La La Land | Sanders Sides

Eight

Roman makes a point to avoid the others for days after the confrontation, his breath catching in his throat whenever he sees one of them walking towards him. Once, when he had seen Virgil, his throat had conjured an injured whistle, a low keening sound that had his face flushing and his pulse racing.

Virgil had looked upset when Prince had rushed away.

It's understandable that he's awkward around them, he knows that with an absolute certainty, but a bitter guilt curls around his stomach and he almost gags on it. He hates that he can't face them, can't face his family. He feels like crying whenever he tries to see Thomas. He doesn't even know what he'd say but anything has got to be better than the suffering silence that swells in his throat when he leaves his room.

He despises his weakness more than he despises what he's turned into and it rubs his heart raw every time he stops to think that maybe all of this could have been prevented. He could've done more, he could've controlled himself.

And now the others know about his darkness, his own stain that had dyed him grey and dull and broken. The others know about the labels that Princey had buried under layers of glamour and songs and performances and douchiness.

HIs lips curl as he works away in Thomas's head, shaping and making and snarling furiously to himself as disgust worms it's way into his mind. The creative energy he holds blackens and shrivels and he throws it away with a low growl.

Then the tears come, shuddering sobs clawing their way past the void in his throat and tumbling free. The imaginative energy around him curls into his palms, pressing against his skin. He wants it to burn and he wants to burn with it, just to get away from the darkening mark around his heart.

But maybe there isn't a heart left to darken because Roman is convinced that there's nothing left in his chest; everything is devoured by this aching nothing that envelopes him in a guilty numb.

He's created enough, he decides abruptly, scrubbing his tears away and shoving his shattered pieces back inside his chest. Thomas should be good for another video and probably some more. At least he's keeping up with this now; at least he's doing his job.

"You know what your moping reminds me of?" Virgil asks from the bed as Roman rips open the bedroom door. The darker trait is sprawled on the royal's bed, completely uncaring that he's intruding.

Roman prays his eyes aren't visibly red and puffy as he crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow regally. "I assume you will tell me anyway."

"That Bo Burnham song. Left Brain, Right Brain."

That's not the answer he was expecting. His arms drop to his side and he snorts in vague amusement. "Okay, Virgil. What do you want?"

"Nothing. I don't particularly want to talk to you and listen to the slightly annoying tinge of self-loathing in your tone. I did that first dude, I thought creativity meant you could create your own 'trend'."

That strikes a chord and Roman holds back his wince, waiting for the anger, the indignation that's sure to follow. He doubts that he could hold himself together long enough to be angry anyway. "Virgil, I'm tired. Just go away, please."

It must be because he said please because Virgil is gone before Roman can fully exhale.

Somehow, he doubts that he was the cause of the hurt tears brimming in his counterpart's eyes. No, that ugly sheen wasn't him. Virgil had outgrown Roman's petty insults and pathetic attempts at banter and reconciliation.

He settles on his bed, snapping his fingers to change into something comfier than his usual outfit. He sits up moments later, when nothing happens and he's left in his regular attire. He tries again channelling his inner thoughts, furrows his eyebrows in concentration.

Nothing happens.

You can't do it, he hears; a breath of nothing caressing his inner ear. You can't do it, Roman. Why can't you do it?

I don't know, he wants to scream, but in his mouth is that goddamn silence and he feels it eat at him and eat at him and he thinks that maybe it should just finish him off because he can't live like this.

He dresses manually, slowly, carefully, afraid that he might accidently rip his own skin off. He's wild like that, unpredictable. He is his own thunderstorm, raging and quiet and calm in his core. His mind is a tangle of thoughts, a mess of this and that and oh god, he's thinking too much and he really, really needs to sleep.

If he figures out in that weirdly quiet moment that he's touch starved, well, nobody has to know.