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emile-hides · 1 year

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Can I interest you all in my extremely self serving Mario and Luigi game concept featuring Gooigi and Metal Mario as alternate reality Mario Bros?

I’ve been calling it Mario and Luigi: Elementals and it sounds dumb and that’s because it is dumb

The basic premise is E. Gadd didn’t actually make Gooigi, rather Gooigi is from a Universe where everyone is made of one pure element, and Gooigi ended up in our reality on accident.

Kind of

He splatted through a portal and was pretty much all but dead or “broken” as his universe would put it, but E. Gadd of our world manged to “fix” him, bringing him back. The problem is he lost all his memories, and also can’t speak.

That was a year ago today.

The Mario Brothers are visiting Professor Elvin Gadd in his research laboratory to see his latest invention, and also learn that Stuffwell has become Gooigi’s right hand man, and can even understand his blurbly speech.

E. Gadd’s been fascinated with the portal Gooigi origonally came through for some time now, and has finally made a device that will (hopefully) open it once again. Mayhaps he can get more goo, make more Gooigis! How exciting!

If only the blasted thing worked

His device doesn’t turn on, or work at all, so he sends Mario and Luigi around the lab to fix multiple things; jumping, using the Spin/High jump moves, Mario drinks and spits water, the usual stuff all gets tutorialed at once this way until he’s finally ready to try again.

This time a massive portal opens, sucking in everything in the lab, mostly Luigi who was right next to it. Mario grabs Luigi, E. Gadd grabs Mario, Gooigi grabs E. Gadd, and Stuffwell complains about his unfinished Arm Modificationings

Mario’s grip slips, and Luigi goes flying into the portal, which then closes.

Luigi wakes up in a forest where everything is made of Rock. The Trees, the Ground, the over sized Mushroom kingdom looking mushrooms, all pure rock. Like sculptures. He looks around, calls for Mario a few times, cowars a bit, and then starts to wander, eventually coming across another research lab like E. Gadd’s

Inside is Professor Ectoplasm Gadd, a gooy translucent, almost ghostly like version of Professor E. Gadd, along with Rock Toads; Toads made purely or unpolished, rough rocks.

Ecto Gadd looks up from his machine that is very much like E. Gadd’s portal machine, and immediately starts making a ruckus about Luigi’s Return. He sends the Rock Toads off to “Go get his brother!” and starts marveling at Luigi’s new unique make-up, asking what he’s made of now, and apologizing for the accident.

Luigi Italianese babbles that he has no idea what Ecto Gadd is talking about and starts explaining the portal, when the door breaks down.

“Goodness! I know you haven’t seen eachother for a year now but you didn’t have to break my door!”

Metal Mario puts the door down to the side gently and approaches Luigi, looks him all over, takes a few steps back, and then punches a random machine, destroying it.

It takes a few moments for the shock to were off and for Luigi to notice Metal Mario is really broken up over his missing brother. Luigi does his best to comfort him, a little There There back pat turned into a spine crushing hug from Metal Mario.

Ecto Gadd realizes this is the Wrong Luigi and explains the portal machine, and how he’d been working on it ever sense Goo Luigi went missing. Luigi recognizes “Goo Luigi” as probably being Gooigi, which Metal Mario responds to by grabbing Luigi by his overall straps, picking him off the ground, and shaking him in a “You know where me brother is???? Where??? Take me to him!!!” kind of way.

Ecto Gadd says he can get the portal open again, but he needs more power for his machine to work and stabilize the portal, so he sends Luigi and Metal Mario off to the Plasma Kingdom together.

This is where gameplay starts and also my story concept kind of ends, so this is just all my thoughts mashed together now

You play as two sets of Bros through most the game (this first mission has them mixed up, but eventually swaps them back correctly); Mario and Luigi, and Gooigi and Metal Mario.

Mario plays the same as usual Mario games, High Attack and Speed, Low Defense and Health, if you don’t watch him he’ll become a Glass Canon

Luigi also plays the same, High Defense and Health, Low Attack and Speed, a random extra bit of Stache, might fall behind Mario if you’re not careful

Metal Mario plays sort of like an Extreme Luigi, with wild high defense and stupid slow, but he also hits like a truck with a crazy attack stat. He’ll go after everything else, but he will also likely kill it all in one hit. Also his and Gooigi’s Stache stat is called Sheen and might cause enemies to miss, rather than they randomly get lucky hits. They’re shiny.

Gooigi in turn is like an Extreme Mario, Wicked speed and abysmal defense, but with no attack to back it up. Instead, almost all of Gooigi’s basic attacks inflict status; Poison, Sleep, and Stuck (a Gooigi exclusive status in which the enemy is stuck in goo and can’t move), making him more of a set up for Metal Mario than his own attacker.

You switch between the two groups on set story beats as they traverse eachother’s worlds; Our usual Bros in the new Element lands, and the Element Bros in the usual Mushroom Kingdom worlds. Think like Bowser’s Inside Story meets the Peach sections of the Paper Mario games.

Mario and Luigi can do their usual jumps, the spin and high jumps, they cannot be separated, and eventually get the elemental Fire and Thunder attacks from Super Star Saga, and the Bros Ball from Partner’s in Time. These are also their Bros Attacks. No more shell or fire flower or weird surprise tube I hate those things.

Metal Mario and Gooigi get the hammer abilities, Metal Mario can smash Gooigi over the head to make him small and fit into small spaces and Metal Mario can drill into the ground to get beans. The two can be separated, usually when Metal Mario explores the ocean floor, as Gooigi dissolves in water and Metal Mario sinks.

I can’t decide what Metal Mario and Gooigi’s bros attacks will be. The main thing with them is they’ve been separated for a full year, and Gooigi’s memories are still missing, so they’re not as in-sync as the normal Bros are. Maybe they can have Bros Items from Partner’s in Time?

They’re a lot like the babies from Partner’s in Time I think, more immature and juvenile in my head. Metal Mario constantly forgets his own strength and breaks things on accident, and Gooigi is eager to help anyone who’ll give him a task. They’re both childishly curious about the world around them.

The twist would be someone sent Gooigi through that portal on purpose to get rid of him. I’m thinking a version of King Boo from this Elemental Dimension, but I haven’t thought on it too hard just yet. Maybe Ecto Gadd did it. That’d be fun.

Rose Gold Peach is there and she’s called Rose Gold Peach not Pink Gold Peach I hate that name she is Rose Gold and she’s a lot like Metal Mario in that she forgets her own strength a lot and ends up hurting regular Mario in funny slapstick ways just by interacting with him a lot.

The previously mentioned Plasma Kingdom is the Element Lands version of the Koopa Kingdom. I’ve been trying to decide if I want Bowser to be just pure Fire or not. Magma Bowser maybe? Where some of his upper layer has cooled so he looks like Bowser’s Fury Bowser in color scheme? The Goombas are wooden because I think that’s funny.

I also think the Elemental Bowser and Mario have a much more extreme rivalry compared to our usual duo. Where Mario and Bowser can square off every here and there and then also play tennis, the Elemental Mario and Bowser will fight to the death if squared off together. This Bowser also doesn’t have the Romantic Feelings for Peach to soften him, he wants her just as dead as he wants Mario.

His only soft spot then would be Bowser Jr., who I don’t know if he should be included because it feels like too many main story characters, but he’d be made of paint, and be gooy and fragile like Gooigi, this why Bowser, a Magma/Rock being, is so protective of his soft son.

Finally, I want Wario and Waluigi to be a sort of Rival Encounter to Metal Mario and Gooigi, Like Mid bosses that show up every other big event a little stronger than previously, sense they’re extreme versions Mario and Luigi, much like this version of Gooigi and Metal Mario are.

#Mario #Emile's Writings #Mario and Luigi #Should I give this a bunch of tags actually? It's just a lotta nothing #I have very specific animations and scenes in my head #But also like very particular game play as well #I know Mario&Luigi is dead I just really enjoy them #Can you tell Partner's in time is my favorite? I want another Partner's in Time SO badly #My main concept is the Regular Bros have BP while the Element Bros don't but I dunno what to replace that number with #but I was watching Mario Kart gameplay yesterday and the stiff way Metal Mario moves and his voice enraptured me #I like him I want him to be his own guy and I think he'd be a fun counter to Gooigi #I've had spesifically the way Metal Mario works in battle in my head for a while now actually #but for Wario #Like if Wario and Waluigi were in a M&L game they'd be Extreme Opposites of Mario and Luigi #But I could never figure out the rest #I have more I'll eventually do with this I'm sure I just wanted to put it down now while I'm still thinking on it #Thanks for reading if you did. You're a real one.#Edit: Adding more because I'm always adding more #The elements are meant to be like. Indicative of personality #So like Mario's kinda stubborn and wreckless and never gives up thus a hard element like metal #While Luigi is very much made of softer stuff and is a rather fluid character #As he kind of forms to whatever Nintendo needs him to be in the moment #Tumblr ate the rest of my tags rude.#Check the reblog for all my thoughts

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thepenguinclub · 2 years

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floriography

virgil/mental health, brotherly virgil & remy, background remile, virgil & emile, virgil & janus, platonic dlamp, soulmates, lots of flowers, mental health struggles, self harm, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS

word count: 11,104

Summary:

It was the next day when he felt the familiar itch, and instead of looking for something sharp, he looked at the box. He pulled out a few brushes and a few colors and sat, staring at them.

He stared for five minutes before the itch became unbearable and he sighed, reaching out.

He painted a vine of pink and white flowers curling around his left forearm, and when he was done, the itch was gone.

He started doing it more and more, until he found himself painting on his skin even without the itch that had first motivated him to do so. Remy was elated, and complemented every piece of artwork he could see.

Virgil’s soulmates were confused, at first. He had told himself he wasn’t going to read their reactions, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t think he could bring himself to keep doing it if they hated it.

They didn’t.

---

Virgil, on starting at rock bottom and working his way up. Flowers are also important.

————

hello, all. just gotta start off by saying that i am extremely proud of this. it's the longest individual work i've written and i think i did a pretty good job, if i do say so myself. i hope y'all like it.

next, thank you to @sunbrightshadows for helping me through this process and being the best beta i could ever ask for, and to thein273 for providing some insight on the characters.

a few notes:

1. heed the warnings. please. if i missed anything, let me know.

2. anything that doesn’t seem explained is most likely explained later. The flower meanings should be explained by the word or few words directly before/after the flower name, but anything that was unclear was added in italics next to the parentheses.

3. also, homophobia does exist in this universe. soulmates are generally expected by society to get married if they’re the opposite sex and be best friends if they’re the same sex. (obviously sibling bonds are not included in this, society does not encourage incest).

enjoy!

WARNINGS: purposeful self harm (cutting), scars, depression, anxiety, abandonment, child neglect, eating and drinking (no alcohol), feelings of self-loathing, cruel words said in anger (situationally cruel, nothing inappropriate or offensive), passing mention of murder and rape (nothing actually happens, just virgil being a little mean and sarcastically paranoid)

stay safe.

————

The bond is formed on everyone’s fifth birthday.

Whether the other person has had their fifth birthday already or not is up to chance and the powers of the universe, so it isn’t uncommon for a five year old to sit with empty skin for a while.

Virgil wasn’t so lucky.

On his fifth birthday he woke up early and excited, eagerly checking his arms for signs of writing that he hadn’t put there. Sure enough, light blue doodles and yellow scribbles greeted him. He ran down the stairs to show his parents.

That was a mistake.

More than one soulmate was unheard of. Documented as rare cases and generally shunned by the world, and, freshly five years old, Virgil learned that lesson harshly. His parents brought him to a doctor, showed him the two different colored writings, and were told the verdict. After that, things changed. Quickly.

His mom and dad were called away on more and more business trips, especially once the indigo, green and red writing showed up too. When the clock struck midnight on December 19th, the night of Virgil’s tenth birthday, he hadn’t seen his parents in a year, always gone on some business or another.

Virgil wasn’t a dumb child. He knew what that meant, and he knew that he was the reason his parents left, and he knew that what he had was bad.

Remy was Virgil’s older brother by almost ten years. He was fifteen when Virgil turned five, and he didn’t like his parents very much to begin with. Remy liked to do what he wanted to do, and his parents were very caught up in their own image. Even before they left, they were neglectful.

Remy was the one who raised Virgil. The kindest thing their parents did was continuously send them money, because it couldn’t get out that they disowned their own children, so Remy had all the assets he needed to give Virgil a relatively lavish childhood.

Still. Virgil was greatly affected by his parents' abandonment. He was riddled with chronic anxiety, with the constant thrum of depression in his veins. He didn’t make friends, didn’t do well in school, and spent his time locked in his room. The only thing Virgil did that meant anything to him was draw.

He had a sketchbook, one Remy had bought him ages ago. He filled it with sketches, doodles, figures and landscapes. Anything that came to mind, he drew.

When Virgil was thirteen he looked at a razor one day and thought ‘fuck it’.

It was almost addictive, to him. It gave him something to focus on, something to take his misery out on, and it only seemed to work in his favor that what he happened to be taking such feelings out on was himself. Lines, neat and even, grew into the skin of his thighs, hidden by the long pants he was never without. He knew it was wrong, and that it wasn’t good for him, but he wasn’t doing anything he didn’t deserve, and no one had to know. Not even his soulmates.

See, his soulmates were a whole can of worms he preferred to keep locked up in a box at the bottom of the ocean. There were five of them, which was five too many, in his opinion. They talked to each other constantly, and Virgil was a silent observer, trying his hardest not to read their conversations but having no choice. It was one of the things he hated about himself (one of the many, many things).

He had never written them. Not even when he was a kid. His parents forbid it, and once they left he was too deep into the throes of his anxiety to even try. It had been too long, he thought. It would be creepy, learning there was someone else basically eavesdropping on all the conversations you had in private. Then added on insecurity. What if they didn’t like him? He was a miserable, jagged person with so many problems it filled his too big, empty house. They would hate him.

Remy knew, of course, and tried to help, but he was woefully unequipped to handle such an issue, and when it became clear that every attempted conversation about the topic was going to end in an argument, he eventually stopped trying.

However, all of that, everything, came to a head a few weeks before Virgil’s seventeenth birthday. It was completely an accident, what Virgil had been referring to as ‘The Incident’, the one that had happened a month beforehand. The one when Remy had accidentally walked in on Virgil and seen the freshly weeping wounds, along with countless old scars.

They had talked, and Virgil had felt so defeated, so at his worst, he agreed to try and stop cutting himself. Just for Remy, who, despite being twenty-seven, was still living with Virgil, at least until he went to college.

It hadn’t been going very well, to say the least. Virgil would get an itch under his skin that needed to be let out, one that had him reaching for the first sharp object he could find, and then he’d be right back where he started.

So, it was a few weeks before Virgil’s seventeenth birthday, and things were looking down.

“I got you something,” Remy said apropos of nothing, walking into the living room with a box in his hands. Virgil had been making his food run of the day and was trying to stealthily creep back to his room, but, seeing that he had been caught, sank down onto the couch reluctantly.

“Why?” he asked, suspicious. Remy dropped the box onto the coffee table in front of Virgil, and sat on the couch beside him.

“It’s almost your birthday,” he explained casually. “And I saw them and thought you might like them.”

Virgil reached over to the box and pulled it onto his lap. It was fairly light. He poked it experimentally.

“It’s not gonna blow up.” Remy rolled his eyes. Virgil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before cautiously lifting the lid off and setting it to the side.

“It’s�� paint,” he said blankly. Inside the box were at least two dozen medium-sized tubes of paint in a variety of colors and paintbrushes of various shapes and sizes.

“It’s skin-safe paint,” Remy corrected carefully. Virgil narrowed his eyes, still looking into the box. Remy continued. “I know you’ve been… struggling, and I thought that, maybe, instead of doing what you had been doing, you could do this.”

“What exactly is ‘this’?” Virgil asked, looking up. Remy gestured to the paint.

“You’re an amazing artist, Virge.” He shrugged. “You could do art. Paint on yourself whenever you get that urge. It might not help,” he added, “but it couldn’t hurt.”

Virgil was silent.

“You realize this would transfer to my soulmates, right?” he finally asked. Remy cringed.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“I don’t want to talk to them,” Virgil interrupted definitively. He went to put the lid back on the box.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” Remy said, stopping his movements. “You don’t have to even acknowledge them. They don’t have a reign over your body, Virgil, you’re allowed to paint on it without their approval. Just… do it in places they could cover up, I guess,” he finished.

Virgil slowly put the lid back down. He thought about it. He thought about Remy, and how much he had sacrificed for Virgil, and how hard he was trying to be helpful without being overbearing. About how much he cared.

“Okay,” Virgil finally said quietly. “I’ll try it out.”

Remy’s smile looked relieved, and Virgil tried to ignore the guilt churning in his stomach.

It was the next day when he felt the familiar itch, and instead of looking for something sharp, he looked at the box. He pulled out a few brushes and a few colors and sat, staring at them.

He stared for five minutes before the itch became unbearable and he sighed, reaching out.

He painted a vine of pink and white flowers curling around his left forearm, and when he was done, the itch was gone.

They didn’t, though. Once they got past the initial confusion over who was actually painting, conferring with each other below the vines until Logic had suggested the idea that there was an entirely different, previously unknown member of their bond, they had loved the painting.

As Virgil painted more and more, they seemed to get more and more used to the idea of a sixth person, often attempting to prompt him into responding. He never did, sticking to painting whatever he felt whenever he felt like it and essentially ignoring all of their messages.

He read them all, though, and every time one or more of them left a kind review next to one of his paintings he smiled for the next fifteen minutes. Remy noticed, and all of a sudden there was a lot more smiling in their house.

Virgil went to a small school for art and art history. He ran up the money that their parents had stopped sending as soon as he had turned eighteen with tuition, so when he graduated he moved into a small two bedroom apartment in New York City with Remy, who was working as both a barista and at a small startup business that provided tailored help to those with disabilities in the workforce, and Remy’s boyfriend Emile, his soulmate, who was working as a therapist.

Emile made a lot of money, actually, but the majority of it went to the hospital bills for both his ailing mother and his little sister, who was born with a chronic illness that kept her in a bed for the majority of her life, so they were scraping by as a group as best as they could, keeping one eye to the future and one eye on their bank accounts.

Virgil found work at an art museum, acting as a tour guide, and selling his paintings online. It wasn’t until he had been working there for a few years that one of his coworkers had been promoted to the manager and offered to give him a section of the gift shop to sell some of his work as long as the museum got a cut of the profit. Virgil, obviously, agreed, and his bedroom was slowly but surely absorbed by painter's tarp and half-finished canvases until the only way it resembled a bedroom was the small twin bed stuffed in a corner and a dresser that looked like a paint palette threw up over it.

There were good days and bad days.

Sometimes Virgil sold three paintings and made more money than he previously would have made in a month, and sometimes on those days he would paint a field of green clovers and simple yellow wood sorrel flowers on his shoulder to signify his joy, or maybe a little yellow and white pod of coronella for his success, and whenever he did his soulmates would always comment on how beautiful and nice it was.

Sometimes painting wasn’t enough, and Virgil had to lock himself in the bathroom and breathe through the itch under his skin, and sometimes he would cover himself from neck to waist in aggressively messy purple hyacinths, aconite and black roses, because he hated himself and didn’t see a light in the murky throws of his depression. His soulmates learned not to comment on those.

It was on one such day that he came home from work in a mood of insecurity (foxglove) and anxiety (hellebore), dropping his bag on the ground and immediately falling face-first onto the couch. Emile didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the end of the couch, going through some papers. He patted Virgil’s head, which had landed next to his thigh.

“Bad day?” he asked casually, shuffling the papers slightly. Virgil grunted into the couch cushions. He spoke, but it was muffled. Emile put the papers on the coffee table and turned to face him better.

“Sorry, honey, I don’t speak couch-cushion.”

Virgil groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows with a huff, blowing his purple bangs out of his eyes. Emile had matching pink tips, with Remy sporting a rainbow undercut.

“I don’t know how you put up with me,” he said. “You’re living with your boyfriend and his little brother, that has to be annoying.”

Emile furrowed his eyebrows and patted his lap. Virgil flopped down again, but scooted forward so his head was resting on Emile’s thighs, turning onto his back so he was looking up at him. Emile started running his fingers through Virgil’s hair.

“I don’t “put up with you,”” he replied, doing air quotes around the words. “Virgil, I love living with you. I love you just as much as I love Remy, you’re just as much my family as he is.”

Virgil frowned.

“Why?” he asked quietly. “I’m not very easy to love.”

“If I did everything in my life just because it was easy, I would be at a job I don’t like in a city I didn’t want to live in with no family and no loved ones,” Emile stated bluntly. “You have to work for what you want, and what’s good for you. And your love is good for me, Virgil, despite what your brain is telling you.” He ruffled Virgil’s hair and smiled down at him. “I am more than happy to work for it.”

That was a lot of positive emotion (pink hyacinth), something Virgil wasn’t overly used to, so he grunted and turned his head into Emile’s stomach, wrapping his arms around his torso in a loose hug. Emile let out a breathy laugh and rubbed his back. Virgil pulled away a little bit.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled, so quiet he wasn’t even sure if Emile heard it. It didn’t take a second for Emile to squeeze him closer, though, so he was pretty confident the message (yellow rose) (platonic love) was received.

A few days later, when Virgil was in a much better mood and sporting a curiosity (sycamore) leaf next to one of Logic’s excited lectures and carefully painted pride (hundred leaved rose) under Prince and Duke’s newest news of performances, he walked up to Emile confidently (hepatica). Well, semi-confidently, but that was as much as Virgil ever got.

“What’s your favorite thing?” he asked, causing Emile to look up from where he was typing on his laptop. He tilted his head slightly, pushing up his glasses.

“I don’t know if I have one,” he answered slowly, “I like a lot of things.”

“Yeah, but if you had to choose something.” Virgil pulled out one of the other chairs at the table and sat down heavily. “The first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word ‘favorite.’”

Emile considered the question for a second, then, oddly, started to look embarrassed (downturned pink lilium).

“Well, I- I’ve never actually told anyone this before,” he started, and Virgil leaned forward attentively, “but my favorite animal is actually a unicorn.”

“Really?” Virgil asked. He had always heard Emile say his favorite animal was a cat, and told Emile so. He laughed self-consciously.

“That’s what I told people,” he explained. “Unicorns have been my favorite animal since I was a little kid, but I knew my dad wouldn’t be very happy with that answer, and he was already concerned I was ‘turning gay,’” he stopped to roll his eyes, and Virgil snorted in amusement (hybrid delphinium), “so I never told anyone.”

“So when you needed to choose a fake favorite animal,” Virgil replied slowly, smiling “you chose the one animal you were allergic to?”

Emile hit his arm lightly and laughed.

“I was six and it was the first one I thought of!” he defended. “And I wasn’t lying, I do like cats!”

“Alright, alright,” Virgil put his hands up in surrender (peace lilies).

“Any reason for the question?” Emile asked after a second. Virgil shook his head.

“No reason at all,” he lied (red dahlia).

Two weeks later, Emile found a 17 by 24 inch painting of a white unicorn with a pink mane and tail running through a field of yellow agrimonia (gratitude), yellow roses (platonic love), chinese chrysanthemum (cheerfulness in adversity) and dots of purple bluebells (kindness).

At work, Virgil had a routine. He took the first two tours, and then he worked in the gift shop until his lunch break. He repeated the process until he was off for the day at seven, and he liked it that way. Too many tours and he got burned out from all the talking, too little tours and he got stir crazy in the gift shop.

It was an hour before his lunch break on an otherwise uneventful Thursday that a woman came up to the counter with nothing in her basket. Virgil slapped his customer service face on.

“Excuse me,” the woman started, “I was wondering about the paintings on display over there?”

She pointed across the store to the small gallery of Virgil’s paintings. There was a sign in the middle, saying that they were for sale and to ask the cashier for more information.

“They’re by a local artist,” Virgil said kindly, having learned that stating he was the artist right out of the gate was not the best marketing strategy, “and all are for sale, I’d be happy to help you with anything you’d like. Is there one you had in mind?”

“Well, they’re all amazing,” she gushed, and Virgil’s smile became a lot less fake, a warm feeling blooming in his chest (lathyrus) (pleasure), “but I absolutely love the orange one in the middle on the right.”

The painting she was referring to was one depicting a dark forest clearing with figures of orange and yellow fire dancing around a small fountain. It had been a spur-of-the-moment (the moment being 2:46am) work after a weird dream, and Virgil wasn’t actually the biggest fan of it, but he was glad someone else was.

He told the woman as much, and she smiled brightly. Virgil came out from behind the cashier desk and gestured for her to follow him, talking as he walked. t

“That is an eighteen by twenty-four inch canvas, so frames should be relatively easy to get,” he said. Coming up to the painting, he glanced at the small tag hanging off of one of the corners. He turned to the lady. “It’s nine hundred dollars not including shipping, but if you would like we can ship it at a seventy percent discount with free packaging.” Virgil finished his spiel with a little flourish at the painting, and the woman laughed.

“That sounds perfect,” she replied. “I would love the shipping option, please.”

Virgil nodded, and directed her to the other cashier on duty while he took the painting down and started to package it. The woman came back after a few minutes and answered the questions he had about the shipping, then asked one of her own.

“Who’s the artist that does these?” She swept an arm along the wall. “I’d love to get in contact with them for other pieces!”

Virgil glanced up from where he was carefully wrapping the painting in bubble wrap, before he looked back down.

“That would be me,” he answered. “Virgil Storm, at your service.”

“Oh, wow!” She placed her purse down on a table. “You’re very skilled, do you take commissions?”

“I do.” He finished taping the bubble wrap, taped the paper he had written the information on to the front, and set the painting aside. “I’d be happy to work with you on anything you’d like. Here,” he pulled a white card with dark purple text on it, “is my business card. Either email, text, or give me a call and we can figure out what I can do for you.”

The woman took the card carefully, putting it in her purse.

“Thank you!” she said kindly (yellow lilies). They exchanged goodbyes, and, soon, Virgil was left alone. He wandered back to the cashier desk, but the gift shop was practically deserted, it being around lunchtime, so, to entertain himself, Virgil reached into his bag.

He pulled out a little travel-sized paint palette and brush, popping open the lid for the pink, yellow, and green paints as well as grabbing a tissue to wipe excess paint on. He rolled up his left sleeve and started to paint a simple pink flower with a yellow center and green stem, a cosmos flower (peacefulness). Prince drew a little red heart with exclamation points next to some of the finished flowers as Virgil continued to paint, and Snake left a simple ‘cute,’ which Virgil had learned was a genuine compliment and not him being sarcastic.

Virgil didn’t know much about his soulmates. Most identifiable information like names, addresses and phone numbers didn’t transfer over the bond, so they had all chosen fake names to make everything easier. Logic because he was smart, Heart because he was sweet, Prince because he was dramatic, Duke because he was even more dramatic, and Snake because he was sarcastic and liked snakes. Virgil hadn’t chosen one, seeing as he had never actually written to his soulmates, but they had taken to calling him by the names of flowers.

They each had colors, too. With so many people in one bond, it became confusing quickly when it came to who wrote what, so they had all chosen colors early in life to be more identifiable. Red for Prince, yellow for Snake, green for Duke, light blue for Heart, dark blue for Logic. Virgil sometimes found himself contemplating what color he would use if he ever wrote to them. He always ended up leaning towards purple.

He knew that Prince and Duke were twins, Snake and Logic were roommates, and Heart lived with his mom but made frequent trips to the other’s apartments. He knew that Prince was an actor and Duke was a dancer. He knew Snake was a lawyer, and Logic was a professor at a college, and Heart was a preschool teacher and volunteered at an animal shelter. He knew they were extremely close.

Virgil floated on the edges.

He knew they cared for him, they had told him so enough times, but he knew that they knew next to nothing about him. They knew he painted. They knew he liked flowers. That was it. They didn’t even know his pronouns, always using neutral ones.

Which, that should have been easy, right? It should have been easy to just tell them that. He was a cis man, it should have been easy to write a quick ‘he/him’ somewhere, but no. He couldn’t bring himself to do so. Despite being in a league's better mental state than he had ever been, he still hovered a pen over his skin, never touching, until he sighed and placed it down. Sometimes he threw it.

But Emile had been telling him he needed to be nicer to himself, to talk about all the facts, which Remy had wholeheartedly supported, so it beared mentioning that he tried.

He painted masculinity (sweet William) next to gender neutral pronouns. He painted gratitude (eustoma) next to their compliments. He tried, and they didn’t understand, but that was okay. He was perfectly content to paint flowers for them, as long as it made them happy (dandelions). He was fine (fungus) (resilience, loneliness, solitude).

“Excuse me,” a voice said, causing Virgil to jump and snap his head up. There was a young woman, probably a little younger than him, with a man around the same age slightly behind her.

Virgil straightened up, setting his paintbrush on the tissue.

“How can I help you?” he asked in his customer service voice, slipping back into the persona swiftly.

“Those flowers are beautiful,” the woman replied, gesturing to the fresh painting on his forearm. Virgil felt the intense urge to pull his sleeve down to cover it, but he had gotten wet paint on the inside of clothes before, and it was Not Pleasant, so he restrained himself.

“Thank you,” he said politely. He never knew how to react to compliments. Usually he either ended up being really awkward about it or turning so red he resembled a blush colored flower more than a blushing person.

“Would you do one on me?” the woman continued excitedly. Virgil paused.

“Sorry,” he spoke after a moment, “what?”

“Would you paint a flower on me?” she repeated in the same excited tone. The man behind her rolled his eyes fondly. “Like facepaint, although I was thinking on my arm. It’s gorgeous, and it would transfer over to Lenny,” she gestured to the man behind her, and he waved, “which would just be perfect because we’re on our honeymoon and the pictures would be amazing!”

Virgil blinked blankly after the woman stopped talking, processing.

“I would pay you,” she added after a moment of him standing there, and it was probably not a good thing that he immediately spurred into action with those words, but also money was a great motivator and he would die on that hill.

“I mean- sure?” he tried, sounding less like he was agreeing to something and more like he was five and asking a stranger to help find his parents who he lost in Target while trying not to cry.

That didn’t seem to phase the woman, though, who clapped her hands excitedly.

“Great! My name’s Penelope, by the way.” She handed her purse to Lenny, who took it automatically. Penelope turned back to Virgil, a megawatt smile on display. Virgil’s face hurt just looking at it.

“Uh, I guess I’ll get some chairs,” Virgil stammered, mentally trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. “Meet me over by those paintings?” he asked, pointing over to his gallery, which had the most floor space available. Penelope nodded, brunette curls bouncing, before turning on her heel and heading the way he pointed, Lenny following obediently.

Five minutes later, Virgil was sitting on a chair with Penelope perched on the other one, facing him. He had his paint palette resting on a stool next to him, brush in hand. He thanked any gods he could think of that it was a really slow day today.

“So, what flower would you like?” he asked as Penelope showed him the spot on her upper arm that she wanted it on.

“Which do you recommend?” she asked in return.

“Well, it depends if you’re going for a specific look or a meaning,” he answered. Penelope looked up at Lenny, who was standing behind her. Virgil had offered him a chair, but he had insisted he didn’t need one, planning on looking around the gift shop.

“What do you think, babe?” She smiled up at him, and he smiled back, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Maybe one that shows we’re newlyweds?” he offered shyly, and Virgil took a second to admire their completely opposing personalities that somehow fit together perfectly. They seemed to have a good relationship.

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” Penelope exclaimed, looking back at Virgil. “Are there flowers that mean that?”

“Of course,” Virgil replies instantly. “There are flowers for almost anything. Here.” He set his paintbrush down and pulled out his phone, typing in a few words before turning it to show the couple.

“These are peonies,” he explained as Penelope gently took his phone and started scrolling through the pictures, Lenny leaning over to watch over her shoulder. “Generally they symbolize love, happiness, wealth, and romance, but the different colors mean specific things. White is used in wedding bouquets, but it isn’t actually related to weddings symbolically. Light pink, however, symbolizes romance, luck and prosperity. Hot pink and red are more intense feelings of love, but yellow is for new beginnings and fresh starts.” He paused to take a breath, flushing slightly when he realized he’d been rambling. He cleared his throat uncertainly (daffodil). “Anyway, yeah,” he finished lamely.

Penelope looked up at him brightly.

“That’s amazing that you know that off the top of your head!” she said enthusiastically, handing him his phone back. He tucked it into his pocket. “I think we’d like the light pink, right honey?”

Lenny nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Penelope settled into her seat, and, with an assurance she would be fine if he left, Lenny disappeared to wander around the store. Virgil adjusted his chair so he was on Penelope’s side, her arm a blank canvas in front of him. He didn’t paint peonies very often, never really identifying with the meanings, but he did paint some flowers just for fun, and their petals were a nice challenge, so he wasn’t going in completely blind.

With a quiet warning that the paint would be cold, he started, losing himself in the familiar process. He didn’t notice when his lunch break came and went, until he was brought back to the world by the finished painting in front of him. Three light pink peonies took up Penelope’s upper arm, white baby’s breath (everlasting love) interspersed with the leaves and blush colored petals.

Virgil straightened and arched his back with a slight groan, spine popping loudly. He was getting too old to sit hunched over for so long. He glanced around quickly, noticing that the other cashier had switched out, but they were reading a new book than they were yesterday, which meant there had hardly been anyone in.

Penelope put her phone down, turning to him in anticipation.

“Are you done?” she asked politely, and, when Virgil replied in the positive, she quickly called Lenny over. Penelope stood up to meet him, and they both admired the flowers on each other with matching expressions of awe.

“These are amazing,” Lenny murmured quietly, tracing his fingers lightly over the flowers on Penelope’s arm. It was the type of statement that didn’t require an answer, so Virgil just left them to each other, cleaning up his paint. His poor little travel palette wasn’t built for such detailed pieces and was on its last legs, and Virgil made a note to grab a new one when he got home.

For now, he clicked the lids shut and wiped his brush off, walking to throw the tissues he had used away. When he got back, it was to Penelope accosting him cheerily, shoving money into his hands.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She backed away from him slightly, leaving him flustered and clutching the bills so tightly he heard them crinkle. “You’ve made our honeymoon that much better, and that’s saying something!”

She laughed brightly, and Lenny chuckled quietly, grabbing her hand and intertwining their fingers. (light pink rose) (joy of life, youth, romance)

“Happy to be of service,” Virgil said, smiling slightly, and it was the most genuine one he had had all day. Penelope was a bit much, but he was glad he did something to make them so happy.

“We have lunch reservations,” Lenny muttered to Penelope quietly.

“Oh!” she spun around, grabbing her purse. “You’re right!” She turned back around again, hair settling around her shoulders in a way that looked almost unnatural. “Thank you so much…” she trailed off expectantly, and Virgil stared at her for a moment before he realized what she was asking.

“Oh, uh, Virgil,” he stuttered. “My name’s Virgil, sorry.”

“Thank you so much, Virgil,” Penelope said without missing a beat, her smile softening.

“It’s no problem,” he replied, giving another small smile.

She and Lenny walked out the door hand in hand, and it was only then that Virgil dared to look at the cash in his hand.

“Oh my god…” he whispered to himself, feeling like his eyes were bugging out of his head.

The door to their apartment cracked against the wall with a bang, and Virgil heard someone (Remy) swear loudly. He slammed the door behind him and sped into the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch while Emile and Remy took a second to hastily back away from the heart attacks that had just been triggered.

“What is wrong with you?” Remy whisper-shouted, hand on his chest.

“I sold a painting today,” Virgil answered, practically vibrating (rhododendron) (energy). He set his bag heavily on the floor in front of him, pulling eight-hundred and ten bucks out of his backpack and setting it on the table. The museum took ten percent of his earnings from selling the paintings, so that was what he made out of nine hundred. He preferred to get the money in cash, so at the end of any day he sold a painting he took the money from the museum’s store of money. His manager was well aware of this, and had no problem with it.

“That’s great, Virge,” Emile encouraged with a smile (goldenrod). Remy narrowed his eyes suspiciously (mint).

“And?” he asked. Virgil vibrated more. (rhododendron!)

“This lady saw me painting on myself and asked for me to paint on her,” he said quickly. “And she was really nice so I painted some peonies for her and her soulmate.”

“Did she pay you?” Emile asked, seeing where the story was going. Virgil nodded jerkily, and pulled another few bills out of his backpack. Three Benjamin Franklins stared up at them.

“Three hundred dollars?” Remy screeched, diving for the money as if to inspect if it was real.

“She paid me three hundred dollars to spend two hours painting on her arm!” Virgil shouted back, sounding panicked. “By the time I realized how much she paid me they were gone!”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Emile soothed, holding his hands out. “Deep breaths.”

Simultaneously, both Remy and Virgil sucked in breaths loudly. Emile huffed a laugh out.

“Virgil,” he addressed calmly (lavender), “did she ever indicate that she felt like she had paid too much?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Did she seem generous when you talked with her?”

After a second, he nodded.

“Then I don’t think there’s a problem here,” Emile finished confidently (fern). “She probably thought you were sweet, thought your art was worth a lot, which it is, and felt comfortable spending that much money.”

Virgil clenched his hands into fists.

“That’s a lot of money,” he whispered, staring at the cash on the table.

“Which,” Emile put an arm around Virgil’s shoulders, tugging him in for a hug, “is a good thing. Right, Remy?”

“Right, yeah,” Remy replied absentmindedly, holding the money up to the light and squinting. He suddenly turned to look at them quickly, possibly sustaining whiplash in the process. He grinned (clematis) (mischief). “How much coffee do you think I could buy with eleven hundred dollars?”

Virgil was still worried (christmas rose) and a little shaken up about the money, but he walked into work the next day armed with a new palette and positive reinforcement from Emile and Remy, so he wasn’t too upset.

Which was good, because if he was any more anxious (foxglove) he probably would have fainted when people started asking for him.

Apparently, Penelope and Lenny had gone out the previous night and recommended a bus full of people to hit Virgil up for some flower paintings, providing eager instructions to where they could find him.

And his boss, the jerk, had only found this predicament amusing, as well as seen a golden opportunity for more money.

So there Virgil was, a full sized palette on his lap, a sign reading “Skin-safe paintings! Seniors and Children - $15 Adults - $20” propped up next to him, and a line seventeen people long, wrapping around the store.

Still, by the end of the day Virgil had made more money than he usually did in a week, and sold three paintings. Three! In one day!

So the trend continued. Every day, Virgil gave one tour, set everything up, and painted on people for the rest of the day. He still did mostly flowers, regaling people with as many symbolisms as they were willing to listen to, but he moved on to simple requests as well, a dinosaur here, a sunset there.

When he really thought about it, the only downside was that he didn’t get to paint on himself much anymore. He spent all day painting on other people, and then spent his free time painting on canvases, because more work meant more exposure meant that Virgil had a backlog of five different commissions he needed to complete before he could even think about painting anything for fun.

But he still loved art, and he loved seeing the happy faces that his art created, and he was making enough money for Remy to be able to move from a full-time barista to only part-time, so he could focus on his business. He was making enough money for the worry lines on Emile’s forehead to ease, not having to balance hospital bills and utilities and food on his paycheck. He was making enough money to seriously consider buying the worn-down greenhouse on the roof from the owner of the apartment building and turning it into an actual studio, instead of working in his cramped bedroom.

Which meant that painting on himself was at the back of his thoughts. He still kept up with his soulmates, of course, painting little amaryllis flowers (pride) next to announcements, drawing bells of Ireland (luck) on days when there was a big event happening. And, on a particularly good day, he even painted ambrosia (love is reciprocated) next to Heart’s nightly “I love you!”

They still didn’t understand. Virgil didn’t think they ever would. He had never wanted to talk to his soulmates, never wanted to be more than little doodles in the corners of the pages of their lives, but-

But now he did, a little. He wanted them to know him, to talk with him like they talked to each other, like he tried to talk to them. He wanted them to be happy for him, for how his life was finally getting really really good. He wanted them to laugh about how Remy was so scared to buy Emile a ring that Virgil had to do it for him. He wanted them to hold him when things got too overwhelming. He wanted them to be there, be in his life, and it scared him. (aspen)

Because when it came down to it, it was Virgil who was keeping them at arm's length. He was the one that had never taken those first steps, and he was the one that felt like he never would. Despite the fact that he tried to talk to them, he wasn’t doing it in a way they could understand him, and that was his fault, not theirs.

So what did he do, now that he finally thought that maybe he could take those first steps? It was up to him and him alone to make that move, and it was something he didn’t know how to handle.

Lucky for him, he didn’t end up having to.

“Thank you!” the little boy said cheerily, waving. He had a manatee on his forearm, something he had, according to his father, been excited (red and yellow roses) about getting all week.

“Of course,” Virgil replied with a smile, waving back. “Come back any time.”

He plopped his brush into his paint glass, replacing it with another one that had been soaking for a while. He wiped it off on the rag draped across his leg, cracked a few of his joints, and glanced up at the next person in line.

“You can take a seat here.” He waved a hand at the seat, seeing them sit down delicately in his peripheral. He was focused on getting the leftover paint out of his brush, and he talked as he worked. “Do you have an idea of what you would like?”

“I was hoping for a flower,” the person responded after a moment. Their voice was masculine and even, sounding elegant.

“Do you know which one?” Virgil asked, finishing up with his brush and finally meeting the person’s gaze, adjusting himself in his chair.

They were attractive, definitely. Brown hair with blonde highlights, skin just a shade darker than a natural tan, piercing heterochromatic eyes, one a deep brown and the other a lighter version, shot with something that looked like gold in the sunlight shining through the windows.

“I was hoping you would choose.” They held out their hand. “Would you do it on the back, please.”

“Sure,” Virgil managed to get out through his teeth. The stranger’s stare was assessing, almost judgemental, or suspicious (mint).

Virgil took the stranger's hand in his, breaking eye contact and dipping his brush in the yellow.

Pansies symbolized thinking of someone, so he figured they sort of fit. Mostly he chose them because they were black and yellow, a dramatic enough color combination to fit this person, as well as match their outfit, which was an all black suit with no color but the yellow stripes on their black tie.

When Virgil was done, he let the stranger’s hand drop, turning to put his brush in the water as they inspected the artwork.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked. Virgil looked back at them.

“Virgil, he/him,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Janus,” the stranger said, his lips twitching up into a miniscule smile, “he/him as well.”

Virgil nodded, setting his palette to the side so he could stretch. Janus watched him.

“Virgil,” he started after a moment. Virgil stopped stretching to meet his eyes. “What’s that on your hand?”

“Uh, probably paint,” Virgil laughed self-consciously, looking down at his hands only to freeze in place.

Yellow and black pansies, on the back of his hand. He stared at them. He stared up at Janus. His hands started shaking, so he busied himself with his paints. He swallowed.

“You should go,” he got out, amazed at the fact that his voice was working at all. “I have more customers.”

“Okay,” Janus replied easily. “When should I come back?”

“Never” was on the tip of his tongue, years of darkness conditioning his response, but he managed to wrangle himself before he could say it. His hands stilled.

“My lunch break is at 12:30 tomorrow,” he said quietly. Janus nodded, reached into his wallet that he had pulled out at some point, and gave Virgil a fifty dollar bill. Virgil stared at the money, and, by the time he could bring himself to say something, Janus was already out the door.

As it turned out, Virgil had chosen very well when he decided to paint pansies, because “on my mind” was exactly what Janus was. Throughout the rest of the day, and night, Janus and their prospective meeting was all he could think about. His thoughts manifested themselves in a painting half the size of his wall, depicting a lone, shadowy figure staring at an incoming storm.

Janus was waiting for him outside the exit of the gift shop, dressed the same as the day before, a black suit with small yellow accents. Virgil briefly contemplated just turning around and acting like he forgot, but that was when Janus spotted him, waving him over with a small half-smile. Virgil tried to smile back as he made his way over, but it probably just looked like a miserable grimace.

“You look nice,” Janus complimented (purple iris), once Virgil had stopped in front of him. Virgil blushed up to his ears (broom). He had dressed a little better than normal, replacing his typically paint-stained black clothes with clean black clothes and his customary hoodie, and he even let Emile do some of his makeup, which was a terrifying experience. His worn black messenger bag didn’t exactly fit, but no way was Virgil leaving it behind.

“Thanks,” Virgil muttered, ducking his head. “You do too.”

Janus nodded at him, and started walking. Virgil walked alongside him. They didn’t talk much beyond the customary ‘how has your day been,’ both giving bullshit answers. At least it wasn’t only Virgil who was feeling awkward.

They stopped at a cafe not far from the museum. Janus walked in confidently (pink tulip) while Virgil shuffled in behind him.

The cafe was completely and totally average looking. Brown and beige with green furniture, a chalkboard menu with reasonable prices, topped off with two bored looking employees leaning with their elbows on the counter, chins resting in hand. They looked up when Janus and Virgil approached the counter.

Janus ordered “his usual”, which Virgil blinked at. The employees seemed to know, though, because one just started pressing buttons on the screen while the other moved to start making the drink. Virgil stuttered through ordering a plain coffee and a croissant, pulling his wallet out of his bag only to freeze when Janus started leading them away, apparently having used Flash powers to speed pay before Virgil could.

Virgil didn’t know how to react to that.

They sat at a two person table next to the window, and the light from the overcast day outside gave the left side of Janus’ face a silver glow that directly contrasted with the warmer brown in his left eye. Virgil twisted his fingers together under the table.

A moment later, the barista was calling Janus’ name and he was out of his seat, leaving Virgil alone as he went to get the drinks. Virgil stared at the table. He was starting to itch for his paints.

Janus sat down again and set Virgil’s coffee and croissant in front of him without a word. Virgil immediately dug into the croissant just to have something to do, and Janus observed him with a blank face. Virgil didn’t meet his eyes as he finished his croissant and washed it down with some of the coffee.

Janus still didn’t say anything even when Virgil was clearly done eating and drinking for the moment, leaving him to squirm in his seat and get more and more uncomfortable (balsamine). Virgil was heavily resisting the urge just excuse himself to the bathroom to paint on his fucking pinky finger if he had to, both because he wanted to make a good impression and also because Janus would know that was what he was doing.

It was another full minute before Virgil’s hand started gravitating to his forearm, and as soon as he started subconsciously scratching at his hoodie he knew he was done. He gripped his arm so hard his knuckles were white.

“Are you going to fucking say anything?” he hissed out through his teeth, gaze fixed firmly on the table in front of him. He was not relapsing in any form because of this asshole who apparently just liked to watch him squirm.

“I was waiting for you to start,” Janus replied coolly. Virgil scoffed, hackles rising. (petunia) (anger)

“Right, because I so obviously look like I’m about to jump into twenty questions,” he spat, readjusting his position on the seat to face more towards the room with his back to the window. Janus put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I should have known by now that you’re not one for starting conversations.”

It hit Virgil like a slap to the face.

Of course. Of course Janus was mad and frustrated ith Virgil. He’d- He’d been waiting his whole life to actually learn anything about Virgil, been waiting his whole life to meet him, and when he finally did, it was fucking… Virgil. Virgil would be mad too.

What was he even doing here? (love lies bleeding) (homelessness)

Janus had quickly blanched after he spoke, eyes widening and mouth snapping closed, but the damage had already been done. Virgil stood up sharply, swung his bag over his shoulder and pushed his chair in behind him. Janus followed him up.

“Wait, Virgil, I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did,” Virgil interrupted quietly. “It’s okay.”

He turned on his heel and walked out the door and onto the street, turning in the direction of the museum. Janus followed him out and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him around.

“I’m sorry,” Janus rushed out. “You’re right, I did mean it, but I-” He stopped, looking angry at himself. “Don’t leave.”

“You look like a black tulip,” Virgil replied, voice barely a whisper above the hustle and bustle of the city around them. “I think you’re a bit more like a thorn apple, though.”

Janus looked dreadfully confused.

“That’s okay, I think,” Virgil assured him with a smile he forced onto his face. “It’s used for medicines.” He paused. “Thank you for the coffee, Janus. You don’t have to see me again.”

And with that, he ducked his head, spun around, and got lost in the crowd, leaving Janus standing in the flow of people with a furrowed brow and a frown adorning his face.

Virgil was quiet after that. He spent the next few days in a haze of self-loathing (lily) and the worst bit of it was that his one escape, one alternative, had been taken away from him. He couldn’t paint on himself anymore, because Janus and the others would see it loud and clear when they so obviously didn’t want him to be a part of their life.

Obviously, because they hadn’t said anything either. The soul-link had stayed completely and utterly silent, until the last of the ink and paint had washed away and, for the first time since Virgil was four, his skin was completely blank.

“I ruined it,” he said miserably (rue) into Remy’s thigh, where he was smushing his face as he laid face down across the couch. Emile rubbed his ankles soothingly.

“You did not,” Remy replied hotly (tiger lily). “That dickhead was the one who ruined it, you did nothing wrong.”

“Uh, yes I did?” Virgil looked up at him, flabbergasted. “What do you call twenty years of radio silence?”

“You working through life without catering to your soulmates?” Emile piped up from the end of the couch. “Virgil, you weren’t allowed to talk to them, and then when you were, you weren’t in the right headspace to. There’s nothing wrong with that, and if they can’t respect that then you don’t want to know them anyway.” (alchemilla mollis (lady’s mantle)) (comfort, I'm here for you)

Virgil dropped his head into Remy’s thigh with a groan.

“But that doesn’t actually stop you from wanting to?” Remy guessed. Virgil nodded. Remy ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair. “We’ll work on that,” he promised. “But for now, just take it one day at a time, paint on whatever the fuck you want, and know that you haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”

“Okay,” Virgil agreed, although it was muffled by Remy’s sweatpants. Remy ruffled his hair.

Virgil tried really, really hard to believe what Remy said. He threw himself into work and got through a record amount of commissions, enough that he did actually buy the greenhouse on the roof from the apartment owner and started hiring people to help him renovate it by adding insulation, drywall, and all the other important things that Virgil had spent hours hyperfocusing on at three in the morning that were needed for creating a place paintings could be in safely.

That was what was on his mind as he cleaned up his paints for the day two weeks later, having closed his little station in the shop ten minutes ago. What was on his to-do list for when he got home. He was meeting with his neighbor, also conveniently a builder of houses, to go over the stuff they had to still acquire before they could start installing stuff, and he had to call the electrician to get him to come out and see how to hopefully hook up the greenhouse to either a generator or the building’s main powerline.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize someone was standing next to him, waiting to be noticed, until they cleared their throat.

Virgil jumped, head snapping up, only to fall back down again with a sigh. Janus crossed his arms.

“Well, I feel welcomed,” he deadpanned. Virgil set all his paints into their tray and picked it up, carrying it over to the storage closet. Janus followed him, leaving an imaginary trail of pink begonia flowers behind him (beware).

“Are you here to follow me home? Murder me in my apartment? Rape me in an alley?” Virgil asked tiredly, sliding the tray onto its shelf as Janus hovered at the doorway. He sputtered at Virgil’s words.

“Wh- no! What is wrong with you? Why would you think that?” Janus stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Virgil ignored him as he locked the storage closet behind him and went back to fold the table and chairs up.

“I thought I told you that you didn’t need to see me again,” Virgil pointed out, just in case Janus had forgotten and a guilty conscience had driven him to seek Virgil out.

“I know,” Janus said, looking painfully out of place in his suit surrounded by overpriced gift shop merchandise. “I wanted to see you.”

“Didn’t get a chance to say everything you wanted to?” Virgil asked, placing one of the chairs against the wall and moving to fold up the other one.

“No,” Janus said again, and, when Virgil risked a glance over at him, he even looked a little sheepish. A little ashamed (white peony). “I’m here to apologize for what I said, actually. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s okay,” Virgil shrugged. He moved on to the table, lifting two of the legs and laying it flat on its top, then crouching to push the legs in.

“It’s not,” Janus insisted. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad, that’s not why I invited you for coffee.”

“Why else would you have invited me?” Virgil’s tone was absent-minded as he focused wholly on the task in front of him and not at all on the man watching him. He picked up the table and leaned it against the wall, then went to go collect his things.

“Because I wanted to get to know you,” Janus answered seriously. “But I made you uncomfortable and then was exceedingly rude, so I apologize. That wasn’t my intention when I asked to meet with you, but it’s what I did.”

Virgil’s steps halted just barely, but he managed to save it in time to look like he had just tripped a little. He hurried over to his bag. Janus continued to follow him.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asked, a little desperate. Virgil felt bad, he did, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say. Emotion was swirling in his chest and he wasn’t used to it. He was a little concerned he was going to start crying, which would be incredibly stupid and embarrassing. He swung his bag onto his shoulder.

Janus had been perfectly clear at the cafe. He was probably only apologizing because the other’s wanted their chance too. Or because he wanted Virgil to get his hopes up.

Yes, Virgil was self-aware to know those thoughts were paranoid. No, Virgil was not going to do anything about them until he was alone in his room.

He was pushing open the door, one step away from freedom.

“You stopped painting,” Janus called, obviously a last-ditch attempt. Unfortunately for Virgil, it worked. He paused. “Why’d you stop painting to us?”

“Why’d you stop writing?” Virgil asked without permission from his brain, turning around and letting the door close behind him. Janus’ shoulders relaxed when he got a response.

“We were trying to give you your space.”

“I was trying to give you yours.”

They stared at each other. Virgil, again, had no idea what to say. He contemplated turning around and leaving.

Janus must have been able to tell, because all of a sudden words were rushing out.

“We liked your paintings,” he said. “They’re very good. You’re very good. But we didn’t really get them, right?” Janus was desperate again. It wasn’t a good look on him. “Didn’t get what you were trying to say.” He stopped, then scrambled for the phone in his pocket so abruptly it made Virgil flinch. He swiped it open with fervor and navigated to something quickly, before turning it towards Virgil.

On it was a painting of a sycamore leaf with a little maroon puff of a flower, next to a paragraph of pen. The skin tone it was on wasn’t Janus’.

“Curiosity, right?” Janus asked. He swiped the picture. It was a hundred-leaved rose. “Pride.” Bells of Ireland. “Luck.” Sweet William. “Masculinity.” Eustoma. “Gratitude.” Cosmos flower. “Peacefulness.” Amaryllis. “Pride again.” Ambrosia. “Love is reciprocated.”

Throughout Janus’ apparent slideshow of flowers Virgil had painted on himself, Virgil had had mixed reactions. The blood had drained steadily out of his face and his hands had started shaking, but he thought he might be smiling a bit, and he knew the warmth in his chest was a good thing.

They understood. They got it. They hadn’t before, but something had changed. They understood (snowdrop, caduceus) (hope, growth and healing).

Janus swiped to a picture of someone’s shirtless torso. It was covered in so many purple hyacinths Virgil couldn’t tell which skin tone was under them.

“Depression,” Janus said slowly, before lowering his phone. He pointed to himself. “Power, elegance and strength, but also disguise and deceitful charms.”

Virgil closed his eyes, the blood in his face that had left quickly making its way back into a light blush.

“Sorry,” he apologized. He didn’t know why Janus seemed to take away his voice, but here it was again, barely a whistle in the stale air of the empty gift shop. He opened his eyes. “I didn’t think you would understand.”

“I didn’t,” Janus assured him. “Until I went home. We, uh, we compiled all the pictures we had into an album and spent days getting the meanings for them.”

Well. Now they were both blushing.

“I, uh,” Janus stopped, turning his phone back towards himself for a second, pulling something up, before handing it to Virgil. He took it gingerly, looking down at the picture. “Blue hyacinths are really hard to come by in a city,” Janus said. “But they were the ones that the internet told me meant-”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil finished, staring down at the picture of the blue hyacinth flowers. “Making peace.”

“Right,” Janus confirmed lamely. They stood there. Virgil stared at the phone.

“Do you want to get coffee?” Virgil blurted out after one second too long of awkward silence, looking up suddenly. He cringed. “We can… play twenty questions?”

To his infinite relief, Janus started laughing. He walked towards Virgil.

“Yes.” He smiled. “I would very much like to get to know you.”

It was four months later, and it was hot outside.

The dead of summer was not kind, and Virgil wiped sweat away from his forehead. He had just hauled three new canvases up to his studio, and he was steadily dripping with exertion. Thank all the Gods that the studio was insulated, because the fans had been running for a while, and stepping into the room was a breath of fresh, blessedly cool air.

Virgil struggled with the canvases (all the size of building murals… why was this his life) to the wall, plopping them down gracelessly. He breathed out aggressively, cracking his back.

“Okay,” he said out loud, talking to himself. “Now just gotta finish this bad boy.” (anemone) (anticipation) He turned to the wall opposite the door. Stretched across the entire wall (which was over ten feet, both upwards and side-to-side) was a sheet of canvas, pulled taught with a frame that Virgil had to make himself. It depicted an ocean scene, with a reef shark as the focal point among colorful corral and vibrant fish.

He’d been commissioned by a museum in California, who was paying him a truly ridiculous amount of money to create this portable mural for them. He was rather enjoying the big size. (laurel) (ambition, success)

Of course, it was a little bit of a challenge to get the higher up and harder to reach parts.

Which is how, thirty minutes later, Virgil found himself swaying to the beat of My Chemical Romance as he hung upside down off of a pipe he had temporarily installed to run parallel to both the painting and the ceiling, at the perfect height for Virgil to either perch on or hang from, as he needed to.

(Yes, he knew there were things made for this type of thing. He had ordered one, but it wasn’t there yet. Plus, this was more fun.)

His knees were hooked over the pipe, his pallet held securely right-side up next to his head as he focused to paint some of the finishing details on the school of fish he was working on.

It was only when the blood had well and truly rushed to his head that he transferred his brush to between his teeth, crunching sideways and grabbing the pipe with his hand to hang a little less upside down and a bit more sideways, to give some of his internal juices time to return to their proper spots before he swung back down to continue.

This was also when he conveniently noticed the other presences in his studio. He turned his head with a raised eyebrow.

Remy raised his right back.

“I swear, I don’t know where he gets this from,” he told the others. Patton giggled slightly, Remus following his example but doubling every aspect of it. Roman and Janus appeared to be fascinated. Logan just looked absolutely gobsmacked.

“How are you doing that comfortably?” he asked, dumbfounded. Virgil shrugged. He set the paint palette on his stomach and grabbed the brush out of his mouth.

“I’m creative,” he answered simply.

“Obviously,” Roman cut in with obvious awe. “That’s absolutely incredible, Virgil.”

Virgil blushed, and Remy snickered at him. He managed to glare at his brother through the heat in his face.

“Out,” he ordered, half joking and half not (hydrangea) (brotherly love). Remy seemed to understand, because he put his hands up in surrender.

“I’ll leave you to your monkeying around,” he replied, cackling at the groans he received and amusedly returning Patton’s high five on his way out. (larkspur)

“How do you get down from there?” Janus asked after the door closed, coming closer, until he was almost under Virgil.

“It’s not very hard,” Virgil answered. He put the brush back in his mouth and grabbed the palette, unhooking his legs so he was just hanging from his hand. From there, it was only a few foot drop, and he bent his knees in a practiced motion as he landed. When he stood back up, Janus was less than a foot away.

“You,” he said, something in his voice Virgil couldn’t decipher, “are a very interesting person, Virgil.”

“Thank you,” Virgil replied, deciding to take the comment in stride. He walked over to his workbench and set his palette in the sink and put his brush in the cup full of paint water, making a note to clean them later. He also grabbed a damp towel, ringing it out and then turning around to face the room as he cleaned paint off his hands.

His soulmates wandered around the studio curiously. It occurred to Virgil that they’d never been in there before. He leaned against the counter and watched them.

Remus was going through the pile of scrapped canvases, oohing and aahing at some. He appeared to be sorting them. Patton had gravitated towards his little gallery of half-finished paintings, the ones he had hung as a reminder to complete them soon. He seemed to have made a game of guessing what they would turn into. Virgil made a note to have him do that when he was in the mood to make something new, some of the ideas sounded really good.

Roman was tracing the flowers Virgil had painted on the walls when he first was finishing up the studio a few weeks ago, running his fingers against the raised paints of a field of brilliant marigold (creativity). Logan had stopped in front of the mural, inspecting the dozens of different sea creatures that were depicted. Virgil had done his research to make sure that they were all accurate, as well as realistic to that kind of coral reef. Logan seemed pleased with the product, hands flapping lightly at his sides as he muttered under his breath at the painting.

Janus settled next to him, dressed in casual black sweats and a yellow t-shirt. Apparently, even he wasn’t immune to the heat.

“What do you think?” Virgil asked him as they surveyed the studio. It had come a long way, and was something Virgil was extremely proud of. Next to finally, finally, meeting his soulmates and having not done anything to himself since he was sixteen, it was probably his greatest accomplishment.

“I think it’s amazing,” Janus answered him softly. Virgil let out a breath, a weight he didn’t know he was holding lifting off his shoulders. Janus turned to him fully, his gaze pinning Virgil in place. “You’re amazing, Virgil. I’m sorry we didn’t see it sooner.” (white orchid)

Virgil swallowed, and looked back out to the studio. At his progress, and his life, and the people that he had known for all of it but only met a few months ago.

“White tulips,” Virgil said, equally as soft. He looked back at Janus with a smile. “Forgiveness.”

Janus smiled back, shuffling closer until their sides were pressed together and his arm could lay across Virgil’s shoulders.

Daffodils

White roses

Yellow peonies

Plumerias

Yellow orchids

Calatheas

(new beginnings)

————

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#sanders sides fanfiction #ts virgil #ts sleep #ts emile #ts sides #ts janus #i feel like tagging the other sides is clickbait because they all have one to zero lines...#penguin writes

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