One Of Us

Chapter Seven

The corner of the sofa had become an almost comfortable place for Virgil — well, as comfortable as he could be in the commons. He'd found that if he sat quietly enough, headphones on and legs tucked beneath him, this was a space in which he could exist peacefully without being completely alone.

Of course, there were still plenty of times when Virgil had to abandon his post and retreat back into his room. As far as he could tell, Patton didn't entirely mind his presence — in fact, he would sometimes go so far as to try and make conversation with Virgil, and that was when the fight or flight response kicked in. (He always chose the latter.) Patton had a tendency to be so bubbly and warm that it came out forced, all Heys and How are yous and When's the last time you came to dinners in quick succession. Over the course of a few days, Virgil had timed out how long he could stand it before sinking out. He averaged at forty-two seconds.

Roman was far less friendly in his tolerance. While he rarely complained about the darker trait openly, Virgil could feel the occasional uneasy glances in his direction digging into his skin like the edge of a sword. It was kind of funny, really; no matter how discreetly Virgil went about his business, it was as if he radiated some terrible energy that Roman could sniff out from a mile (or, in this case, a couch cushion) away.

In short, Virgil had every reason to leave the commons well enough alone — but ever since his debate with Logan, he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe this was a place he would come to like. His corner was nice, and if he was being honest, Logan was pretty okay, too.

"Anxiety," the latter said one day as he strode into the room. There was a leather-bound tome in his arms (was it some sort of ledger?). "I need your help with something."

Virgil slid one side of his headphones off his ear — he hadn't been listening to anything, but he couldn't have heard Logan correctly — and blinked. "My help?"

"Yes," Logan said, seating himself on the opposite end of the sofa and propping the ledger open on his knees. "You're aware that Thomas is planning a merchandise release event for later this year, correct?"

"Yeah...?" Virgil said. He pushed his headphones all the way off and left them wrapped around his neck. What did this have to do with him?

"This event will also entail a meet and greet with fans," Logan said. It seemed like he was building up to something.

Inside, Virgil shuddered at the thought of meeting all those faceless people; outside, he cocked his head indifferently. Logan (who had busied himself with flipping through the book and digging a pen from his pocket) didn't notice.

"I thought it would be wise to consult you," he continued, uncapping the pen and looking up, "before I assemble a proposed schedule of events. If you're willing to assist, that is."

"Meet and greets aren't exactly my department."

"On the contrary," Logan said. "I think it safe to assume that you understand Thomas's... limitations in regard to human interaction, yes?"

Virgil's eyes flickered over Logan's straight-backed, businesslike figure. "Better than the rest of you?" he said, wrestling with his skepticism. "Probably." Logan dismissed the slight.

"Taking into account Thomas's usual —" he paused, drummed his fingers against the ledger "— anxieties with socialization, I thought you could be of some help in determining how long each session should be. Assuming there is one ten minute break after each portion of time, what duration would you recommend per session?"

It took Virgil a minute to process all that. Logan wanted his input? Since when? These were the types of decision that were usually made without him, forcing him to kick into overdrive halfway through an event and send everyone flying in different directions as he and Thomas both panicked. "I'm still not sure why you're asking me, Poindexter."