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Summary:

Or, Virgil has a dream about what it was like before he was a light side.

Chapter Text

The shadows in the common room of the Dark Sides’ domain dragged longer than they should have, stretching out across the floor like hands reaching for him. Virgil hated when the room did that. It almost looked alive sometimes—shadows creeping, distorting corners until they weren’t corners anymore, just yawning mouths waiting to swallow him whole. He stood near the doorway, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, trying to pretend the sight didn’t send little spikes of dread into his chest.

“Aw, look at little Paranoia pacing again.” Remus’ voice cracked into the silence, too loud, too sharp. He came barreling into the room like some exhausted wrecking ball, grinning wild and crooked. His voice had the same sing-song quality as someone humming at a funeral—gleeful at the wrong time. “What’s it this time, Vee-Vee? Imaginary monsters? Someone staring at you? Or…” His grin widened, gnashing teeth gleaming. “Both?”

Virgil hunched lower into his hoodie, heart speeding up at the venomously casual tone. “Shut up, Remus.” It came out weaker than he’d hoped.

The provocations only made Remus’ eyes gleam darker. He bounded forward like a child at play, though nothing about him felt playful. He leaned in far too close, whispering just next to Virgil’s ear: “What if they’re hunting you right now…? Crawling in through the cracks in the walls—oh! No, worse, what if *Janus* is the one pulling the strings? You know he loves lying. Could he be lying to *you*?” His voice rose into a cackle. “What if you’re just his leftover puppet?”

Virgil’s skin prickled, breath suddenly shallow. The buzzing in his ears built fast, a familiar hum he couldn’t control. Remus was deliberate about it—he *always* was—feeding him thoughts like drops of poison. Panic bloomed, tightening around his lungs until every inhale clawed in sharp and shaky.

That’s when Janus appeared. Calm, collected, coiled—like he’d been waiting for Remus to break him down just enough before making his entrance. His smile stretched thin as he leaned against the doorway, gold-trimmed scales glittering faintly in the lamplight.

“Remus,” Janus drawled, his voice velvety and laced with irritation. “Do try not to break him completely. He’s not nearly as useful if he’s spiraling.”

Every word was calculated. He wasn’t defending Virgil—not really. He was chastising Remus because Janus hated chaos that *wasn’t orchestrated by him*.

Virgil looked up, half relieved, half sick. Some traitorous part of him still remembered warmth in Janus’ tone from *before*, but that was gone. Now every subtle flick of his words was barbed, meant to reel him back in or to gut him entirely.

Janus’ eyes slid to Virgil, and the smile firmed into something venomously soft. “Honestly, darling, if you let yourself get rattled so easily, how will you ever be taken seriously among us? You’ve got to learn to *control* it. Or someone else will always control it for you.”

That was the knife. It always was. Because he knew how many times Janus had controlled it for him before… and how much of him still believed Janus’ hand was the only thing keeping him from dissolving completely. His chest ached. He hated that he missed him, even now.

He opened his mouth, stammering out, “I don’t need—”

But footsteps interrupted, heavy and sharp. Cecil.

The air in the room seemed to thicken; it always did when Wrath walked in. His energy carried like static crackling against Virgil’s skin, like the atmosphere right before lightning. Cecil’s orange aura burned at the edges until it seemed to light up the space around him like a simmering fire.

And his eyes landed instantly on Janus.

“You,” Cecil spat, glare narrowing before cutting toward Virgil. “Talking to him again?” His jaw tightened.

Virgil froze. He hadn’t been—it wasn’t like *that,* not anymore—but he knew what it looked like. He knew what Cecil thought it meant.

Janus only smiled, smug and slow, lounging against the frame like some viper basking in the heat of the flames he himself had lit. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we were simply… discussing his talents. That paranoia of his makes him quite indispensable, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cecil stepped closer, heat radiating off of him in waves Virgil felt against his cheeks. “Don’t. Try. To spin this.” His voice carried that dangerous edge where simmer turned to boiling rage. He turned those eyes onto Virgil, who instinctively shrank back. “Why were you even letting him *talk* to you?”

“He— I didn’t— he just—” The words tangled halfway out of Virgil’s mouth, panic crawling into every syllable. He looked between Janus’ gleaming smirk and Cecil’s fury. Both traps. Both choking.

Janus tilted his head, watching it unravel, clearly satisfied to see Virgil stuck suffocating between them. Remus giggled in the background like this was the juiciest circus sideshow imaginable.

Cecil’s hands clenched at his sides, and his tone dropped low, burning with restrained violence. “You remember what I told you, Virgil. You don’t *need* him. You don’t even *look* at him.”

Virgil’s breathing hitched, uneven and sharp. His throat tightened, trembling under the weight of Cecil’s stare until all he could do was nod—small, desperate, obedient. But inside, dread was spiraling, spinning him off balance. Because soon enough, Cecil’s words would become accusations. Accusations would become yelling. And yelling—

“Enough,” Cecil snapped finally, turning on his heel. “We’ll *talk* about this later.”

The word “talk” twisted in his stomach. He knew it never meant just talking.

It didn’t take long. Later that night, back in his room, it detonated.

Cecil’s words came sharp, cutting, dragging blame and fire with every syllable. Virgil tried to defend himself, to explain, but it only made Cecil angrier. The room felt like it was shrinking, closing in, heat pressing down on him suffocatingly.

“Admit it!” Cecil’s voice thundered. “You still think about him—don’t you?!”

“No—no, I’m not—Cecil, I swear, I *don’t!*” Virgil’s voice cracked, trembling, body shaking from the surge of panic surging through every nerve. He couldn’t breathe right; each inhale was tight, scorching, every exhale too fast.

“Liar.” Cecil’s eyes blazed hotter, fury untempered. “I should’ve known you’d never stop craving his poison. I’m the only one who sees what you really are. The *only one* who puts up with you!”

Virgil’s chest seized. His heart pounded so violently it felt like it might bruise his ribs. He bolted across the room instinctively, shoving the door shut with every ounce of energy left in him before his hands fumbled with the lock.

He collapsed against the wood, sliding down with his knees pressed tight to his chest, body shaking so violently he thought he might rattle apart. His breath came ragged, rapid, uneven. Every shout from Cecil beyond the door sliced through him like glass.

He buried his head in his hands, darkness pressing in around him, shadows dragging longer like they always did, whispering that they were alive.

And Virgil stayed there—locked inside, trembling, terrified in his own domain.

Chapter Text

Virgil felt like he was unraveling.

Every week bled into the next, exhaustion sinking so deep into his bones it felt permanent. The shadows were heavier now—always heavy—but they seemed to press harder on his chest, clinging like tar. Every anxious hum in his head swelled louder by the day until he couldn’t tell where the paranoia ended and *he* began.

He barely slept. He barely *wanted* to. Sleep meant dreaming, and dreams always meant waking up with that crawling dread, convincing him something terrible was waiting in the walls.

But lately … something else had begun worming its way into his mind. A thought he didn’t want to admit. A weakness, maybe. A wish.

*What if things were better on the other side?*

The Light Sides. He never said the words aloud, never dared breathe them, but the thought slipped back in like a crack of sunlight through his locked-up windows. They laughed together. They *liked* one another. He’d seen it, the rare glimpses and echoes of their end of the Mind Palace. That warmth when they worked toward something meaningful, when their fights ended in reconciliation instead of someone storming out screaming.

Sometimes—just sometimes—he wondered if he could fit there. If he *belonged* there.

Of course, just thinking it laced his stomach with guilt. He hunched deeper into his hoodie’s hood, staring at the floor in the dim corridor as if the thought itself might betray him aloud.

“Dangerous territory, darling.”

Virgil’s heart sank before he even looked up. Janus’ voice slithered around him like smoke, deceptively smooth and strangely soothing if you didn’t know what lay underneath. He was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed behind his back, smirk tugging carefully at his lips.

“I wasn’t—” Virgil started, defensively, too quickly.

“Yes, you were.” Janus pushed off the wall and approached slowly, deliberately, as though he were stalking prey. “That little twinkle in your eye when you let yourself imagine—ah, so tragic. Believing the fantasy is always brighter than reality. But you know better, don’t you?”

Virgil took a step back, chest tightening. “I wasn’t thinking—”

Janus’ gloved hand shot out, resting with deceptive gentleness beneath Virgil’s chin, lifting it so their eyes met. The smile on his face was almost fond. *Almost.*

“You *were.* Thinking about *them.*” His tone sharpened, striking quiet but deadly. “The Light Sides. That pathetic little troupe who sees us as nothing more than poison. Do you really think they’d accept you? Do you think for *one second* they’d let you in without recoiling?”

Virgil’s throat threatened to close. He couldn’t hold Janus’ gaze, couldn’t hold anyone’s gaze. “I… I just… sometimes—”

Janus shushed him softly, pressing a finger over Virgil’s trembling lips. It felt like a violation, and yet Virgil froze under it, breath shaking.

“Say it less,” Janus murmured, his smirk deepening into something cruel and intimate. “Think it less. Because it is *not* reality, Virgil. They do not want you. They will *never* want you. And you?” Janus leaned closer, his voice suddenly lower, darker. “You are mine.”

The words pierced into him like knives.

Virgil’s hands clawed into his hoodie sleeves until his palms ached. The panic swelling in him was different this time—because part of him remembered *how it used to be,* back when Janus’ claims of possession felt like protection instead of a prison. And part of him wanted to believe again, wanted to collapse back into that safety.

But another part screamed that it wasn’t safety at all.

Still, with Janus’ hand lingering against his jaw, with those golden snake eyes pinning him down, Virgil couldn’t deny the leash wound tighter with every syllable spoken.

“You’re mine,” Janus repeated, firmer now. “Don’t ever forget that.”

And Virgil, drained and unraveling, could only nod faintly—because fighting him would have been far, *far* worse.

Chapter Text

The quiet was unbearable.

For years, quiet had meant danger. Quiet meant Janus lurking behind a corner, Remus preparing to drag his screaming laughter down the hall, Cecil stalking with his simmering fury. Quiet never meant safety—not here, not with *them*.

But tonight, the halls of the Dark Sides’ domain were silent in a way he hadn’t heard in years. No slammed doors. No biting taunts. No drip of venom disguised as fondness.

For once, Cecil’s fire was nowhere to be found.

Virgil stood in his room, hood pulled tightly over his head, hands trembling as they clutched the strap of an old satchel. It was half-packed, filled hastily with what little he owned: his hoodie, an extra change of clothes, small trinkets the others had never cared about, things that had been his *only* comfort in sleepless nights. His headphones dangled from the side pocket, half-broken but still functional enough to drown out the world.

He’d thought about this for *years*. About leaving. About slipping through the cracks in the walls where shadows met light. The thought had always felt impossible, like clenching smoke in his fist.

But somewhere along the way, something had shifted.

He wasn’t Paranoia anymore. Not completely. The years of endless breakdowns, of losing and then slowly regaining scraps of control, had warped him into something different. Something more grounded, sharper-edged, but still cracked. Anxiety. That’s what he was now. Not the nameless, scrambling paranoia twisting in circles—but the looming, creeping weight that could coil around someone and *mean* something.

It didn’t make him feel whole. But it made him feel stronger. Strong enough, maybe, to take this step.

And Cecil… wasn’t here to stop him.

Just the thought of Cecil sent his chest twisting, stomach clenching tight. He could still hear the shouting, the echo of slammed fists against walls near him, the venomous mutters of “you’re nothing without me.” The memory of it always lingered like phantom bruises. But tonight—the voice wasn’t here.

And if he didn’t seize this moment, he might never get it again.

His breath came fast, shallow, as he bent to zip the satchel shut. The sound was loud in the quiet, and for a moment his body froze, heart hammering, waiting for footsteps. For someone to notice.

But nothing.

Just silence.

He slung the bag over his shoulder before he could think. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking would talk him out of it.

The corridors swallowed him up as he moved quickly, breathing hard into his hoodie, every shadow and flicker on the walls making him flinch. It felt like every step would betray him—that Janus’ honeyed voice would catch him mid-stride, slither into his ear again, claiming, *“You’re mine, darling. Still mine.”*

He shook the thought out like poison. Not anymore.

He pressed himself through the hidden passage he had memorized a long time ago, the one that seemed to stretch and crackle where the Dark and Light domains touched but never quite met. It was suffocating, narrow, jagged with resistance. Like the walls themselves didn’t want him leaving.

But Virgil pushed anyway, fingers scraping against rough edges, hoodie snagging. The satchel weighed heavier by each step, but he pulled it tighter, forcing through the pressing dark until—

Light.

It wasn’t bright sunlight, but compared to the crushing shadows behind him, even the faintest glow felt blinding.

He stumbled into the edge of the Light Side’s domain with a gasp, knees nearly buckling beneath him. His heart thundered, chest heaving, but for the first time in years—it wasn’t terror keeping it alive.

It was something else. Something terrifying in a far different way.

Hope.

He didn’t know if they would accept him. He didn’t know if he’d be chased out, cast back into the dark without warning. Maybe Janus had been right—that they didn’t want him. Maybe they'd see him as too warped, too tainted by years at the side of liars, monsters, and anger.

But Virgil knew one thing with absolute certainty:

Anywhere was better than where he came from.

And as he took his first trembling steps deeper into the Light Sides’ halls, without a trace left behind, he didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Virgil had rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. What he would say. How he would stand. How he’d try not to seem like the monster he knew they thought he was.

But when it finally happened, when he finally dragged his shaking frame into the threshold of the Light Sides’ space, all the rehearsals evaporated. He just stood there, clutching his satchel strap with white-knuckled hands, eyes darting between them like they were burning holes through him.

Three of them.

Roman was the first to notice, and his reaction was immediate—furious, blade-sharp, and glaring. “You!” The word dripped venom as he shot to his feet, sword manifesting in a heartbeat. His golden sash gleamed, posture commanding. “How *dare* you crawl into this side uninvited!”

Virgil flinched so hard his shoulder smacked against the wall, hoodie hood dropping lower over his eyes as if that could hide him. His breath already clawed shallow.

“Whoa, Roman!” Patton’s voice cut in fast, high and trembling with frantic warmth. He stepped forward, palms raised in that open, welcoming way Virgil almost couldn’t process. “Sweetie, wait—don’t scare him!”

“Scare him?” Roman barked, motioning toward Virgil like he was proof of every evil in the world. “He is a snake’s servant, Patton, a child of the dark! Who knows what foul schemes he’s brought into Thomas’ head this time!”

“I’m not—” Virgil croaked, the word breaking off before it was even fully formed. Panic had clogged it in his throat, tangling with the urge to disappear into the shadows behind him. *This was a mistake. This was a mistake.*

And then Logan’s voice entered, calm but sharp, cutting through the fire and the honey. “Hold on.” He stepped up beside Roman and Patton, his hands clasped at his front, gaze narrowing like he was dissecting Virgil’s very existence. “Before we react further, we need data. Who is he?”

Virgil drew in a shaky breath, staring at the floorboards. His voice was rough, almost too soft to hear as he finally forced it out. “…I’m Thomas’ anxiety.”

Patton blinked once. His lips parted, eyes wide behind his glasses, as though he’d been hoping Virgil would say anything else.

Roman dropped his sword slightly, but the glare on his face only deepened. “*Anxiety?!* You mean to tell me *he* has been lurking in Thomas this entire time, whispering darkness into him? Why, this is treachery! Sabotage!”

Virgil shrank further back, fingers clutching the strap so tightly the edge bit into his palm.

Patton shook his head, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, like approaching a stray dog. His smile was uncertain but still soft. “Hey, kiddo… I don’t think it’s… bad to have some worries. Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”

“Don’t coddle him!” Roman snapped, throwing out an arm to block Patton’s path. “This is *danger incarnate.* Look at him—he reeks of shadow and deceit. What if he’s here to dismantle us from the inside out?”

At that, Logan tilted his head, tapping his chin. “Roman does present a point,” he admitted in that even, clinical tone that made everything sound like a lecture. Virgil flinched again, because even Logan’s neutrality felt like judgment. “What proof have you that your role is beneficial? What prevents us from assuming corruption, manipulation…” His eyes narrowed. “…or allegiance with deceit?”

At Janus’ unspoken name, Virgil’s breath faltered completely, body trembling against the wall as if Logan’s measured words had cut sharper than Roman’s sword.

This was exactly what Janus told him. This was exactly why he shouldn’t have crossed over. The Light Sides didn’t want him. They would *never* want him.

But still—still, his voice cracked out, trembling and splintering but clinging to truth. “I—I’m not here to mess things up. I… I just… I’m Anxiety. That’s it. I worry so Thomas doesn’t get blindsided. I keep him aware—alive—safe.” His eyes darted upward for one split second, meeting them all in raw desperation before darting back down. “That’s all.”

Roman scoffed, but Patton’s expression softened even further.

Logan adjusted his glasses, brows furrowing as though calculating, dissecting every syllable.

The silence that fell felt like a cliff-edge. Virgil could barely breathe against it, haunted by the echo of Janus’ words—*They will never accept you. You are mine.*

He pressed his palm tighter around the satchel strap, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Chapter Text

The Light Sides ushered him into the common space, though it wasn’t with kindness—it felt more like a trial.
Virgil sat on the very edge of an oversized armchair, his satchel clutched in his lap like a shield, hood tugged down over his eyes. He could feel every look slicing into him, every shift in tone like nails on his skin.

The three of them argued around him as though he *wasn’t even there.*

Roman’s voice was the sharpest, fiery and booming with indignation. “This is madness! We cannot just allow this… *thing* to lurk in Thomas’ home. A vile agent of deceit, born of shadow and treachery! He’ll rot our foundations from within!”

Patton jumped in immediately, his voice pleading, full of frantic warmth that only barely masked the fear beneath it. “Roman—no, he’s not like that! He’s—he’s Thomas’ anxiety. That’s not evil! That’s not something to just ignore or push away. Everyone gets anxious, everyone needs that part of them. He… he needs love like anyone else.”

Virgil’s breath hitched faintly, but he ducked his head lower, burrowing further into his hood. Patton sounded *too* kind about it, too fragile. Eventually someone would yell louder and drown him out.

“Love?!” Roman practically shrieked, throwing up his hands as his cape flared behind him. “This… hooded fiend is nothing but fear incarnate! You cannot embrace *fear!*”

“Roman—”

“Enough.” Logan’s voice cut above them both, measured but commanding in its own subdued way. All eyes turned toward him, and for once, so did Virgil’s—just barely. Logan’s expression was unreadable, though his eyes scrutinized like scalpels. “Roman is not entirely wrong, nor is Patton. Anxiety, in proper measure, is indeed functional—alerting Thomas to risk. However, abused or unchecked, it becomes debilitating. Poisonous. The question is—”

He turned and looked *straight at Virgil.*

“Which form of it are you?”

Virgil’s throat closed. His hands tightened around the satchel strap until plastic cracked beneath his fingers. He wanted to answer, to prove he wasn’t useless, but his mind screamed too loud. *Debilitating. Poisonous.* What if that was all he was?

The argument swelled again without him. Roman spitting fire about danger and betrayal. Patton begging them to listen, to look at him without fear. Logan calculating out loud, musing about risks, probabilities, side effects of allowing Anxiety to stay within proximity of Thomas.

They weren’t even *talking to him.*

Virgil’s chest heaved. He drew his hood lower, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves. His breathing was uneven, panic surging hot and suffocating. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t—

The thought alone made bile rise in his throat.

Back there would mean crawling under Cecil’s watchful eyes again. His searing anger strapped tight around him like chains. His voice spearing into Virgil’s head: *“You’re nothing without me. You’re mine.”* Back there would mean Janus with his lingering touches, the voice that never wavered from claiming him as property. Remus leaning in close just to *watch him shatter.*

He couldn’t.

He *couldn’t.*

But here—it already felt so fragile. Roman’s glare burned holes through him. Logan’s eyes dissected him as if he were no more than an equation. And Patton’s pity… Virgil didn’t know if it was worse or better than the venom.

Because he could hear it spelled out in their tones, their words, their suspicions: He wasn’t wanted here either.

He was *nowhere.*

The panic clawed higher. His knuckles pressed to his mouth, breath rattling too fast through clenched teeth. The shadows stretched unnaturally along the corners of the room, reaching out for him in sluggish movements only he seemed to notice. Whispering. Always whispering. That they were alive. That they’d drag him back if he stayed too long.

And he sat frozen in that chair, trying not to tremble too violently, as the Light Sides argued about whether he was a liability or a necessity—while his mind screamed that he was *neither.* He was a mistake, a blight, a parasite Thomas would never truly want.

He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stay.

It left him fumbling in the void of in-between, silently breaking while no one noticed.

Chapter Text

Virgil’s eyes flew open, chest heaving, fingers fisted tight in the blanket. His hoodie was damp with sweat, his breath sputtering in uneven exhales. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the room around him—heart still thrashing inside his ribs, shadows stretching across the ceiling like claws reaching from another lifetime.

It took him a few seconds to realize.

He wasn’t *there.*

Not in the suffocating halls of the Dark Sides. Not trapped under Cecil’s smoldering rage or Janus’ serpentine whispers. Not spiraling in a paradox of never truly belonging.

He was in *his.* His room.

He blinked at the soft, dim blue glow of the fairy lights strung lazily across the walls. His blankets smelled like his detergent—too sweet, maybe, but his. His panic softened—still lingering, but no longer dangerous.

And the weight against his side was warm.

Roman, sprawled half across his bed, hair loose and cheek pressed into Virgil’s pillow. His breathing was steady, slow, and calm, the golden sash he usually wore discarded on the nearby chair like an afterthought. Roman’s presence radiated that usual self-assured confidence, but in sleep it was gentler, stripped of armor.

Virgil let his eyes linger for a long moment, pulse easing as reality anchored him again. The nightmare haze of those early years—the Dark Sides, Cecil, *Janus*—slid back into the corners of his mind. Just memories. Ghosts.

Roman shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent, and curled closer without thinking. The corners of Virgil’s mouth tugged, unwilling but real—just a small, private smirk.

Still. The weight of the dream clung to his chest, sour reminder of everything he had dragged himself through to get here. The way Roman’s hostility had cut when he first arrived, the way Logan had dissected him, the way Patton had tried too hard to help. He remembered everything. And he remembered Janus.

His jaw tensed. Even the thought of *that snake* left a bitter taste in his gut.

Janus, now tiptoeing his way into the Light Sides’ good graces. Patton forgiving, Logan curious, even Roman occasionally tolerating him. The others saying the word *“redemption”* like it meant something Virgil himself should rally behind.

But Virgil couldn’t forget. Couldn’t rewrite the years. The manipulation, the control, the way Janus had torn chunks out of him with silken words—*“You’re mine.”* The scars of that ownership still lingered, pressed into his paranoia like melted wax.

He curled tighter into his side of the bed, pulling the blanket further up his chest, glaring at nothing in particular. He hated that Janus was seeping into *this* place, too. This side was supposed to be safe. His safe. He’d carved something here, something fragile and real, something no one had the right to steal from him.

Roman stirred again, breathing warm against his shoulder. Virgil glanced at him, the tension in his jaw easing a fraction more.

For tonight, at least, he wasn’t back in those shadows. And Janus wasn’t here in *this* room.

For tonight, he had space enough to breathe. To remember that he had clawed his way out—and that someone was here beside him now who wanted him, not to *own* him, but to *be with him.*

Virgil pulled the blanket tighter around them both, turned just slightly toward Roman, and closed his eyes again.

The nightmares might still come. But at least now, when he woke sweating and silent, they weren’t the only thing waiting for him.