Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 28: Asphodel

hello, darkness, my old friend

i've come to talk with you again

What felt like hours later, Virgil's tears ran dry.

His chest felt less poisonous, but a tight, heavy ball still nestled at the center of his heart, ready to send another shockwave of agony through his system the moment he paid it enough attention.

The Dryad had gone, he saw; though his willow still stood where he'd planted it, plump acorns strewn across its roots. Virgil pocketed one, reminding himself to come back later with something nice to give her. The whole encounter already felt fuzzy and dreamlike in his head, but even if the Arden Dryad's only motivation had been to feast on his bleeding, chaotic emotions, she had likely saved his life in doing so.

Virgil stood unsteadily, touching the Dryad's trunk for balance, and wiped his face. Both hoodie sleeves were moist with tears and snot and eyeshadow and possibly blood from his earlier attack. He didn't want to go home just yet. Home would smell too much like Logan.

So, he walked. He didn't pay much attention to where, though he did make a wide detour around Painter's Pond. This took him past the Athens Theater and another well of unpleasant memories; he clenched his fists and walked faster.

Eventually, he reached downtown DeLand. Most shops were closed, but the restaurants were hopping and plenty of people still wandered about. Virgil lost himself in trudging from one end of Woodland Avenue to the other, scuffing his shoes, hood up and hands stuffed in his pockets.

When he noticed enough people doing double takes at his face, he guessed for once it probably wasn't because of his heterochromatic changeling eyes. One good scrub in a bathroom sink and a fresh mask of eyeshadow later, and he felt almost able to exist among people again.

He knew he should probably eat, too, but the thought of food made his stomach roll. Instead, he trudged up a staircase to DeLand's infamous second story pool hall and bar.

Every changeling possessed a hint of fae compulsion magic; some, like Founder Gretel, could order a room full of people to clear out. Others, like Virgil, had just enough to convince a bored barkeep that his ID said twenty-one years old, actual evidence to the contrary. Which was how he found himself with a cheap beer in hand and nothing, really, to do.

He found an empty corner.

Played games on his phone until his battery got low, and then turned it off.

Bought another beer.

Turned down an invitation to play pool, then watched the game anyway, faking a smile when necessary.

Tried not to feel insulted when one of the girls brought him a third drink because "he looked like he needed it." He even let her sloppily scrawl her number on his hand, because "no thanks, I'm gay and my crush is dating my best friend and I'm so fucking heartbroken that I literally cough up flowers" didn't seem like something you said to a stranger in a bar.

Her friends started another game; he offered to keep score for them. He kept score for the next group as well, and the next. No one questioned why the slouchy, sour-faced guy in the patched hoodie didn't seem to be there to drink, or to play.

He did not wonder what Logan and Patton were doing.

He did consider getting properly drunk, but couldn't justify blowing that much money on alcohol. Plus, he still had to sit through his last final in the morning.

At last, even DeLand's sparse nightlife closed down, and Virgil moved his pity party to Stetson's dark, sleepy campus. He threw himself onto one of the benches surrounding Holler Fountain, facing Sampson Hall, where his art classes were held. Colored lights danced within the fountain's pool, all greens and blues and whites. Orange streetlights painted the surrounding sidewalks in patches of saturated shadow. Sprinklers hissed; the air reeked of reclaimed water.