It's Hardly Art {Roman Angst}

Suffering's a Chore

There was no good or bad.

There were no heroes or villains.

There was no "pure" or "dastardly".

There was right and wrong.

There was everyone and... there was Roman.

Roman who was always wrong, no matter which side (heh, Patton would be proud of that one, if he even liked Roman after this fiasco) he chose, it was he who was in the wrong. Even when he went against his instincts and chose the other side, he was wrong, because he was Roman, and Roman is always wrong.

No matter what.

He let out a grunt of frustration, flopping down onto his unbelievably extra bed. Ugh, why did anyone even like him?

Oh wait, they don't.

He huffed, snuggling closer into the sweater he had grabbed as soon as he sunk out. He didn't deserve his prince costume anyway. His stupid, idiotic dreams were always getting in the way, he might as well start spring cleaning and throw them out. Starting with his stupid getup.

He set up his prince tunic on a mannequin, which he owned in case of clothing inspiration, even though that was more of Virgil's thing. Of course it was Virgil's thing, what good was Roman for? The other Sides could act just as well and- ugh, this wasn't going anywhere.

He stared at the costume, the stupid, idiotic, creation of his that he had once adored. He curled his arms around himself as he shook. What was he doing? Why was he always so... horrible? Wrong? Painstakingly extra?

He sank to the floor, tears trailing down his cheeks.

He just wanted to be loved. Or, at least, feel loved. He thought Janus was wrong, they told him Janus was wrong, that siding with Janus made him wrong, and evil. As the hero, he wasn't supposed to side with the villain.

But then Janus wasn't the villain, and Roman wasn't the hero, and Roman was in the wrong even when he took their side. He just... wanted to be loved. He poked fun at Janus' name because he thought they wanted that. And if he did what they wanted, they'd love him.

Now, he's figured out how much of an impossible feat that is.

He grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk, leaning up and quickly cutting off his sash with a snip! He watched as it fluttered towards the floor. He wiped the tears from his eyes before picking it up, staring at the jagged ends.

Snip!

Snip! Snip! Snip!

Cut, and cut, and cut some more. Watch the pieces fall to the ground as he snipped his worthless, good for nothing sash. A staple of his idiocy, really.

Snip! The last pieces fell into a neat pile. He grabbed a handful and threw it to the side, hiccuping sobs leaving his mouth. Biting the sleeve of his sweater, muffling his cries, he glanced back up to the rest of his outfit. It almost looked naked without the bright red.

It was still too prince-like to be worthy of him, though. The gold- stupid gold, stood out amongst the white.

He stood, picking at the edge of one of the gold lines. Seams ripped from cloth, and with a harsh tug, the gold was riiiiiiipped off.

He ripped off another. And another. And another. Until, finally, the chest of his shirt was practically ruined, along with the collar and sleeves.

It was almost perfect. Except for...

His logo. The one he had spent days over, carefully sketching picture after picture, searching for the perfect logo that represented him. All of him.