Chapter Text
Virgil can't remember a time in his life where he was excited by the prospect of having a soulmate. He thinks that perhaps there should have been at least one point in time where he believed in love and happily-ever-after. It would make sense for that to be the case, right? But he supposes that he's always been rather pessimistic. His classmates used to say that it was like he had his own personal storm cloud hanging over his head, raining down on him constantly. They'd even started to call him Stormcloud. It wasn't a fun nickname given by friends. It was an insult. A complaint. A way to minimize him down to what they deemed to be his worst trait.
They'd complain about his constant negativity. But Virgil didn't feel like he was being negative, he was being realistic. He felt like he had simply gotten a reality check way before everyone else did. They all got to live in lala land but Virgil lived in the real world where happily-ever-after only exists in the movies and darkness lurks in every corner.
He remembers the embarrassing way that his peers would gush and gossip about what flower they thought would represent them, where they hoped their soulmate would touch them for the first time so that they'd get their mark in that spot, which high-school crush they hoped would just so happen to be their soulmate. It made Virgil cringe from second-hand embarrassment. He had hoped it was a phase they'd all outgrow when they got to college. But he was severely disappointed to find that his college peers were even more annoying about it than the high-schoolers were. The major difference being that now people really were meeting their soulmates.
He remembers that during his very first week one of his classmates had come running into his intro to statistics class fifteen minutes late with her entire elbow swirling with a brand new unmistakable soulmate tattoo, pink daisies that were swaying gently with happiness. It had derailed the next fifteen minutes of class as his peers had immediately descended into chaos, eager to ask questions and listen to her story. And their professor did nothing to rectify the situation, simply watching the insanity with a fond and slightly amused look on his face.
A few times someone would try to start up a conversation with him, ask him about his soulmate, whether or not he'd found them yet, if he knew what his flower would be. And they all learned what his high-school classmates had also learned: it's best not to talk to him about soulmates.
And if they were particularly smart they realized that it's in their best interest to not talk to him at all.
He'd tell them the same thing that he'd told everyone for as long as he can remember, he'd tell them that he would never meet his soulmate. He'd tell them that the whole concept of soulmates is complete and utter bullshit. That they were stupid for being so excited to lose their freedom so they can settle down in what will likely be a loveless marriage to someone that they feel obligated to be with because of something as stupid as fate.
Yeah, his classmates learned rather quickly to just leave him the fuck alone. And he preferred it that way.
There's only one idiot who can't seem to figure that out, and that just so happens to be Virgil's best friend, Remy. But Remy is just as pessimistic and bitter as Virgil himself is so it's not really a surprise that Virgil didn't succeed in scaring him off too.
Remy never seemed to mind when Virgil went on one of his soulmate hating rants or had one of his anxiety fueled mental spirals. And Virgil never got annoyed or took it personally when Remy said something exceedingly bitchy. Their dynamic worked out well for them. Even if most people didn't really understand it.
And it was actually Remy's fault that it happened.
It started off as a normal day. Well, more accurately, it started off as a normal boring night. Remy having come over to pull an all-night study session with him so they could prep for a big test they had in the coming days.
Virgil lets his head flop down onto his open text book as a groan of frustration pushes its way out of his throat.
“What'd that book ever do to you?” Remy jokes lightly.
“Stopped making sense like two pages ago.” Virgil grumbles into the pages. “It doesn't even look like words anymore. Just weird ink squiggles.”
“Okay, girl. Looks like it's time for a break. Which coincidentally works out great seeing as you need to go get me another coffee anyway.”
Virgil pulls his face from the book, the pages sticking to his skin for a second, and then he glares at Remy. “I'm not doing that.”
“Ah,” Remy clucks disapprovingly, shaking his head. “You're forgetting that you owe me.”
Virgil opens his mouth to argue that he most certainly doesn't owe him but then he remembers that Remy had in fact gone on the last coffee run for them. Which means it's Virgil's turn.
“It's two in the morning and I don't have a car.” Virgil complains.
“Thats not my fault, is it? You're the one who refuses to learn how to drive.” Remy says and then clenches his jaw, looking away. A clear sign that he regrets what he said.
Virgil can't get his license. Every time he gets behind the wheel his heart starts to race and he can't breath and all he can think about is how he’s going to fuck up because hes a fuck-up and then he's going to die and Remy's going to die because he’s trying to teach Virgil and it—
Virgil doesn't have his license.
He doesn't think he'll ever be able to get his license. But he needs to. How is he going to function in society if he can't drive but he can't. He can't. He can't drive.
Virgil shoves his panicked thoughts into a box inside his mind and tries to focus on the present. “If I get kidnapped while getting coffee it's your fault. Have fun living with that on your conscience.”
Remy shrugs carelessly. “I can live with that. You know my order, so run along errand-boy.”
“I hate you.” Virgil grumbles as he puts his keys in his jacket pocket and his wallet in his other pocket.
“No you don't. You love me, admit it.”
Virgil doesn't respond, simply flips him off as he slinks out of his apartment door. He turns the knob twice just to be sure that it's locked before he makes his way down the stairs (he doesn't trust the elevator). He's two flights down before his brain manages to convince him that he only imagined checking to make sure the door was locked.
Remy is there. It's fine. It's fine.
Telling himself that works for long enough to get him down another two flights of stairs and all the way to the front door before he can't stand it anymore and has to go back up to double-check.
It's locked.
He grumbles in annoyance at himself all the way back down the stairs and out onto the street.
But once he begins walking he stops focusing on that and instead pays attention to his surroundings, heart rate picking up speed at every little noise he hears. He doesn't know why he's freaking out. He's walked to this coffee shop so many times he's lost count. And many of those walks were at night, given that this is the closest twenty-four hour coffee shop to his apartment. Nothing bad has ever happened before. So he shouldn't be freaking out.
But anxiety doesn't give a shit about the logic of it all and his heart races despite it.
He only hears it because of that frustrating hyper-vigilance. A noise that sounds like a soft muffled sob, coming from within the darkened alleyway Virgil is passing by. For a moment Virgil pauses, holding his breath and listening carefully. And that's when he hears it again. Definitely a sob. Someone in the alley is crying.
And perhaps if Virgil was a better person he would walk into the alley without hesitation to make sure that person is okay. But Virgil isn't a better person. So instead he starts walking again, this time with a slightly faster pace to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever that was.
It's not his problem. It's not. He's just trying to get coffee for himself and Remy so he doesn't fail his test tomorrow. It's not his problem. Hell, it's probably some kind of ruse or something, a mugger or a serial killer trying to lure an unsuspecting victim into a trap. Yeah, hell no, he's not getting kidnapped tonight.
He gets a few more steps away before his conscience starts annoyingly kicking in.
What if they're hurt? It's not Virgil's problem. It's not. What if they're hurt and dying and then Virgil will see that someone died in that alleyway on the news or something and then he'll have to live with that on his conscience for the rest of his life.
Virgil balls a fist up in his hair and yanks in self-frustration. And then he turns on his heel and marches back to the mouth of the alley.
Carefully, cautiously, he peers into the darkness and slowly makes his way inside. He follows the sound to the back of the dead-end alleyway where he finds a man. Sitting on a step in front of a door with his head in his hands and his entire body rocking back and forth slightly as muffled sobs wrack devestatingly through his body.
“Hey, uh, buddy, you okay?” Virgil asks, his own voice wavering slightly with nerves as he takes a few cautious steps closer. The man doesn't seem to hear him.
Up close he can see that the man is very professional looking. If he were doing anything other than sobbing his eyes out Virgil would likely be very intimidated by him. A black button up shirt and dark blue tie is illuminated by the street lights pouring into the small alleyway.
“Are you alright?” Virgil tries again without success.
Virgil looks from the man back towards the street. He tried, right? And this guy isn't hurt. So Virgil's conscience can be clear. He can go get the coffee and forget this happened. But then he hears the man take a desperate heaving breath and it reminds Virgil too much of all the panic attacks he's suffered through completely alone and he can't just leave him like this.
“Dude.” Virgil raises his voice as much as he dares to at this time of night.
And finally it works, the man's head shoots up and he stares at Virgil with a mortified look on his face as he quickly tries to use his palms to wipe away the tears.
Virgil feels deeply uncomfortable in the face of this guy's obvious embarrassment. He should've left him to just cry it out. Seriously, what does Virgil think he's going to do? Comfort the guy? Help him? Virgil can't even help himself. And he knows he's a deeply unpleasant person, there's nothing about him that could be considered even remotely comforting.
He glances once again to the mouth of the alleyway. Is it too late to turn around and pretend this never happened?
It's too late. Bothering the guy is uncomfortable enough but if he interrupts his crying just to turn around and leave without saying something— that's literally so much worse.
Virgil clears his throat, awkward and unsure what to do. He feels very underequipped to handle a situation like this. “Are you okay, man?”
He doesn't know how to be comforting. He's not sure if he's ever attempted it before.
“I'm fine.” The man says immediately.
Virgil snorts. “You're obviously not.”
Well, he's pretty sure that's not what he's supposed to do. Don't laugh at people who you're trying to help. Damn it, Virgil. He hisses at himself in his head.
Virgil sighs. “Can I sit there?” He points to the spot beside the man on the stoop. It doesn't feel right to be having this conversation while basically looming over the guy.
The man stares at him for a moment before he nods ever so slightly and scoots over, making room for Virgil.
Virgil sits beside him, careful so they don't touch. He's not really sure where to go from here. But then he considers what he'd want to hear if their roles were reversed. And honestly he'd probably just want whoever it was to just go away and leave him to his misery in peace. But then he also imagines what it would feel like to watch that person walk away. The lonely abandoned feeling, the way the weight of his pain would just settle on him even heavier than before. Because deep down he wouldn't want them to leave. He wouldn't actually want to be alone.
“Look, you can just tell me whatever it is that's bothering you. It's not like you'll ever see me again anyways.” Virgil tells him in the most soothing voice he can manage with his cigarette smoke roughened voice. “It'll help to get it off your chest, I swear. And I might even be able to give you some advice.”
Silence settles heavy and awkward around Virgil's throat, slowly strangling all the oxygen from his lungs for a seemingly everlasting second.
“Yes, many studies have been done proving that communicating harmful or distressing thoughts or emotions can reduce stress and improve emotional regulation.” The man's voice is almost monotone as he says it.
“Uh, yeah. I guess.” Virgil agrees. “So, um, what's wrong?”
“I-” The man takes in a long breath and then lets it out nice and slow. “I feel…” he sighs. “I don't know how I feel.” He huffs in frustration. “That's part of the problem.”
“Could you maybe try to describe it? Maybe I can help you figure out what you're feeling?”
“It's just like—” He holds both of his hands out in front of him, palms face up and then slowly curls them into fists, his arms trembling from how hard he's clenching them, veins and muscles bulging with tension. “Like this.”
Virgil blinks, once then twice, his brain buffering slightly in response to the muscles. Damn it, Virgil. Get it together, there is a time and a place for being a disaster gay and this is certainly not it.
After a few seconds he manages to shake himself out of it enough to answer, mouth dry as he says, “Sounds like frustration. I cry when I get really frustrated too. It's like I'm so angry and upset that it has to come out through my eyes.” God Virgil sounds fucking stupid what is wrong with him-
“That— sounds correct.” The man says. “I am… frustrated… because I just do not understand. And I find not being able to comprehend something to be very… distressing.”
“Um, okay, that's good. Or well, it's not, it's just that it's good that we're figuring this out. I guess. What is it that you're struggling to understand?”
The man stands up and begins pacing in front of Virgil, face screwed up with clear confusion and agitation. “I do not understand why I am the one in the wrong. It does not make any sense. Why is it that I am the only one who does things in a way that makes sense? They are the ones who say things they do not mean and just expect me to understand what they actually mean. They communicate falsehoods and yet I am wrong for taking them at their word. They are the ones being nonsensical, I am the only one being logical, so why do I get in trouble?”
“In trouble? With who?” Virgil asks.
“Everyone.” The man sighs, his hand whipping back and forth in an odd manner by his side for a few seconds before he shoves it into his pockets. “And I do not understand.”
His last sentence is lacking his previous agitation, instead he just sounds defeated and lost. Virgil doesn't like it. He doesn't think this kind of pain suits the man.
Virgil carefully parses through the man's words, but his mind keeps circling back around to the odd movements of his hand. And then finally his brain manages to connect the two.
“Have you, um-” God he hopes he doesn't offend this guy. “Has anyone ever taken you to go get assessed?”
The man stops pacing and his eyebrows furrow as he looks at Virgil with eyes that are blue blue blue- so blue that Virgil almost drowns in them. “Assessed? For what?”
“Autism?” Virgil says gently. “I mean… I'm no expert or anything- but what you're describing kinda sounds like autism. Some autistic people struggle with picking up on social stuff like um, stuff that seems obvious to people who don't have it.”
“And you believe getting this assessment would help me?”
“I uh, guess so?” Virgil cringes at the uncertainty in his voice. “I mean, if you are autistic, there's like um coping mechanisms they could teach you, I think. And sometimes just having a name for why something is happening can be helpful.”
God, Virgil sounds so fucking stupid. His face burns. This guy probably thinks he's a bumbling idiot and is probably regretting ever deciding to talk to Virgil at all.
“Then I will look into it.” The man nods once firmly.
Virgil breathes a small breath of relief. There's nothing wrong with being autistic but with the stigma surrounding it you never know how someone might react to the suggestion that they might be it.
“And uh, in the meantime I think you should just try to remember that if they're not taking the time to try and understand you then they're just dickheads and their opinions are worthless anyway. Definitely not worth your time.” Virgil says, his voice returning to its normal tone, no longer trying to make himself sound more soothing or whatever.
A small smile spreads across the man's face, reminding Virgil of the way rays of sunshine look when they break through dark storm clouds. It takes Virgil's breath away.
“Thank you.” He says and holds out his hand, offering to help Virgil to his feet. “I'll try to keep that in mind-”
The man's words cut off suddenly as Virgil takes his offered hand.
Virgil's eyes widen. His body becomes frozen in place as a bizarre feeling floods through him, something that feels like the world coming into focus for the very first time. And somewhere deep inside of him he feels something snap into place, like a puzzle piece he had never realized was missing.
All too suddenly reality fizzles back in, filling Virgil with cold dread and terror.
He snatches his hand back as if he'd been burned and the skin of his palm buzzes and tingles.
The man– His soulmate, stares down at him with wide shocked eyes.
And Virgil doesn't speak. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't think. He just runs. Shooting to his feet and sprinting towards the mouth of the alleyway. He runs like his childhood is nipping at his heels. He runs like he can feel eighteen years of pure hell breathing down his neck.
He runs and he doesn't stop until he's crashing back into his apartment and locking the door behind him. He gasps desperately with his back pressed against the door for long enough that he feels reassured that he wasn't followed.
“Girl you will never believe-” Remy says as he comes around the corner and into view of the front door. Remy quickly derails whatever he was going to say the moment he sees Virgil's empty hands. “and you're not carrying coffee. Why is there no coffee?”
Virgil just holds out one violently trembling hand, palm face up, to show him. And this is the first time Virgil sees it too.
A tattoo of blue flowers covers the entire underside of his hand and part of his wrist.
“Oh shit.” Remy says.
“I know.” Virgil gasps.
“Seriously, girl, oh shit.”
“I know.” Virgil agrees through numb lips, horrified and frozen, unable to look away from his hand.
“What the hell happened?” Remy demands, finally snapping Virgil out of it.
Without even really thinking about it he pushes past Remy and then turns down the hallway, crashing into his kitchen like a small tornado. Desperately he slams the hot water on in the sink and grabs the metal scrub brush and begins to sand down his own flesh. His only thoughts being the word ‘off’ over and over again.
Off. Off. Off. He needs it off. He needs it off. Off. Get off of him. Off.
“Virgil!” Remy yells as he wrenches Virgil away from the sink. But Virgil fights, single minded focus driven by shock demanding he get it off.
Remy ends up slamming him into the wall on the far side of the kitchen, pinning him against it with his body. “Enough! That's not going to work! You're not allowed to hurt yourself! You promised!”
The fight leaves Virgil all at once and he slumps into Remy's hold, like a puppet with cut strings.
“I need it off.” Virgil gasps brokenly.
“I know.” Remy whispers back, his voice uncharacteristically tender and sympathetic as his hold becomes less about holding Virgil back and more about holding him together. “I know.”
So that's how the world ended, not with a bang but with a muffled sob at the end of an alleyway. Or at the very least that is how Virgil's world ended.
Eventually Remy gets him moved into the living room, getting him settled in the arm chair with his favorite blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Then Remy cashes in a favor he had with someone else, getting the person to bring him two pints of ice cream and an iced coffee.
So they bury Virgil's feelings in ice cream and caffeine as they talk about nothing and everything. Test completely forgotten.
And at some point in the night Remy looks up from his phone and tells him, “It's called Clematis crispa, also known more commonly as Mrs. Harvey clematis. Supposed to symbolize ingenuity, ambition, and intelligence.”
Virgil fists his hand in his hair and scrunches his eyes closed. “What does it matter if he's smart or not? I'm never going to see him again anyway.”
Remy's dark brown eyes stare right into his soul for a moment before he softly agrees, “Okay, girl.”
Virgil doesn't walk down that road again. He finds a new twenty four hour coffee shop in the opposite direction. It's farther away than the old one but he doesn't mind. And if his eyes find their way to the blue flowers in the palm of his hand every time his mind gets too quiet, well, who cares, it's not like anyone's around to call him out on it.
_______________________________________
