Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 33: Bluebell

i've been believing in something so distant as if i was human

and i've been denying this feeling of hopelessness

in me, in me

Screaming into a pillow wasn't nearly so satisfying when it also triggered a massive coughing fit. Virgil threw the cushion and collapsed onto the couch, holding his head in his hands. His cheek throbbed; Roman had clocked him good.

You deserved it, his mind whispered viciously. Good job, driving off the only guy who actually enjoyed your sorry-ass company.

He couldn't stay here. He had to get out.

Virgil escaped out the complex's rarely used front entrance. Roman had likely gone the other direction, to the courtyard or common room, probably to take his feelings out on a punching bag. Better that than Virgil's face.

Honestly, mindless exercise wasn't a bad idea.

Once Virgil hit the street, he tied his hoodie around his waist and launched into a light jog. His footsteps made a calming drumbeat on the sidewalk, despite the crowds and late afternoon heat. The impact of rubber soles against concrete, the uptick of his heartbeat, his breaths inside his head; sometimes it was easier to just feel and forget.

His lungs still burned, brambly and clogged so soon after his attack. Roman's harsh words still coiled in his chest; his face throbbed in time with his pulse. None of these were sensations he could outrun, but Virgil was too stubborn to turn around. He made it all the way to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway before he was forced to slow to a panting walk.

Hands over his head, he wandered across a traffic circle-slash-park called, ironically enough, Logan Square. The central fountain lay wide and shallow, with several children splashing in it. Virgil collapsed on one of the few shaded benches and ran a hand through now-sweaty bangs. He examined his face by touch; his right eye had started to feel swollen.

Why do I bring out the worst in people?

Virgil had been a dick to both Logan and Patton for weeks, for no good reason. And now he'd been an even worse dick to Roman, who'd done nothing to deserve it. He didn't blame Roman for finally snapping. He deliberately dug fingers into his throbbing cheek, relishing the pain.

I thought distance would fix this. I thought...I thought I could handle it.

He recalled, with painful clarity, the way Patton's ginger curls looked against Logan's dark skin; the way they stood together, two halves of a whole. The memory was so worn over with misery that it didn't even spark tears anymore.

Virgil had never needed Roman to tell him he'd never stood a chance. He'd known it for a long time now.

Unrequited feelings just seemed so much more pathetic when rings got involved.

Virgil slipped off the bench to settle on the grass in front, digging fingers into the dirt. Oddly, he missed Wrassey. Pixies were flighty, often rude, and generally annoying, but they possessed that uniquely fae ability to see through trollshit and cut to the heart of whatever problem you faced. He felt another stab of regret as he realized he hadn't told any of the DeLand solitaries he was leaving. Hell, right now Virgil would take the Arden Dryad's painful wisdom, or even Remy's sassy talkback.

But no convenient solitaries lived in this wide open, human-infested park; no one flitted over to tell him how to stop pining for someone who'd never wanted him, or how to stop hurting the one person who did.