Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 6: Hydrangea

i'm trying to hold my breath

let it stay this way

can't let this moment end

Logan, Virgil learned, worked mostly from home as a freelance software engineer.

Three long, fancy words; meaningless to Virgil except for the fact that apparently, Logan never had to worry about money. They also meant odd hours, long projects, and a schedule that rarely lined up with Virgil's for things like meals, or evenings lounging in front of a TV, or whatever it was that normal housemates did.

Though now that the semester was over, and Christmas was almost upon them, Virgil wondered if Logan would step up his attempts to be—Virgil shuddered just thinking about it—social.

"We are both natural introverts, Virgil," the half-faery pointed out, not long after the disastrous November walk and subsequent talk. "However, it is unhealthy to allow ourselves to become completely isolated."

So, they got into the habit of visiting Painter's Park several times a week; Logan's pixie trio were always pleased to see them, as were the gnomes Tourmaline introduced. DeLand, Virgil discovered, practically crawled with solitary Fae: pixies, gnomes, dryads, a lone nymph that liked to hide in the downtown fountain and cause mischief, and amusingly, a clan of elves that lived near the Stetson science building and waged a constant, one-sided war with the campus squirrels.

Virgil's pockets accumulated acorns, sticks, and interesting rocks; gifts for and from the various solitaries he encountered. He went so far as to sew little scarves out of bits of cloth for his favorites, even though it wasn't like Florida ever really got cold. Virgil, who'd grown used to Ohio weather, griped to Logan all the time. "You're winter-aligned, dude, how do you stand this hellhole?"

Despite Logan's own obvious dislike of social interaction, he kept up his efforts to draw Virgil out of his shell: walking the dog, running errands, though Virgil drew a hard line at morning runs—he had no desire to be up at the asscrack of dawn, and he was damned sure he'd never handle seeing Logan shirtless again without stumbling over his own feet.

It was absurd to pretend that he didn't have a crush.

His lungs burned and prickled every night with the stupidity of it all, because there was simply no way in Arcadia that Logan would ever return his feelings.

It could never happen.

Logan was just so much more than Virgil could ever hope to be. He was well-spoken, fiercely intelligent, whereas Virgil was constantly tongue-tied and had to study almost obsessively to maintain low B's in his classes. He was too wary, too prickly, too paranoid to be likable.

No matter what he did, nothing could change the reality that Virgil was a nuisance that Logan had agreed to protect; "not the first changeling he'd taken in", as he himself had pointed out.

He was damaged goods.

Sometimes Virgil's disparaging inner voice sounded an awful lot like Deceit's sibilant rants, shredding and snipping away any hard-won scraps of confidence.

He longed to ask Logan if he'd heard any news on the faery, but after that embarrassing attack he'd had in the park, he was terrified of seeming afraid or ungrateful. Worrying about it made him surly, which made him worry that Logan hated him, which led to more snappishness—a never-ending loop Virgil only broke by retreating to his room to paint a song.