Tally Marks (Prinxiety and Logicality)

A Lesson in Help

"Okay, okay, okay," Virgil breathed, bunching his hands into fists in his hoodie pocket. He walked slower than he ever had in his life, but he knew he had to do it today, or he never would. "You're cool, you're cool! Everything, is, fine."

Everything was not fine, and he was not cool.

Doubt flooded his mind with every dragging step, and he let his hair drape over his face like a shield. 'It's Princey. Even if he's a huge dork, and not incredibly intelligent, he is the literal embodiment of romance. He's an expert, and kind of incredibly handsome. I don't know if I can do this. I'm gonna screw it up.'

The door came into view. 'Fuck, fuck, okay. Be cool, stay chill, it's okay, you can do this. It's just Princey, it'll be fine. Worst comes to worst, he instantly shoots me down. That's fine. If he says yes...we'll just go from there.'

Even as he repeated this mantra, the image of the tally mark on his forehead made his stomach curl. 'What if he's disgusted? Or disappointed? Maybe it really is marker, and he'll call me an idiot for believing in something so stupid...'

Virgil stopped, the Prince's regal white door shining, spotless. He cleared his throat, smoothing his hair in a way he hoped to god looked decent, and stepped forward to meet his destiny; to, hopefully, start his new life with romance and adventure.

He smiled grudgingly. 'Maybe he isn't such a good influence on me after all.'

Just as he was about to knock for the prince, Virgil stopped, listening intently. There, he could make out a few whimpers: an agonized groan, full-on sobs growing worse by the second. Each noise sounded muffled, like he must have himself in his bed, pouring his sadness out into a pillow.

His face softened. Roman upset himself very easily, over very small things, and had the highest standards he'd ever seen in a person. But those sniffles, and ugly chokes and coughs?

He'd been through that. When you have to wait all day, putting on a brave face for weeks, not feeling quite right, when something in you just. Snaps. And suddenly everything wrong with your world is directly in front of you, trying to break you down. You're ashamed, and almost begging for someone to find you lying there, red and wet with grief...and no one ever does.

He knocked. "Hi Roman, can I please come in?" Virgil tried to speak with kindness and affection, consequentially feeling very out of place and heartily unlike himself.

Only feeble snorts answered him, but then a sigh, and the distinct noise of a body rolling reluctantly out of bed, feebly coughing on the way to the door.

It opened, and Roman took to supporting himself against the doorframe, looking the least princely Virgil had ever seen him. His hair stuck up in odd directions, tear tracks visibly lining his face and the resulting stains on his suit, which was disheveled and missing the sash. His skin didn't radiate, and the ever-present fire in his eyes vanished. He wrung his hands, and appeared to be wearing...gloves?

"Greetings, Patton, how may I be of service to-" Roman's eyes shot to Virgil. "You are most definitely not Patton."

"I'm not," Virgil agreed with a light smirk, "Sorry to disappoint you." The prince began to deflate, and Virgil lost his smile. "Hey, what's going on with you, you look horrible."

The prince had the effort in him to give a weak scoff, but it didn't reach his bloodshot eyes.

Virgil frowned. "Come on, you may be a good actor, but you're completely soaked with tears right now."

"There's nothing wrong," Roman sighed, wiping his eyes.

"I know you're lying. Tell me what happened, you're obviously hiding something."