virgil would lay untainted in the water, letting the pond consume him, body, mind and soul.

One day he will expel the air from his lungs forever, in an act of love, from the devoted to the worthy of such devotion. He wishes he could say it was selfless, but it wouldn’t be. His greatest desire is to descend into love, no matter the cost. The waters chose an unholy follower to beckon, but sin can be washed away to reveal a pure heart.

The air feels dark and purplish. The water is dark and all knowing.

Virgil knows nothing, the nothing is dark, yet in the darkness, there is a call. The call is not towards the light that singes, burns and takes. The water is further into the deep and dark, singing a song that soothes. In the dark he will find rest.

His lashes are heavy, dotted with water droplets.

The droplets fling off as he blinks .

Hot tears flow down his cheeks. He cannot stop himself. Virgil’s pale, bony fingers ball up into pointy fists. They strike against skin. Over and over, as he makes sounds no living being should be forced to make.

The struggle is entirely one sided. Sometimes an abomination is such an affront to truth that it does not fight back. Even it understands.

He claws shimmering scales out with his fingernails. Virgil forces his body weights on weak points in his victim. He pulls hair. He yanks stained gloves off of sensitive hands. There is so much blood.

Blood on his hands. Blood in the water. Blood on his hands. Blood in the water. That’s where it belongs.

Kill the sinner. Kill the sinner.

Blink.

Virgil can see himself. He does not reside within his own body. He feels wet. He does not feel like a tangible being, yet he does feel soaked.

He is only able to stare at himself, his lone figure hunched over on his hands and knees. He is on the cave floor, writhing and shaking in pain. The other Virgil retches, the one hand holding himself upright is trembling. His other hand is over his mouth, clamped over his lips.

The other Virgil gags, and with his dirty fingers, reached into his mouth, pushing his fingers down his own throat.

Wincing and shuddering, the other Virgil pulls a large black flower from his mouth. It is perfectly dry. He holds it aloft as his body fights him. Another retch shudders through him. He vomits over the cave floor, still holding the flower.

Blink.

A dry hand touches Virgil’s face.

Virgil screams, the sound rips through his throat like tearing paper. His own dripping hand shoots up, seizing the wrist of the assailant and jerking it downward at a painful angle. The person is thrown to the side with a loud crack as skull meets rock.

Virgil can’t really see. His eyes are stinging, and he doesn’t feel well adjusted to the lack of light. Who’s there? What’s happening? Who’s after him?

Instinct kicks in, and not the one that involves running. Virgil is fast, pinning the figure to the ground by slamming his knee into the other person’s back. There’s a struggle as the other person tries to flip around, but Virgil doesn’t let them. He sends a sharp punch into their side.

How dare somebody attack him in a sacred place? How dare they find the cave at all? Nobody should be there. Nobody .

The other body desperately yanks themselves free, stumbling away from Virgil quickly, but that won’t do at all. They are muttering, mumbling, limping, wobbling. They are too dazed to see the mistake they are making.

Virgil clenches his fists and lowers his head. His teeth are bared. With a grunt, Virgil charges, slamming his shoulder into the other person. He’s like a bull, using his solid mass to ram into the person not once, but twice.

The second slam is the death blow, because it sends the stumbling attacker over the edge of the cliff, directly into the shallow end of the water.

His head is spinning. His vision is tilting and turning. Virgil feels like throwing up. Is the water pleased? Is it? He thinks it is. Though the feeling is sickening.

He takes an unsteady step backwards but stills when he hears a plasticky crunch. He spins around, stooping to find whatever it was he just stepped on.

Shit.

It’s a pair of black glasses. Cracked.

Virgil sprints to the edge of the ledge, dropping to his hands and knees to peer over the edge.

“Patton? Logan? Are you there? Is that you? Who—”

“… Virgil ?” comes the tiny, yet unmistakable voice of Logan, who’s crouched in the water. He was in the most shallow part of the pool, holding onto the side of the cave to keep his balance. There is clear trepidation in his eyes as he looks up.

“Yeah, yeah, oh god. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. Shit. Hold on, just— just hold on. I’ll get you out.” Virgil frantically ran a hand through his damp hair. He stood up to pace for a second, nervous energy running through his body like electricity. What did he do? Why did he do that?

He got down again, leaning down as far as he possibly could, extending his hand. “C’mere, I’ll lift you up. Hurry. Get out of the water.”

“ Virgil …?” Logan says again, looking a bit dazed.

A strange mixture of worry and irritation overcomes him, and he reaches further down. The sharp rock digs into his side as he does. “Come on, you need to get out. Now .”

Logan hesitates, squinting up at him unsurely. He doesn’t seem sure, but he shakily stands up in the water. The beautiful, sweet, rushing water. It throws him off balance at first, but he precariously sloshes through the water to get closer.

“That’s it, come on. On your tip toes,” Virgil says encouragingly.

With a small grunt of effort, Logan manages to reach Virgil’s outstretched hand. The moment Virgil can get a good grip, he yanks Logan up sharply. Once hefted up a bit, he’s able to grab hold with both arms, and pulls Logan up all the way.

Logan is sopping wet, shivering, and barely able to see without his glasses. He sinks into a cross legged sitting position on the cave floor. “Thank— Thank you, Virgil. What happened? Are you—”

Virgil interrupts by holding up a hand. He doesn’t know what to do. The roar in his ears is overwhelming. Logan should not be here. He should not have been in the water. This is bad. It is very, very bad. The guilt is just as all consuming. He hurt Logan. He attacked him. Logan shouldn’t be here but Virgil wouldn’t have attacked had he known. Why did he do that? Why would he?

“ Virgil ? Virgil, what is this place? Why were you laying there? Are you hurt or—"

Once again, Virgil interrupts by firmly grabbing one of Logan’s arms and putting his other hand on Logan’s back. Quickly, he rushes them both out of there, so quickly Logan is tripping over them both.

“What are you doing? Virgil? Virgil, slow down!”

Virgil does not. He half drags, half pushes Logan out of the cave, out the door, and halfway up the craggy stone tunnels that lead out. He needs to get Logan away from the cave, from the water. The cold, delicious water.

“Look at me ,” Virgil says firmly, pulling Logan’s chin up. He’s searching his eyes, checking to be sure that the waters did not choose to speak to Logan. He needs to be sure.

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, I think you’re fine,” Virgil decides, nodding quickly. The water probably wouldn’t do that. It’s fine. All is fine. Had to be. “You, uh, you can head out now.”

Logan wipes some of the water out of his eyes. “Hmm?”

“You should probably … probably go,” Virgil says, before trailing off slowly. “No. No— never mind. Come on. Hold tight.” Virgil takes Logan’s arms, focuses, and sinks out with them both. He feels shaky and ridiculously unbalanced, but he knows what he needs to do.

Once they’ve risen up in Logan’s room, Virgil uses what energy he has left to summon a towel. It’s a soft purple one.

“Can I please ask a single question—” Logan grapples, reeling. He looks rather frazzled.

“ Sit .” Virgil pushes Logan onto the bed, beginning to towel him off. He shushes him, somewhat roughly drying off his dripping wet hair. Logan can’t get a word in as Virgil hurriedly dried him off.

“V—Virgil! Pff ,” he pushes the towel out of his mouth, trying to catch Virgil’s wrist. “Stop for a moment, please—”

“What were you thinking going down there? You hate wandering. You hate getting lost. That was dangerous. Dangerous and fucking stupid. You’re supposed to be smart,” Virgil snaps, smacking him with the towel.

“You needed assistance,” Logan protests, shielding himself. He’s still squinting from the lack of glasses to help him see. “It’s fortunate I found you. You were unconscious and muttering to yourself in your sleep or something. You were face down in a puddle. You needed help.”

Clenching his teeth, Virgil scrubs the side of his face. He is growing agitated with where this conversation is going. Logan would never understand. The waters aren’t for anybody but Virgil. Nobody would get it. Nobody but himself should even get it. But how could Virgil explain that? There must be a way to diffuse this. There must be a way to keep Logan from thinking ill of the waters.

Virgil is about to try and reassure Logan when he falters. He stares at Logan with dark eyes. A dawning sense of horror is creeping up his spine.

“… why did you come looking for me? For the waters?” Virgil says in a low voice. “ Logan . What did you know?”

Logan makes a face, tilting his head. He fixes his damp hair. “What did I...? Virgil–”

Quickly, and without thought, Virgil grabs Logan’s chin and pulls his face up. He’s eye to eye with him, a slightly crazed intensity clearly written all over him. Logan looks bewildered. “Logan. How did you know to come look for me. Answer me now,” his grip on Logan’s face tightens.

“Janus. Janus informed me that you were in trouble,” Logan answers quickly, voice strained.

“He— he what ? Janus?” Virgil’s grip on his chin goes slack. He slumps onto the bed, sitting limply. It’s a struggle to keep the images out of his head. Blood on his hands. Blood in the water. Blood on his hands. Blood in the water. Blood on his—

“Yes,” Logan nods hesitantly. “Janus was not in good shape at all, but he knocked on my door. He told me that you required urgent assistance, and to drop everything I was doing to help. He clearly wasn’t well enough to do it himself. He didn’t so much as give me a chance to try and help him.”

“But. How. What? How did you even find me?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Logan folds his hands. A nervous gesture. He’s still wet. Still on edge. “It was hazy, admittedly. Awful, really. I just did as Janus instructed me, as nonsensical as it seemed, though under the pressure of the moment, was less than in hindsight. I simply chose a direction, willed a door, and ran.”

Virgil just stares.

“It must’ve taken a few hours at least,” Logan muses, before checking his watch. “Oh. Broken,” he glances up at his wall clock. “Right. Yes. Two hours and 32 minutes. No. Now it’s 33 minutes.”

“… you hate wandering.” Virgil’s mouth feels dry. He picks up the towel again to anxiously twist it around his hands.

Logan nods once. “With a resolute passion, yes.”

“But you did it.”

“Of course I did it,” Logan looks at Virgil like he’s saying something nonsensical. “You needed help.”

“Oh.” It is a heavy feeling, with so many terrible implications. It’s making his head feel fuzzy.

“Now, switch. I need to look at you, you were in a very bad state when I found you, entirely dazed.” Logan says matter of factly, standing up. He’s a little wobbly, not quite steady on his feet. Almost as if he was attacked and pushed off a ledge into freezing water or something.

The guilt flares in Virgil’s stomach. He stands up again, putting either of his hands on Logan’s shoulders and pushing him back down. “No, sit your ass back down. Your hands are still shaking, mister.”

Logan looks down at his hands, watching them shiver. His face twists in disdain, a hauntingly familiar expression. “The pitfalls of taking a human form, I suppose.”

Virgil starts toweling off Logan’s hair again. “Tell me about it.”

Logan nods with a grim smile.

“No… actually. I mean it, tell me about it. How are you feeling?”

“What? Oh, uh. Ah. Right. Well, I am really more concerned about you, Virgil,” Logan says uncomfortably. He tries to stand again, but Virgil rolls his eyes and pushes him right back down.

“L, tell me about it. Come on.”

Logan moves to adjust his glasses, but he isn’t wearing any, so he just pokes his own face. Virgil gives a breathy laugh, though he can’t find a way to ignore how tense he’s feeling himself. How tense they both are.

“Out with it, Logan. Please?  Just, you know, describe what you’re feeling. I um, kind of attacked you, it shook you up, right? It has to, probably,” Virgil attempts to quell the guilt he was feeling.

“…I suppose so,” Logan says reluctantly. “Yes. I am having a physical reaction to what felt like a threat to my life. Shortness of breath. Increased adrenaline and heart rate. Hand tremors as you pointed out so… succinctly.”

Virgil swallows. “Go on.”

“I was afraid— concerned that you were … in a far more dangerous state. Between what Janus said and what I stumbled across.”

“Makes sense.”

“—and when you moved, I was both startled and relieved, I suppose,” Logan averts his eyes, looking down.

Virgil winces, balling up the towel. There’s no easy way of having this conversation. “Yeah, that checks out. I’d be surprised if I came across me like that.”

“And I certainly did not expect you to do that ,” Logan tugged at the collar of his shirt. His tie is dripping. God, he looks pitiful. Logan shouldn’t look like that. It’s awful. Virgil hates it. He hates it so much. What has he done?

“I’m so sorry, L. I really hurt you. I really … yeah. How are you feeling?” he tries weakly.

“Oh. Fine.” Logan never seems to realize how shit of a liar he is. It’s hard to watch, really. Though maybe it’s a little comforting. Everything is so confusing, but Logan is incapable of adding to it.

“ Fine my ass ,” he mutters under his breath. “Did you vanish the bruises yet?

“Did I—Oh. No. Not yet,” Logan instinctively holds his arms, which probably ache like hell.

“I’ve got it then, just relax,” Virgil gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

Logan pushes Virgil’s hand away gingerly. A shiver wracks his body, he’s probably freezing. The waters must be cold. Cold, beautiful waters. Logan looks uncomfortable.  “There’s no need for you to—"

“Nope,” Virgil rolled his eyes.  “I break it, I fix it. Glasses too.” Virgil waves his hand, vanishing Logan’s fresh injuries, and conjuring up a new pair of nice clean glasses. He swaps Logan’s clothes for a dry, identical set while he’s at it.

“Oh,” Logan blinked, “how quaint. Well, anyway, I am still very concerned about you, Virgil. What was that place? What were you doing? Why are you doing … this ?”

“This?” What’s that supposed to mean?

“Well, our working and nonworking dynamic has shifted a rather substantial amount as of late, perhaps not as radically as your relationships with certain others, I concede. But either way, this is abnormal for us, in the wake of recent events, I mean to say,” Logan rambles. It’s a string of professional words that do an excellent job of badly communicating his question. A classic Logan tactic.

Virgil frowns. “Hold on. Logan … are you asking why… why I’m being nice to you?”

Logan winces. “I wasn’t going to phrase it like that . Per se.”

“Ah, fuck,” Virgil grimaced, rubbing the sides of his head. He had seen the signs. He had been shown the truth. “I really let you drift, huh? I’m sorry, buddy.”

“For what, exactly?” Logan frowns.

“Don’t worry about it,” Virgil sighs fondly. “Come here.”

“Wait. Wait. What are you doing? Stop that,” Logan says stiffly, alarm and nervousness in his eyes.

“Nope. You’re getting a hug. Shut your mouth,” Virgil shook his head. He takes a seat next to him, before wrapping his arms around his bespectacled friend. The embrace smells sweet and dewy. The hug is solid. Firm. It’s nice. Very nice.

“…fine.” Logan pretends to reluctantly resign himself to the hug, but he can’t fool Virgil. Probably can’t fool himself, but Virgil lets him have it.

He holds Logan a little tighter. Logan holds back. Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe everything will be okay. It might be what he was missing. He opens his eyes over Logan’s shoulder, finding himself with a little smile as he looks at the little collection of globes Logan kept on his shelf.

Blink

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel water bubbling up in his stomach. It rumbles. It churns. It almost hurts. Hot water steaming and gurgling deep down in his gut. It pushes up at the walls of his throat, gushing up against the backs of his clenched teeth.

His fingers tremble. He digs them in tighter around Logan’s taut shoulders. He refuses to open his eyes.

Not now. Not right now. He can’t do it right now. Please. Not like this.

He closes his eyes so tightly it’s starting to give him a headache. The sounds of waves crashing roars in his ears. He blocks it out. He grits his teeth. Please no.

The waters beckon. They must be seen. Must be beheld and revered. All he has to do is open his eyes. Open them. Open them, Virgil. Just open your eyes. Truth has been gifted to you, like milk and honey flowing for a chosen person. For Virgil. Always Virgil.

There is screaming in the water. The unholy, the unworthy, the unclean. They drown in the waters. The waves envelope them. The depths of the ocean consume them. They will be lost to the darkness, deep in the water’s cold, relentless fury.

The screams and screeches of violin soar over the surface of the water. It cackles and roars.

The water flows unceasingly, Virgil. The water flows unceasingly, Virgil. Open your eyes. Open them. Open them—

He does.

Blink .

Blood runs down Logan’s pale lips. A thin needle pierces the thin flesh covering Logan’s teeth. Covered hands work quickly, confidently. One stitch, then two. A backstitch, not one that can be pulled out without tremendous effort. The needle goes in and out, pulling the top lip taut to the bottom lip. The stitches are short and neat. Any screams Logan makes are muffled. The sewist ensures that.

Blink .

Two hands are clasped. An oath has been made. Two braided cords are around either wrist, beautiful ones. The twine woven into each bracelet is handpicked with great care. The braids form a lovely pattern, each mirror the other. An inverted color scheme. Pretty. Nostalgic.

Blood ran down their entwined hands. One is gloved, the other laid bare. Yet both hide secrets. Nasty secrets.

Their union is an affront to what is good.

Blink.

A toy prince dances along a wooden stage. His shoulders are hunched up, his feet don’t quite reach the floor, but they skim the surface. Each time his wooden boots hit the ground, there’s a pleasant clacking sound. The prince dances as long as he’s made to. His painted expression never wavers under the warm stage lights.

The strings that held the little prince aloft twirl him around. They connect to the little joints in his little wooden body, reaching into the dark sky above. The puppeteer is pleased when the prince smiles.

Blink .

The man in shadow spins and weaves, threading the wooden spool through the suspended strings held taut by the wooden frame. He stands at the loom, forming his vision slowly, step by step, he weaves what words cannot say. His thread is thin, the color vibrantly dyed. He smiles to himself in the dark.

He runs his gloves along the forming tapestry.

Eyes.

Blink .

Virgil is back in the cave. There is a piece of tattered fabric clenched tight in his right hand. There is a churning deep in his stomach. He doubled over, onto his hands and knees, gurgled sounds erupting out of himself.

He retches. Water comes out. Just water. It’s inside of him. It’s on the ground. It’s puddling. It’s everywhere. Everywhere. It’s hot. There is nothing but water inside of him. Around him.

He vomits again. It’s just water.

Shaking, he wipes his mouth with the strip of fabric he’s been holding.

He looks down at it with burning eyes.

It’s a striped tie, torn at the top.

Virgil vomits again.

Chapter Text

The water flows unceasingly.

There’s blood on his hands. Blood in the water. Water on his hands. Water mixing with blood. The stone cave floor is covered in it. Virgil can’t tell what’s a puddle of water and what’s a pool of blood. There’s too much. It’s flowing. It’s everywhere. It’s his. It’s theirs. As plentiful as the water in the ocean.

Rivers of blood. Oceans of decay and rotting remains. A million slain float dead in the water. Blood. So much blood.

He’s covered in it. Covered in the mix of holy and unholy. They say blood is thicker than water, but he can’t tell the difference between them any longer. He can’t find where blood ends and water starts. It’s swirled together, mixed and combined and homogenized.

Virgil is soaked in it. His hoodie is dripping. His hair is sticking to his face, heavy with liquid. It makes him feel 20 pounds heavier. He can’t tell if he’s shivering from the cold or sweating from the unbearable heat.

No matter how much he tries, he can’t get up. He can’t leave. It all hurts. It hurts so much

The tattered tie is still clenched in his hand. It is stained and sopping wet, evidence of what Virgil has done. It is sickening. It is painful.

He lies on the cave floor, wracked with unsleeping terrors.

It hurts. It hurts. It won’t stop hurting. He pulls at his wet hair, trying to make his vision go clear again, instead of the aching fuzziness he can’t blink away. There is a black vignette around his eyes. He can’t think straight or see correctly. Everything is wrong .

What did he do wrong? When did he misstep? He needs guidance. He needs a savior. What sin is he paying for?

Virgil’s stomach churns again, a violent, rolling sensation. He turns over just in time to vomit again. His body burns from the pain, his every limb shakes from exertion. It’s just water that sloshes up and out of him. He thinks it’s just water. Maybe it’s blood. He can’t tell. It’s thin and it doesn’t burn like stomach acid does. Either way, it’s everywhere. His hands are filthy, but he holds onto the tie. It’s just as disgusting now.

Everything is disgusting. Everything is wrong.

For the millionth time it feels, Virgil tries to get up again. He tries to leave. This is wrong. It hurts. He needs to run, but he cannot.

He slips and falls. He’s too weak. He can’t get up. Can’t get out. It hurts. He’s bleeding. Or maybe it’s water? He can’t tell the difference.

“Please,” Virgil whispers, looking downwards. Maybe if he was worshiping something else, he’d look to the heavens. But he wasn’t. The waters lie below. Always below. Below everything, ever present, ever watchful.

He shakily rolls onto his hands and knees. Slowly, agonizingly, he crawls towards the edge of the rock, to look down at his maker.

“Why?” His voice is so broken it’s nearly incoherent. “Why are you doing this? I love you … I love— it hurts. Why?”

The water flows without change. There is no shift in its churning and rushing. There will never be a change.

“Make it stop. It hurts. I don’t understand. I’m hurting people.” The words hurt to say. It hurts to speak it aloud. The guilt is hot and searing. “I hurt them.”

Sinners?

“No,” Virgil shakes his head, he can hardly breathe, “No Lo—he didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to help. I just hurt him.”

Sinners are simply born, aren’t they? They don’t have to do anything at all to be damned.

“Please. Make it stop. Please.” Tears from his eyes well up before they fall over the ledge. He looks at the surface of the water, looking for a familiarity in the water below.

The waters flow unceasingly.

Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink Blink blink blink blink blink blink?

A young man weighed down by the weight of his mind leaps off the ledge. The abyss below swirls and churns. It has been waiting for this. Waiting for its meal. It’s a beautiful, perfect meal.

Hunger can be considered love under dire enough of a circumstance.

There’s no struggle as the man hits the water. Nor when he sinks to the bottom like a rock. It’s a rapid descent, less like sinking and more like being yanked down by a thousand eager, invisible hands that grope and grab and yearn .

The water rushes and swirls around the man. The body. The meal.

The man does not thrash and wail like some might do. He drowns with dignity. With reverence. It’s a beautiful sight, to see a life so utterly wasted, and for what? The pursuit of wisdom? Not of happiness or peace, but truth. Not safety, nor power, not even comfort.

His eyes had always been open, but he refused to look.

Blink .

Virgil stares with eyes that no longer want to see. A single cold tear trickles down his cheek. Was that real? All of it was real, it had to be. As real as anything could be for him. For all of them.

Maybe the waters do not love him. It’s not as if he loves himself.

What’s the point? No truth. No love. No safety.

The waters flow unceasingly.

Shaking and shivering, Virgil rises to his feet. He drags his feet to the very end of the ledge, staring down at what he once loved. The pain is so great, so utterly all consuming. Every fiber of his being, every cell in his body, it burns with betrayal.

He thought the worst thing he could ever face was rejection from the only thing that mattered to him. He was wrong. This wasn’t rejection, yet it felt like the mournful agony of a city erupting in flames.

The waters keep flowing. They will forever continue to flow. Virgil is nothing to it. He is not even a worthy sacrifice, simply a meal, something to corrupt and enjoy for only a moment. A rabbit caught in a trap.

The water flows unceasingly.

Maybe all that’s left is to flow with it. There’s nothing else left anyway. Nothing left of Virgil.

He’s burned too many bridges. Spilt too much blood. His everything has been siphoned away in the pursuit of truth and the gift of the worship he sought to offer. He spent so much time trying to be a worthy offering, but he was blind to how unworthy of a god he had.

He takes one last deep breath, holding it in his lungs. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lifts one leg, extending it over the waters as it rushes below in a frenzied, hungry excitement. It is time to join the misty cloud of souls. It’s time to submit his everything to the water. There’s simply nothing left.

The water flows unceasingly.

He steps off.

Let the water have its meal.

Virgil doesn’t even get a moment to think before an iron-like grip around his arm wrenches him backwards. He doesn’t even react. It’s too fast.There’s a loud scuffle that Virgil barely feels present for. His knees hit solid, wet ground, hard enough to bruise them.

His vision reels. It’s spotty and distant. He can faintly make out his own hoarse, choking sobs.

“ Virgil ,” a panicked, yet unmistakably tender voice pushes through the haze. Soft hands cradle his jaw, gently tilting up his head. “ Virgil, Virgil come on. Look at me. Come on. ”

“… Janus ?” Virgil slurs, wobbling precariously.

“Shh, shh. Don’t speak, just breathe.” Janus rubs his fingers through Virgil’s hair, neatening it. The side is checking Virgil for injuries, using his thumb to wipe the tears off his cold clammy skin.

“Janus!” Virgil is grappling with it all.

“Shh. You’re alright. It’s going to be alright,” Janus says softly, soothingly.

Virgil’s shaking. He’s crying. He feels the cold bite of the damp cave air in his bones. He doesn’t remember it hurting so badly. Was there always such malice lingering over it all? “You came. You found me,” Virgil whispers.

“I always come get you, don’t I?” Janus shows what could barely be considered a smile. It’s slight, just the faintest crinkle of his eyes. Virgil feels an old, childlike nostalgia at seeing the thin smile lines that are usually smoothed out so carefully.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You were right. I— I don’t know what happened ,” Virgil says frantically, pulling at his hair in a panic.

“Shh. It is all forgotten now. I’m here, and we’re never coming back here, right? Not again?” Janus asks softly, pulling Virgil into an embrace.

Virgil nods, over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Is Logan okay? A— are you? What did I do? Oh god, what did I do? Make it go away. Please , please, Jan. Make it go away,” he begs, clinging to Janus’ arm.

“The past is a good teacher,” Janus said quietly, reluctantly, regretfully , even. “I think we’ve learned that, haven't we, dear?”

“No, no, no. Please, Janus. Please,” his eyes are wild and frantic. “Can you just… Can you make it go away?”

“Again?” Janus whispers, a dread clear in his face. 

“ Please . Please, I can’t do it. I can’t do it. Not again.” Virgil grows frantic, erratic. He starts panting for breath. His pupils are mere pinpricks.

Janus rubs Virgil’s back slowly, his face pensive. It’s a losing battle. The past is a good teacher indeed. They’re bound to the same fate as before. He sighs softly, pressing his lips to the crown of Virgil’s head. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. Not too long.  

“Jan?” Virgil says shakily, afraid at how long the silence is stretching.

“Everything will be alright. It never happened,” he coos, slowly standing, pulling Virgil up with him. “It was just a very bad dream. You got a little sick.” The words taste like honey, like taking spoonful after spoonful. They come naturally. Muscle memory.

Virgil nods, limping with Janus. They hobble to the exit of the cave. “A bad dream…” Virgil echoes.

“Just another very bad dream. A recurring nightmare,” Janus whispers, supporting most of Virgil’s weight. “It’ll all fade eventually. It always does.”

As they exit the cave, Janus pauses long enough to look back at the waters. His eyes are dark, a calm, calculated fury burns like smoke in his eyes. He looks at Virgil’s weak, trembling form that he is so steadfastly holding up.

The water flows unceasingly.

The words seep into Janus’ head. A familiar phrase as of late. The waters speak to whoever will listen. They always have. It preys on the unsure and the unsafe.

Janus turns away from the cave, helping Virgil leave it behind. How many times have they been here? Each time being years before the last, after time has made them barely complacent enough to stumble. It’s an orbit, or perhaps like running a lap. The end is only the beginning. Foresight and hindsight are one and the same.

The water flows unceasingly, huh? Unceasingly. Well. Not if Janus has anything to say about it.

Come Into the Water