Finding The Write Words

Chapter Twelve

Virgil was a man of few words. Sure, he spoke when was necessary, but not much aside from that. Words just weren't his strong suit, when spoken aloud. There was too much that could go wrong with speaking.

He could stutter, stumbling as his words fell clumsily off his tongue.

He could say the wrong thing altogether.

It was so much easier to write things out in front of him where he didn't have to risk his voice betraying him.

So why was it so fucking hard to figure out what to say to them?

When Virgil woke up early in the afternoon, it took him a moment to remember what he had done the previous night. To remember when he wrote to Lo.

He wrote to Lo.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

What was he thinking?

What was wrong with him?

He closed his eyes and held his arm out in front of him. Took a deep breath. And opened his eyes, looking down at the arm, afraid of what he might see.

Nothing.

Not even the notes that had been there last night.

There were no words on his arms, no doodles, no smudges of ink or paint, no marker.

Nothing.

They had washed it all off.

Pat, Ro, and Lo had washed off the ink.

No... Patton, Roman, and Lo.

Two of his soulmates were male, judging by their names, and he was willing to bet that Lo was as well. He stared at his arm for longer than he cared to admit, hoping for... what, exactly?

For them to write to him?

For them to not write to him?

For him to find the words to say.

Eventually, Virgil shook his head and pulled his sleeve back down. He had to distract himself from them somehow. From the blank canvas that was his skin. If he didn't, he was sure he was going to go insane. If he wasn't already.

He prepared himself an actual meal for the first time in weeks, one earbud in his ear with loud music playing to distract his thoughts. He scanned the freelance website for jobs and actually managed to find a few that he was qualified for and sent in queries.

One person got back to him immediately. A college student who needed their essay for Music History written, claiming they had stayed out all night with friends and had forgotten completely.

Virgil didn't overly care why they needed it done. He was getting paid, and that was all that mattered. After asking for some specifications on the topic, he set to work. He researched and took notes for hours, chewing the inside of his cheek raw. And when the essay was done, he sent it immediately to the person, slouching on the couch as if it had worn him out.

It had.

But it had distracted his mind and he hadn't thought about them in hours.

His soulmates.

He looked down at his shirt sleeve, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Why hadn't they written to him? They knew now for certain that he existed, and he had written to them. Maybe they were waiting for him to write something first, he tried reasoning with himself, but he couldn't know for sure, and he certainly didn't want to pester them. He didn't want to make them hate him.