Chapter Text
There’s a rat in the cell. It’s not even a cutesy one with fluffy fur and bright perky eyes, the kind that Patton would happily squeal about and the kind that’d cause Logan’s eyes to spark with interest. Logan wouldn’t admit it but he loved rats. If given a chance, he’d rattle on for an hour about how smart the little critters were.
Virgil also liked them. He guessed it was because he could relate to them. Rats were creatures that were feared and despised by most, seen as dirty vermin that should be exterminated and kept under control. As the personification of Anxiety, it was quite easy to feel a kinship with them.
Roman, however, was a different story. He grew uncomfortable at even the mere mention.
“Pah! Dogs are much more noble creatures!” Roman said once, folding his arms against his chest in a classic princey pout.
“What about the rats in Ratatouille?” Virgil snarked back, “wouldn’t you say Remy’s dream of becoming a chef is noble?”
“Th--that’s different!” Roman threw his arms in the air, “It’s Pixar!”
But the rat in the cell isn’t a well-groomed, domesticated rat. It’s a huge, massive thing. Like maybe the size of a small cat. It’s unkempt fur brushy and bristly. It has sharp red eyes and pointy yellowed teeth. The rat tears through Virgil’s dinner with ease. He thinks maybe he should do something about the rat. After all, he hasn’t eaten in who knows how long.
He tries to do so. The slightest inch in movement causes the rat to unleash a screech in his direction. It’s an ear-splitting sound and so Virgil stays put. For this rat is a creation of Remus. Who knows what eldritch atrocities the rat is capable of.
He has never understood Roman’s hatred of rats until this moment. He wonders if Remus has ever sicced a pack of rats on his brother. Did Roman manage to fend them off? Or did the rats overwhelm him, gnawing on his flesh and eating him alive? Of course, death is a very temporary thing in the Mindscape–but the twins’ realms of imagination make it feel anything but temporary.
God, Virgil wants to throw up just thinking about Roman being eaten alive by rats. It’s too dark even for him. That thought can’t belong to him. He’s been in Remus’s realm for weeks now. His influence must be infecting Virgil’s function, decaying it.
Virgil hopes this isn’t affecting Thomas negatively. He already fucked up once by ducking out. He refuses to allow it to happen a second time. Not when this is for the sake of the others.
The rat is still busy gnawing at the bread. It looks close to breaking its’ damn teeth on the thing. No wonder, it’s stale and hard-as-a-brick. Virgil could’ve used it as a projectile and knock out his imprisoners if it came to it. He wouldn’t. Not after the deal he’s struck with them.
Virgil shivers, pressing further into the corner of the cell he’s in. He’s curled up in an almost fetal position, desperate to conserve as much warmth as he can. Prickly goosebumps cover his skin. There’s no fierce, biting winter wind. No snow, no ice and yet it feels like a literal tundra inside the cell.
“Oooh, I’m so excited,” Remus had said, arms flaring out in a way that is too familiar, too Roman-like, “I’ve always wondered if we could die of hypothermia. Oooh, ooh! They say in the final stage of hypothermia, victims’ bodies feel unbearably warm--isn’t that fascinating?”
Well, he hasn’t reached that stage yet, so that has to be good, right? Although freezing to death isn’t that bad. Especially compared to the other things Remus has put him through these past few weeks. Things like facing a zombie apocalypse as the last survivor and playing “hide-and-go-seek” in an inescapable maze with a flesh-eating cryptid entity. So yeah, death by hypothermia? Not that bad.
He hopes Remus grows tired of using him as a plaything soon. Maybe Deceit will step in soon and demand Remus to quit it. Virgil knows he’s close to his breaking point. Close enough to where he’ll do anything if Deceit will save him. He hopes he can hold onto his resolve. If not him then for Thomas’ sake.
It’s the only hope he can cling to at this point. He’s literally Anxiety, it isn’t like he has optimism in spades. He’s not expecting to be rescued from a hole he dug himself.
Virgil hasn’t slept much these past few weeks. Not that he gets good sleep in general. His life motto is “Never Resting, Always Worrying.”
Still, even he has to succumb to sleep and face the nightmares that await him there. Lately his nightmares have been centered around Roman, Logan and Patton. Namely, their reaction to the stupid stunt he pulled.
“What are you doing?!”
“What needs to be done.”
“Virgil, please--”
“Don’t call me that. It’s Anxiety to you, got it?”
“Anxiety. I do not understand. Can we not discuss this together and work things out as a group? Based on past events, it is best--”
“We can’t. It won’t work, not this time.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve realized something, about how a bunch of clueless morons you guys are. You act like everything can be solved in twenty minutes like a cheesy sitcom but real life? It doesn’t work that way. And I was wrong to think it could.”
“Virgil, wait! Don’t leave--”
But he did. He left them, head held high as he walked into awaiting jaws of Remus and Deceit.
Now he’s alone in a cold, dark cell. His only company? A rat that is one second away from biting his hand off. The worst part is that it’s all his fault. He doesn’t get to feel sorry for himself. He doesn’t deserve that privilege.
He inhales shakily as he reaches to clutch onto the necklace around his neck. He’s always worn it, keeping it underneath his shirt and out of sight of the others. It’s a simple black cord with a pendant of his Stormcloud emblem hanging on it. He holds onto the pendant, rubbing his fingers across the cold metal. It grounds him, keeps him from unraveling. Ironic, considering the gifter of the necklace.
He counts silently to himself. One, two, three, four, hold breath. One, two, three, four, five--his composure breaks, a sob rattles his throat. He grips his necklace tighter. Again . One, two, three, four, hold breath. Good! Now hold your breath for seven seconds. One, two, three, dammit. He closes his eyes, his heartbeat accelerating. He can do this, he must do this. He has done this, and he will do this again. One, two, three, four--he keeps going.
Several times, he messes up again. He’s used to this--it’s kinda his thing to make mistakes. In thirty years, he’s learned to keep moving forward regardless. Even when everything inside of him screams to give up. Patton would probably put some positive spin on that. He’d pat Virgil’s shoulder and tell Virgil how proud he is of him. Logan would rattle off some beneficial statistical facts. Roman might sprout some admirable speech. Just thinking about them makes him feel like a worm on a hook–it’s like a sharp pain stabbing into his intestines that he can’t squirm away from.
He misses them. He misses Patton’s warm hugs and his soft, gooey cookies. He misses Logan and his rants about astronomy. He even misses Roman--loud, noisy prince who gets on his nerves with his bravado and flights of fancy. He never thought he’d get used to their acceptance. Get used to seeing them look at him with love, like he actually possesses worth and value. For the longest time, he waited for things to drift back to normal. Back to the insults and the shunning. All alone in his room as the others’ laughter of joy from outside taunts him.
“You can’t tell me you honestly think this whole ‘charade’ will last forever,” Deceit told him, “it’ll be less painful if you end it on your own terms, then if an...outside force ends it on their own. ”
Virgil had believed him. He still believes him, even now. It’s better for him to be the screw-up like always than for the others to know the truth. The others will never forgive him and he can live with that. He has to.
Screeeeeeech.
Virgil’s eyelids fly open, hands flying to protect his face. His immediate thought is the rat. It’s attacking him. Surely his meager prison meal isn’t enough to satiate its hunger. Except he realizes three things.
The first thing is that the rat is gone. He doesn’t know where it went. It could’ve disappeared into the shadow realm as far as he knew. The second thing is that the door to his cell is open. It’s an old creaky door with rusty hinges because of course it is. Remus wouldn’t have it any other way.
The third thing he notices is Roman.
At least, he thinks it’s Roman. Bright light from the outside pools into the cell, causing a stinging sensation in his eyes. They need time to adjust to the change in light. Still, he forces himself to squint up at the silhouette in the doorway. Its’ broad, imposing, larger-than-life stature is unmistakably Roman
All of Virgil’s fears and what-ifs melt away at the sight of it. Because Roman is here. He’s here and somehow, in some way, Roman would make things right again. A sliver of hope runs him. Weak and thin, but still present. He shouldn’t be disarmed so easily. It has to be from exhaustion, he thinks.
The hope doesn’t live long. A second dark figure appears behind the first, shattering the illusion. Remus’ wide-eyed grin meets his slackening pale face.
“Viiiirgil! I have a boy toy for you!” He crows, “I hope you’re into humping nearly-dead corpses.”
Unceremoniously he punts the first figure into the cell. Virgil hardly has time to react before the cell door shuts with a loud clang. He rushes to the still form on the ground as an ocean of panic swells up inside of him.
Is Remus messing with him? This can’t possibly be Roman lying face-down on the ground. Roman whose complexion is whiter than his uniform. It can’t be. It has to be a construct, something Remus created to fuck with him. Both figuratively and literally, knowing Remus. God, he does not need that last image in his head right now. He tries to ignore it, to attach himself to any other drifting semi-coherent thought than that one.
Help. Construct or not, Virgil has to help this Roman. He’d do anything to help the Core Sides. Something Remus and Deceit know too well. He wouldn’t doubt if they are watching from a secret camera. They’re probably stuffing their faces with greasy popcorn and cackling at him at this very moment.
Virgil rolls him onto his back. Brown bangs drenched with sweat hang down in the Prince’s face. They barely cover the bruise forming around his right eye. Little cuts nick the sides of his cheeks, likely from a knife or a sword. The angry red slashes also decorate his arms and legs, fabric of his uniform torn along with it. Roman’s white tunic has a high collar but even it can’t hide the ring of green-black forming around his neck. Did Remus try strangling him to death?
He can hardly focus on that however. His eyes drift further down the prince’s tunic. He realizes with a start that it’s a lot more red than it should be. The red isn’t from Roman’s sash. He lifts the tunic away, trying to ignore how it’s almost pasted to the wound. The wound, well. It’s bad. He curses, throwing off his jacket without a second thought. He presses it against the wound, trying desperately to stop the blood wound. God, please don’t let this be his Roman. Please let this be some twisted, cruel prank by Remus. Please, please, please.
“Roman, wake up!” Virgil says. Silence. “Princey, I--I swear I’m going to steal your Disney VHS Collection if you don’t wake up right now.”
It’s such a weak attempt at a threat, but Roman’s eyelids flutter open at it. His eyes are unfocused, looking around in a bewildered way before settling onto Virgil. His mouth forms a small ‘O’. His eyes so wide and glistening, alit with a dazed wonder.
“Virgil,” Roman says, managing a weak grin, “You’re alive.”
Virgil’s heart lodges in his throat because he knows without a doubt it’s Roman. His stupid heroic, obstinate, foolhardy idiot of a prince. No way Remus could perfect such a carbon copy, right down to the barest of micro expressions.
“What are you doing here? They promised they wouldn’t hurt you and the others--” Virgil shuts his mouth, horror seizing him at his own words.
Deception and Intrusive Thoughts. Why had he ever trusted in their words? Remus who lives his existence always doing and never thinking. Or in Deceit, whose very name defines his character? The answer is very simple, of course. It is always the answer to all of his problems; Virgil had let his irrational fears get the best of him.
Meanwhile Roman’s grin grows wider, gleeful even.
“Hah,” He manages before descending into a coughing fit, “K-knew you weren’t the bad guy.”
“How’d you...how’d you know I wasn’t the bad guy?”
“I couldn’t make the same mistake twice.” Roman stares at him. His eyes hold such a firm, unyielding conviction that Virgil almost wants to turn away. He doesn’t.
Okay, yeah it hurt a lot back then. Back when Roman flung barrages of insults in Virgil’s direction. As Creativity, Roman knew how to craft insults that hurt worse than any sting of the sword. Even though Virgil has long since forgiven him, it still hurts at times. Especially when the two fall back into their old ways of bickering and mean taunts. It’s far too easy for them to do that than to play nice.
Still, Virgil knows even then he deserved them. He’d given Roman no reason to trust him. Sure being the bad guy had been an act but even pretending can hurt. He knows this better than anyone. He wants to argue Roman and the others made a mistake believing Virgil could be anything more than the bad guy. Especially once they knew what he’d been hiding from them.
Virgil swallows, the lump in his throat refusing to dissipate.
“I--I’m sorry,” He says, the words rushing out of him, “I was an idiot, I panicked--”
“Shh,” Roman hushes, his hand clasping on top of Virgil’s. He cranes his neck upwards, doing his best to maintain eye-contact with Virgil, “Don’t apologize, my stormy knight. The blame is--is all on me, I’m afraid.”
“What?”
Roman gives him an indecipherable, anguished look.
“It’s all my fault. I failed you, I’m sorry, I should’ve been able to--”
“What are you sorry for?” Virgil presses.
“To..save you. What kind of,” Roman coughs again, “prince am I if I can’t save my loved ones?”
Oh... Ohhh . Remus and Deceit didn’t capture Roman? But that would mean...Roman went after him. That shouldn’t be as big of a surprise to Virgil (considering Roman’s heroics) but it is. Did Patton and Logan even know what Roman did? Or did he trudge in without a plan, armed with only his goal in mind?
“You idiot,” Virgil hisses, and immediately regrets his word choice when Roman flinches at it. Virgil presses down on the wound harder, “Roman, I am not worth the trouble--”
“Virgil,” Roman interrupts, grasping his hands as tightly as he can, “I’d die a thousand deaths if it meant seeing you safe and sound.”
Roman’s declaration takes him off guard. It’s not necessarily the words but the glint in the other’s eyes. It’s not a case of Roman being facetious and overly dramatic. Virgil knows he means them. He knows and it scares the hell out of him.
He changes the topic abruptly, “Remus did he--”
“It’s not the first time my wretched brother has bested me,” Roman said, his mouth forming a thin, tight line, “I’ll be--be fine--”
Roman coughs and coughs, his whole body trembling with exertion. Virgil watches helplessly. Red speckles fall from his mouth. Roman sags, his grip on Virgil’s hand loosening.
“Like hell you’re fine!” Virgil hisses, “Roman, damn you, stay with me!”
Roman smiles at him. He looks like he wants to say more, but his eyes close shut and his hand falls away from Virgil’s.
“No, no, wake up! Wake up!” Virgil demands, shaking the prince to no avail. The only thing that keeps Virgil from completely breaking down is the faint yet stable heartbeat coming from Roman.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
The mantra runs through his head to the rapid beat of his heart. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But Virgil can see now that his actions had been selfish and caused harm rather than good. Roman is hurt. He has to do something to make this right. Even if it means doing the one thing that drove him down here in the first place.
Virgil’s the type to overthink things to the point of insanity. Not this time. With anger swelling in his veins, Virgil grabs hold of his necklace and rips it off. As he stares down at its broken clasp, light ripples through his body.
He forgets about the pain; it’s always worse the longer he suppresses it without any release. The pain hits him like a steamroller, flattening him down to the ground in an instant. It’s prickly and piercing like needles.
He bites back a cry, sharp fangs digging into his gums. His face burns and he reaches for it—wanting to claw it off when everything goes dark. He jerks his hands away as knives dig at his back, tearing apart flesh. No, not knives. Long, spindly black limbs sprout from his back, stretching and elongating. They twitch and flail of their own volition, sending another crashing wave of pain his way.
He fights against it, growling as he sits up. His vision clears, eight pairs of eyes blinking away bright white spots. He takes a shaky breath, hunching in on himself. It’s been so long since he’s taken this form. Too long.
Virgil tries to ignore how his lungs breathe in air more freely, how he is able to fully stretch out his spindly limbs rather than feel them writhe beneath his skin, how his vision is brighter, more clearer.
He looks down at Roman, scowling. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on it. He reaches out for Roman’s prone body–
ItSy BiTsY LiTtlE PriNce, WOulD loOk aLl niCe wrAppEd uP iN A WeB?
Virgil freezes, hands curling into fists. “NO!” He growls, “NEVER!”
He knows it’s one of Remus’ wild intrusive thoughts, probably sent to torment him specifically. It does not have a physical form, but he can still sense its presence hovering over them.
ItSy BiTsy liTtlE PrinCe, sPit on hiM and mAke hiM aCiD?
Virgil’s hands pull at his hair as he tries to block out the intrusive images. But he can’t do that. If...if what Logan had said is true, it only gives it more power. He has to continue on in spite of the Intrusive Thought. He can’t let himself get distracted for Roman’s sake. He grits his teeth, letting go of his hair as his hands fall to his sides.
itSY BiTSy PrINce, noTHiNG leFt bUt sAsH anD tUNic?
Virgil ignores it, carefully gathering Roman into his arms. He draws himself to his full height, his legs dangling several feet in the air, on spindly spider limbs. His head almost hits the ceiling of the small, cramped cell. He looks down at the rusty cell door, bares his fangs and...vomits acid onto it. There is no other pleasant way to go about it. The acid turns the padlock into nothing within seconds. He taps a foreleg against the cell door and it screeeeches open.
“Itsy bitsy spider comes out the waterspout.” Virgil mutters sardonically, skittering as fast as his spider limbs can take him. The intrusive thought is silent. Perhaps it has run away to warn Remus. Virgil does not care.
In Remus’ realm of the Imagination, there is very little rhyme or reason to its rules. The few rules it has are nonsensical--like that of a twisted grotesque Wonderland. But there is one thing and that is unlike Roman, Remus prefers stories where the bad guys win.
Lucky for Virgil, he just so happens to be a bad guy.