The Only One

Chapter 8

Chapter 8: TW refusal of food, mention of ED-esque behaviour, self harm

They sat there in silence, Virgil in his desk chair and Roman on the bean bag. Virgil, given his way, would be listening to music or sleeping, but he felt like he owed Roman *some* hospitality. After all, he'd climbed up to a balcony at almost midnight after sneaking out just to make sure some kid he barely knew didn't have to be alone with himself. The more Virgil thought about that, the more it boggles his mind. Who in his right mind would do all of that for him? Virgil was just Virgil. Roman had known him for all of one day and had already done more for him than he deserved in a year of friendship.

"So... what kind of things do you like?"

Roman's voice feebly attempting small talk brought Virgil away from his thoughts.

"Uh, I don't know. I guess I mainly listen to music. I used to like drawing, though, and writing, and physics, and... um... I mean, I kinda had a thing for musicals? I guess I watched a bunch of Starkid..."

Roman grinned. "Team Starkid is the best." He put on a gruff voice, "Wear a watch!" His smile faded and he pouted a bit. "But... used to? Why not anymore?"

Oh, jeez. Virgil had said "used to" to avoid lying, but he was really hoping it would go unnoticed. Now he had no choice but to talk about his feelings, and he had a really hard time with that when a real person was involved. He had little trouble expressing himself on paper, or on the internet.

"Uh, you know... I mean when... I haven't really had the mental energy or motivation to pursue many interests or hobbies these past few years."

What? That wasn't remotely close to what he had been going to say. He was going to say something about how interests often fade with adolescence, to wave the remark off. Instead, he'd been perfectly honest.

"So you were fucked up even before... before yesterday." He snorted humourlessly. "I always saw through School Virgil. He never seemed real enough, except when he'd cry for help."

Virgil wasn't quite sure how to react. This guy was too damn perceptive. How was he supposed to keep anything private with Roman in his life?

Just then, a painfully loud growl came from Roman's side of the room.

"Shit! I forgot, you've gotta be hungry! When was the last time you actually ate food?!"

Not waiting for a response, he said down the stairs and into the kitchen. Trying to finish before his dad decided to randomly poke out of his office, he spilled a bunch of milk trying to make cereal but eventually ended up with a decent bowl. He sprinted back up the stairs to his room, handed the bowl to Roman, and flopped down on his bed, panting slightly. It's best not to forget you have asthma.

"Just for me? Aren't you gonna have something? When was the last time you ate actual food?"

Lord, this guy was nosy. Why didn't Virgil mind it?

"Aw, hell no. I get super nauseous when I eat in the morning."

Roman tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, but went back to his cereal with only a little suspicion.

What did he think, that he was starving himself? Roman seriously needed to chill. Sure, Virgil didn't have the greatest eating habits, but he knew that was by virtue of being a young stupid teenager. He'd never cared that much about how his body looked. He put effort into his appearance, and he cared a little too much about The Aesthetic TM, but he always had a really fast metabolism and needed zero extra effort to be the "skinny legend" everyone always told him he was.

Roman had finished his cereal now, and the ungodly scrape of metal spoon against ceramic bowl made Virgil flinch. Great. Now Roman was done eating and he was probably supposed to make conversation. Why was he never taught what to say when a stupidly attractive kid you just met crawls into your room and eats all your cereal? Oh... right. That's why. How the hell did he even get into this situation?

"So... now that I've crawled into your house and eaten all your cereal, and now we have... let's see, six more hours to kill? Do you want to do something really, really stupid? Like, there's no one here except your dad, who seems to be in his own little universe. We could just crabwalk around your room for exactly eighty three seconds and not a single person would care."

Normally, Virgil would have snorted slightly and rolled his eyes. But nothing about his life was normal just then, so he got on his feet, stuck his knees out to the sides, and took one step and promptly fell flat on his face. This abrupt contact with the floor brought him to his senses, causing him to be rudely faced with the abject stupidity of what he had just done. He got up, brushed himself off stiffly, and sat back down in his desk chair like a stodgy businessman. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Roman smirking ever so slightly. For about three seconds he was inclined to get really, lividly, mad, but then the humour of the entire thing hit him and he burst out laughing. Roman by this point couldn't contain himself and joined in. Virgil bent over, cramped up, and fell off his chair, sending another wave of hysteria over both of them. The two sat on the floor for close to half an hour, practically unable to breathe, every little mishap sending them over again. The rest of the day was quite enjoyable for them both.

When the time came for Roman to head home and pretend he'd been at school the whole time, Virgil felt almost disappointed to see him go. He didn't like him or anything, and they weren't even really friends, but that day was the first in a very, very long time when he didn't spend every minute wishing he was somewhere else and preferably dead. He wasn't tired or sleepy, but there wasn't much for him to do aside from lie down and try to sleep. He figured his excuse of being sick would make it less suspicious that he was going to sleep at 4:30 PM.

He ended up drifting off lightly and woke up at 2 the next morning, perfectly alert but frustratingly sluggish. The very first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a sliver of light reflected onto his ceiling from somewhere on the windowsill. He turned around to find the source and found it to be his razor blade. Apparently he hadn't put it back under the box where he usually did after using it a few nights ago.

Now that he had seen it, there really wasn't a hope for him to leave it alone.

Half an hour later, he was wrapping the leggings around his leg again, 13 new cuts tingling there. He knew they would hurt like hell later, but the adrenaline and endorphins that came with cutting were blocking out the pain for now. Hating himself for proving weak to the pain, but adoring the surge of power he felt, he lay back down and woke up hours later not realizing when he had fallen asleep.