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Roman had a bad habit of looking in the mirror. Sure, he had to look in the mirror when he did his makeup, to make sure his eyeliner was sharp and his mascara just right, but there was no reason for him to spend the ten minutes after a shower staring at his reflection.
And look, objectively, Roman knows that his brain probably isn’t logical in its analysis of how he looks. He doesn’t need Logan to tell him that.
But when he’s examining himself, looking closely at the way his skin falls over fat falls over muscle falls over bone, he can’t help but hate what he sees.
It’s not all the time, mind. Some days, Roman really is confident. He doesn’t have to put on an act when he jokes about how hot he is. He doesn’t have to convince himself that the other sides don’t secretly hate him. Some days Roman doesn’t want to rip his skin off in sheer disgust.
But other days….
Other days, like today, Roman cannot help it when his eyes catch on the folds of his stomach, or the shape of his face, or how his arms look when he isn’t flexing. No amount of glitter on his face or dashing dresses will change his mind on those days.
So it’s in a thrown together outfit that he makes his way downstairs for breakfast with his family.
He doesn’t quite have the energy for his usual booming “Good morning,” on days like this, so instead he plasters on a grin and nods at Patton as he slides into his seat.
“Morning, kiddo!” Patton chirps, sliding a plate of eggs in front of him. The warmth of his arm is so close, and Roman barely manages to stop himself from just laying his cheek on it. Instead, as Patton pulls away, he smiles and thanks him before diving into his food. Logan is sitting across the table from him, messing with a rubics cube as he takes bites of his own breakfast.
“Must you make such a mess every morning?” He remarks in a tired voice, and Roman’s heart seizes in his chest. He slows his pace, now forcing himself to take bites as his stomach turns.
“Sorry, Lo.” He says, injecting cheer into his voice. “I’m just so hungry after a night of dreaming!”
Logan rolls his eyes and turns all his attention to his fidget, and Roman shoves the last bite of eggs into his mouth and hurriedly stands.
“Well, I must be off! Duty calls, and I have so much to create!”
Patton and Logan bid him farewell as he makes his way back to his room, where he can safely let the act drop. He presses his back against the door and takes a deep breath.
This. This is the worst. He’s pitiful, and annoying, and Patton and Logan are probably glad that he’s gone so they don’t have to worry about him ambushing one of them in a hug or shaking his arms when he gets too excited. Pressing his hands to his face, Roman makes himself walk across the room to his desk. Maybe he’ll feel better if he does what he’s meant to do: Create.
Hours later, and Roman is feeling even worse than he did this morning. He hates everything he tries to write. None of it is good enough, he isn’t good enough, and he can’t even think of anything to make any more. He’s lost all motivation, and without his motivation he can’t create, and if he can’t create he’s useless, and if he’s useless then he can’t find his motivation. It’s a vicious cycle.
Roman bites back a whimper and pulls on his heavy jacket, the one that, if he closes his eyes, feels like it could be a poor imitation of a hug.
He hates himself, and he just wants someone to love him. Oh, the duality of man.
There’s a knock at the door, and Roman closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to face anybody, he doesn’t want anyone to know how much of a failure he is.
“Uh, Princey?” Virgil calls, and Roman feels his heart sink even deeper.
Of course it’s Virgil. Virgil, who Roman thinks is the bravest, kindest person in the world. Virgil, who cares so much despite his attempts to appear otherwise. Virgil, who probably thinks of Roman as nothing more than a nuisance, as someone who does his job for Thomas at best and annoys the whole mindscape at worst.
It doesn’t help that Roman has a massive crush on Virgil either. He really doesn’t want to be seen like this.
The door creaks as Virgil peeks inside, and Roman tries to turn his grimace into a smile.
“Hey, Virgil.” He says, putting all of his energy into making it sound somewhat normal.
Judging by the look on Virgil’s face, he fails.
“Hey, Roman.” Virgil mutters, raising an eyebrow. “You okay? I haven’t seen you all day.”
Roman shrugs. “Of course! I’m splendid! I’ve just been working!” He glances at the timestamp in the top corner of his open computer, and his eyes widen.
It’s almost ten o’clock at night. Roman has been sitting in his room, hating himself and being generally useless for an entire fucking day.
He feels the mask begin to slip as exhaustion creeps up on him.
Virgil shifts awkwardly. “All day? Pat said you didn’t come down for lunch, and you weren’t at dinner either.”
Roman shrugs again. “Just got caught up, I guess.”
Virgil nods slowly, but his eyes are narrowed.
“You okay, Princey?”
Roman tenses. “You already asked me that.”
“It’s just, you aren’t dressed up today, and you’ve been alone all day, and you’re acting weird.”
“I don’t have to wear skirts or makeup to be okay, Virgil.” Roman bites, and Virgil flinches.
Roman takes a shuddering breath and opens his mouth, but before he can apologize, Virgil steps inside the room and closes the door.
“I know, Roman.” He says, voice soft like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Roman shrinks away, berating himself for bringing out the concerned tone.
“But you do enjoy dressing up, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m fine.” Roman grunts, as his body and brain nearly tear themselves in half with how much he wants to get closer to/get away from Virgil and his kindness.
Virgil reaches out a hand, and even with his eyes fixed on the carpet, Roman senses it before it lands on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” He snaps, and Virgil yanks his hand back.
Roman twitches, breathing heavily.
“Sorry. Sorry, I’m sorry. Just, don’t touch me, please.”
“Okay. Okay, Princey. I’m not touching you.”
Somehow, Virgil’s voice has grown even gentler.
Roman tries to ignore it, focusing on getting his breathing under control. He has it under control. He doesn’t need to be even worse than he already feels.
“You can tell Patton I’m fine.” He says after a moment. “Just busy. Working on a very important project! You know how it is.”
When Virgil doesn’t move to leave, Roman glances up.
Virgil is sitting on the very edge of Roman’s bed, looking at him with round, brown eyes. His eyebrows are drawn together in an expression of…. Something not good, but Roman can’t quite pinpoint what it is.
He feels the panic rise in his chest again and tries to shove it back down.
“You can go, Virgil.”
Virgil gazes at him, tilting his head.
“I’d like to stay.” He murmurs, and Roman tears his eyes away, focusing instead on his hands, twisting and twitching and pulling.
“Why?” He says, and his voice comes out sounding choked, which is not what he wanted at all. He swallows the whimper that threatens to crawl up his throat.
“Because, quite frankly, you aren’t looking very glittery at the moment.” Virgil’s voice is aiming for teasing, but Roman doesn’t register it at all.
“Ouch, Virge.” He says bitterly, intimately aware of how horrible, how pitiful, how ugly he looks. “Thanks for that.”
“I didn’t mean…” Virgil cuts himself off, before pushing himself to his feet.
‘Finally.’ Roman thinks. ‘He’s leaving.’ But he can’t ignore the hurt that stabs his chest as Virgil begins to move.
Roman stays looking at his fingers, nails digging into the palms of his hands, fingers gripping each other and pulling because it’s a good tugging sensation. He waits to hear the door open and close before he can do what he really wants, which is shake his hands and bang his fists violently against his thighs. Even if Virgil hates him, he’s too good to let anybody hurt themselves, despite the way that the physical pain soothes something aching much worse.
He waits for the click of the door, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a flash of purple on the edge of his vision, and suddenly Virgil is kneeling in front of him, face tilted up to look at him. He lays his hands atop Roman’s, gripping them firmly like he knows that Roman needs pressure, that soft touches feel like burning fire on his skin right now.
“Let go.” He says gently, prying Roman’s hands apart and coaxing his fingers to relax.
Roman can’t hold back the whimper this time, as his hands open stiffly. His shoulders quiver with tension, twitching every few seconds.
“That’s it.” Virgil murmurs. “Good job Princey.”
Roman scowls. This is ridiculous.
“With what?” He scoffs.
“Letting me help you.” Virgil replies simply. “Holding my hands.”
Roman grimaces, his fingers tightening the minuscule amount that they had relaxed. He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he marvels at the fact that he’s holding Virgil’s hands. Roman hates himself even more for being unable to say something charming. He can’t even force his hands to ease up. He’s probably crushing Virgil’s fingers. He’s never going to want to touch him again.
At this, Roman chokes on another involuntary sound.
But Virgil doesn’t pull away, just tightens his own grip and nods slightly.
“Okay. Okay, Roman. Do you want to breathe with me? Can you do that sweetheart?”
Roman squeezes his eyes closed and nods jerkily.
“Alright. Ready? In for four.”
Virgil’s exaggerates his breathing, and Roman does his best to follow along. His breath catches a few times, and he shakes as he hates himself for not even doing this simple thing right, for needing Virgil to talk him through breathing like he hasn’t been doing that since birth.
And of course, thinking all of this makes it worse, but Virgil doesn’t falter, just holds his hands and breathes and says,
“It’s okay. Sometimes it takes a while. Let’s try again, alright? Breathe in, Princey, you’ve got it.”
It takes a couple minutes, but finally, Roman can breathe on his own, and his hands have relaxed enough that his knuckles are no longer pale white.
“Good job, Roman.” Virgil murmurs, still talking in that oh so soft voice. “You did good.”
This time, Roman doesn’t protest for fear of losing control of his lungs again.
“You wanna move to the floor with me?” Virgil’s asks, and when Roman nods, he shifts, guiding him from the chair to clumsily sit on the carpet, with his back against the wall. Roman presses himself into the wall. He likes the pressure on his back. Virgil doesn’t let go of his hands the whole time, and Roman is glad because he thinks if he let go now he might drown in his dry room.
“Is this okay?” Virgil asks, squeezing his hands, and Roman nods quickly.
“Yes.” He croaks, and Virgil smiles sweetly, as if proud of him for speaking just one word.
“Good.” He replies.
Romans shoulders twitch, his arms shaking as another wave of self-hatred washes over him. He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that he were alone, wishing that Virgil didn’t see him like this, hurting and ugly and imperfect, unable to help himself, let alone anyone else. He tries to pull his hands away, needing to be rid of the comfort he doesn’t deserve.
Virgil just tightens his grip further.
“Hey, Ro.” He murmurs. “You wanna talk to me?”
Roman shakes his head violently, a whimper rising in his throat.
Virgil sighs, shifting, and Roman clenches his jaw, waiting for him to finally pull away. Instead, Virgil moves Roman’s legs and sits between them, pressing his back firmly to Roman’s chest and tipping his head back so it rests on Roman’s shoulders. Once Roman is effectively sandwiched between Virgil and the wall, Virgil raises Roman’s hands and rests them against his sternum, breathing long and slow and letting their hands rise and fall with his chest.
Breath stuttering, Roman lets his head fall forward to burry his face in Virgil’s hair.
“There we go.” Virgil says gently. “Just like that.”
They sit for what feels like hours and yet no time at all before Roman turns his head so his cheek rests on Virgil’s hair.
“Thanks.” He says quietly.
Virgil hums, letting their joined hands fall into his lap, fidgeting gently with Roman’s fingers.
“Rough day?” He jokes, and Roman hides his face in his hair again, not wanting to face his reality.
Virgil ducks his head, looking over his shoulder at Roman.
“You gotta talk to me sometime, Princey.” He murmurs, and Roman avoids his eyes.
“Yeah.” He mumbles.
Virgil pulls away, turning so he can face him properly, and Roman struggles to not whine at the loss.
Waving a hand, Virgil summons a glass of water and presses it into Roman’s hand.
“What’s going on?” He asks as Roman takes a careful sip.
Roman shrugs. “I just… don’t like myself today.” He forces out, and his attempt at a nonchalant tone falls flat on its face.
“Why not?”
Roman shrugs again, keeping his jaw tightly shut.
“Roman.” Virgil prompts, his voice stern.
Roman winces, crossing his arms tightly. “I’m just useless, okay? I can’t make anything worthwhile and I’m a horrible friend and I’m ugly and everyone should hate me.”
Now that he’s laid it out plainly, he hopes that Virgil might come to his senses and realize that Roman IS worthless and leave. Distantly, he’s aware that what he really wants is for Virgil to keep speaking to him softly until it’s all better, but he shoves that down.
Virgil tilts his head, just slight enough that it’s barely noticeable. Roman braces for what’s to come.
“Why do you think that?” Virgil asks simply.
Roman shoves another whine back down his throat before it can escape.
“Look at me.” He bites.
Virgil raises an eyebrow. “I’m looking.” He says softly, and if Roman didn’t know better he’d say there was a slight fondness in his gaze.
“Yeah, uh, right.” He stutters. “So you should know.”
“Know what? Because the person in front of me is the most creative, capable, friendly person I’ve ever met. And I certainly wouldn’t use the word ugly to describe him.”
Roman slouches against the wall, biting the inside of his cheek. “Stop.” He grits out, recoiling in disgust from the warmth that begins to rise in his chest.
“Stop?” Virgil repeats.
“Stop lying to me!” He exclaims.
Taken aback, Virgil blinks. “I’m not lying.” He says, and Roman rolls his eyes.
“Please, Virgil.” He says darkly. “Creative and capable?” I haven’t made a single thing today. You had to talk me through fucking breathing.”
Virgils eyes narrow, and Roman winces.
“Do you think my panic attacks make me any less worthy?” He asks, and Roman shakes his head.
“No.” He mumbles. “Even when it takes me an hour to get my breathing under control?”
Roman looks away, avoiding eye contact.
Quietly, Virgil edges forward. “Roman.”
Roman makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
“Can you look at me, pretty boy?”
Romans gaze shoots up, his cheeks coloring.
Eyes crinkling at the corners, Virgil raises his hand to Romans cheek, cradling his face.
“I want to help you.” He murmurs.
Roman squeezes his eyes shut and presses into Virgils hold.
“Okay.” He whispers.
“Okay.” Virgil repeats, sitting back on his heels and taking moving his hands from Roman’s face to take his hands instead.
“Can you get up for me, Princey?”
Roman nods, gripping Virgils hands and rising, letting Virgil guide him to his bed.
“Here you go, pretty boy.” Virgil says, summoning some soft Disney pajamas. They have Pegasus from Hercules on them.
“Thanks.” Roman mumbles, his cheeks red, and Virgil turns around so he can change.
“All done.” Roman says once he’s clad in the soft fabric, and Virgil faces him again, smiling fondly.
“Thank you.” He murmurs, taking Romans hand and leading him to sit on his bed.
“For what?”
“For letting me help you.” Virgil answers again, like it’s that simple. He pulls a soft Lilo and Stitch blanket over Roman and sits beside him.
“Is this okay?” He asks, sitting against the headboard, and Roman nods, his body slumping towards Virgils without his consent. He hates himself but he’s just so tired and Virgil is so, so warm.
Like he can read his thoughts, Virgil lifts an arm, guiding Roman to lay against his chest. He’s so nice and soft, Roman thinks, nuzzling against his shirt like somehow it’ll get him even closer to Virgil. With his ear pressed to his chest, he can hear Virgils heartbeat. It’s rhythmic, steady. Calming.
“I can hear your heart.” He mumbles, and the thumping gets faster.
“Oh?” Virgil says, his voice nonchalant.
Roman doesn’t have any energy left to smile, but distantly he thinks that Virgil is amusing. “Yes. ’S nice.”
A hesitant hand rests on his head.
“That’s good.” Virgil says softly, threading his fingers gently through Romans hair. “You deserve nice things.”
Everything in Roman screams that Virgil is wrong. The comfort, the sweet words, the patience, he doesn’t deserve it. If he wasn’t so to-the-bone exhausted, he’s sure he’d be protesting. Right now, though, with Virgil steady under him, warmth surrounding him, he closes his eyes.
“There we go, pretty boy. Get some rest.” Virgil murmurs, and Roman turns his face into his chest, his face heating up once again. He’s sure Virgil’s noticed his reaction, because that’s the third time he’s called him that.
“Are you gonna stay?” He asks Virgils chest, his heart squeezing its punishment for daring to ask.
“Yeah, Princey.” Virgil says. “I’ll stay. You just go to sleep.”
So Roman does.