#macabresides

There’s a certain rage hanging thick in the air around Virgil like a miasma as he looks from Remus to Roman, then back again. The only sign that he’s about to move is the way his hand twitches oh-so-subtly into a fist  — then he’s lunging, driving his knuckles square into Remus’ jaw so hard that his wrist pops in protest.

truth be told, neither can roman.

his dreams have been plagued by virgil’s screams, remus’ awful, unhinged grin, blood dripping from virgil’s mouth and awful, messy wounds in his flesh. he’s hardly left virgil’s side since he rescued him, too afraid to leave him alone.

roman shivers, one hand reaching over to take virgil’s, as if to make sure he’s really there. “ i’m – i’m sorry. is there anything i can do? ”

It’s late, far later than either of them have any business being awake. They were asleep, at first, of course. It was the nightmares again. Virgil’s nightmares, the ones that sent him waking up with a scream lodged in his throat, the screams that woke Roman up, the awakening that left both of them in aching silence after. He just. . . Well, he can’t stop thinking about it, much as he tries. Can’t stop imagining the burn of the injuries over the half-scarred wounds on his hand and shoulder, can’t stop seeing that maniacal grin seared into his eyelids.

Roman’s hand comes into contact with Virgil’s own, and he clutches at it immediately, ignoring the sting of the nasty scab on his palm beneath the bandage wrapped around it. It’s healing up now, Roman helping in little ways whenever he can, and most of the nerves are functioning fine. His fingers are mostly responsive again, they hardly ever lock up now, and as long as he doesn’t move his hand a certain way, the nerves don’t feel all pinched and painful.

“You’ve done more than enough already,” Virgil replies quietly, gratefully, reaching out in the darkness for the glass of water he’d left on the nightstand on his side of the bed. His throat still aches from time to time, but they might just be phantom pains by now. They’re in Roman’s room, currently, sprawled out on his bed, legs still tangled up together from when they’d shifted around in their sleep. He squints at the glass in his free hand with obvious suspicion, taking several long moments to determine it hadn’t been poisoned while he and Roman slept.

again, too lazy to get that meme, but it’s fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine,

Virgil’s careful to avoid Remus’ gaze, stomach churning and throat constricting dangerously as he studies the white wrapped around his palm where his hands are pressed to his knees. He knows better than to ignore Remus, though, so he gives a short, mute nod, jaw working like he wants to speak, but doesn’t have any idea what to say.

Is that what this is? Love? Some sick, twisted kind of love? Is that why Remus — God. The discomfort, the fear, it’s so thick in the air that Virgil’s certain if he reached out, he’d be able to grab a fist full of it and eat it whole.

What does Remus want? Surely he isn’t already in the mood for another game, it’s only been an hour since — has he come here to gloat? Rub it in, bask in his pain? The thought of having to go right back to that room, that chair, sends a wave of panic through him, and Virgil stumbles up to his feet with a hand going to his mouth, and his feet carry him unsteadily to the bathroom connected to his room —

bite the hand that beat you || accepting!

     “Please,”  he says, and in that instant Virgil seems so exhausted. It’s in moments like these that he remembers, truly remembers, who — what — he used to be. He was so strong, then, so in control – nothing could get the slip on him, and if he wanted something done, he did it himself. He was capable. He was strong.

     He misses that, kind of. He misses the control, the strength, the invulnerability. Now, though… Now he knows “invulnerable”  is code word for “find my weak points and hit them until I break.”

     And so he closes his eyes, wills back the tears burning them, and takes a deep breath, looking more exposed to Deceit than he has in a long, long time. When he opens his eyes once more, it’s clear he’s willing to beg, if that’s what it takes. “Please. I can’t — I can’t fight him on my own anymore. He’s… Stronger than me.” The words feel like broken glass in his throat, cutting him to ribbons from inside out, and ego stings red on his cheeks, but he pushes on.

      He awakes slowly, sluggishly, a dreadful kind of pain in his temples and the back of his skull. It comes with the faintest sense that something isn’t right, something’s off, but he doesn’t notice it until the thirty-minute period it takes to open his eyes is over.

     Where is he?

     — And, furthermore, who is he?

     Every little movement has his head throbbing, and it feels like the room around him is spinning. A migraine pushes at the backs of his eyes demandingly, urging him to curl up and cry himself to sleep, but he can’t shake off the feeling that he’s supposed to be somewhere, supposed to be doing something.

     Bruised, aching eyes turn outward, flicking from detail to detail of each room. It’s dark, the only potential sources of light being extinguished candles and a dusty lamp, and there are cobwebs everywhere, but he can’t see any real, living spiders — he isn’t sure if that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse. There are posters for old bands and older movies on the walls, and the whole thing looks like something from an edgy teenager’s dream home, but it carries with it the most strangely tranquil atmosphere.

     He very, very slowly swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and when his feet touch the carpet, it feels like the room suddenly comes alive; tranquility shoots yellow with jubilance, strong enough to make him smile against his will. There’s a table beside his bed, and on it is a glass of ice-cold water and a bottle of painkillers — had they been there a second ago? Regardless, he reaches a hand for the bottle — woah, that’s one fucked up scar.

     No, painkillers first, body inspection second. He grips the bottle with shaky hands and pops off the lid; no more than four pills are inside, which is good, because he has no idea how many he ought to take. Considering the strange amount, he assumes four; they’re popped into his mouth and swallowed down with a mouthful of water without a second thought. There’s no immediate, instantaneous relief, unfortunately, but he isn’t sure what he was expecting.

     After a few more minutes of just looking, he unsteadily stands on legs that would make a baby deer seem buff, wobbling over to a door on the wall he hadn’t seen when he was first looking around. He tries the knob, and it opens, revealing to him a small bathroom. The counters are cluttered with makeup supplies and bottles of pills, all empty. The mirror is stained and old, but he can see himself well enough, and —

     Jesus, holy shit. He looks like hell. No, scratch that, he looks worse than hell. He makes hell look good. If he and hell were in a beauty competition, hell would win the prize. His fingers are feather-light as he pokes and prods at his face, moving from his split lips to his gashed cheekbone to the bruises around his eyes, taking in the severity with increasingly pained winces.

     Who did this to him? Why can’t he remember it?

     His efforts to peel off his shirt and hoodie are slow and stiff, but he manages to shed them like a snake getting rid of stuck shed — that is to say, he nearly doesn’t, and it would’ve made him look rather ridiculous if he’d just given up halfway. There are more bruises and scrapes and scabs all along the length of his body, and the scars. Something horrible has happened to him. Confusion turns to horror turns to panic as he begins processing the fact that he doesn’t know anything. Who is he? What is he?

     Okay, deep breaths, what does he know? He is a side. His primary goal is to protect his host, Thomas. What else?

     . . . What else? There has to be something.

     He stumbles out of the bathroom and finds another shirt on his bed, along with a tattered grey jacket. It was thin and worn, but it was cleaner than what he’d been wearing previously; he dons those clothes with the same level of difficulty it had taken to get the other clothes off, and when he’s done, he collapses onto the bed, nearly breathless.

     It’s there, some hours later, that he finally wakes up again, not even having realized he’d passed out in the first place. He slides around on the mattress in sore pain, but the throb in his head has subsided enough for him to decide it’s finally time to get up and see what’s behind the other door on the far side of the room. He steps gingerly across the floor and holds the doorknob with one hand, doing his best not to look at the mangled scar that greets him there. One breath, two breaths, and then the door is opening with a gentle click that rings out like a gunshot in the silence of his room.

pinterest starters || accepting!

“Maybe not,” Virgil spits, bearing a striking resemblance to a predator about to escape its cage, “But you never tried to change, either.” Remus is at his mercy, now, and oh, it feels delicious. He was this powerful once before, a long, long time ago, maybe stronger, and it feels like a high he’d never realized he’d missed. “You didn’t ask to be like this, but you sure as hell never complained about it. Not when you were pushing me to the ground, not when you had a knife to my throat—!”

He kneels down before Remus, one hand curling vicelike around the collar of his tunic. “Not when you had your brother in that chair, begging for my life. Don’t you ever tell me you didn’t ask to be like this. You made yourself this way. Every fucking tragedy that’s ever befallen you, you brought on yourself. You could’ve changed, y’know. Could’ve tried. But no! No, it’s always poor old Remus, how could nobody love him, especially after he kidnapped and tortured two of Thomas’ core sides!”

poetry sentence starters

“You think I allowed this?” Virgil doesn’t get angry often. He prides himself on not expressing his rage. He doesn’t have time to be angry, doesn’t have the right to be angry, and yet, here he is, rounding on Deceit like a pissed-off tiger, a storm brewing tempestuous and livid under his skin. His voice drips pure vitriol, pure venom, and for a moment, it’s unclear who’s more snakelike between the two of them.

“You think,” Virgil repeats, fingers curling and uncurling into fists as though he’s resisting the urge to strike something, “You think I let all that happen? You think I wanted this? Is that what you think?” It’s hard to breathe past the knot in his throat, but he isn’t about to cry — no, no, he’s about to yell. Yell and scream and break things, just like —

— just like Paranoia.

@crowncreativity