One Of Us

Chapter Two

Virgil was the first in the kitchen the next morning. His hood was drawn up over his head in a futile effort to block out the weak sunlight that filtered through the window over the counter (the latter of which he was perched on top of, one knee folded to his chest), and his hands were wrapped tightly around a plain gray mug. The coffee inside was black and unsweetened; though Virgil couldn't stand the taste, he had barely survived the effort it took to turn on the pot and pour.

He took a sip. Bitter and too hot. Sighing, he took another.

A door swung shut down the hall and Virgil snapped suddenly to attention, tired eyes focused on the doorway.

"Someone's up early," Logan observed as he strode into the room. He hardly spared Virgil a glance before reaching toward the cabinet for a mug of his own.

"I could say the same to you," Virgil said. He kept his eyes on his knees.

Logan nodded curtly toward the clock on the microwave. "Five o'clock is my preferred wake-up time the day after filming a video," he said, now poking around the fridge for bread and jam. "I need to compose both an efficiency plan for editing and a satisfactory sleep schedule for the next three or so days before the rest of you get out of bed and inevitably distract me."

Guess I threw a wrench in that plan, Virgil thought, but he said nothing.

The toaster made that odd ka-chunk sound as it finished with the bread and Logan deftly swept it up, spreading butter and jam on top with expert speed. "I'll be in my room," he said, and as quickly as he had arrived, he left, balancing his meal in one hand and scrolling through Facebook with the other. He had been too preoccupied to notice something was off.

"See you," Virgil muttered to the tile some three feet beneath him. The warmth of his coffee didn't quite reach his bones.

The sun kept rising, and the clock ticked on.

...

Patton was the next to turn up. He bustled in around eight with his glasses lopsided and gathered everything he needed for pancakes, rifling through cabinets and making a mess.

"Morning!" he said brightly while he heated up a pan. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." Not true.

"No nightmares?" Patton was tossing pancake mix into a bowl, humming happily to himself, blind to the way Virgil tensed at his words.

"Nope." Another lie.

Any other day, he would have thought nothing of that question. It was routine by now, it had been for weeks; a greeting, a good-natured question about his well being, and breakfast right after. Patton only engaged in this procedure with Virgil, and he never did it when the others were around. It was a quiet, considerate sort of thing. Though he'd never admit it, Virgil had come to appreciate the concern.

Today, that wasn't the case.

"I had the funniest dream last night," Patton recalled, busying himself with an egg and picking some lost bits of shell from the bowl. "D'you ever have those nights where your dreams just don't make sense?"

Only all the time, Virgil thought. He gazed blankly into his mug, swirling the last dregs of coffee around the bottom with disinterest.

"So there was this giant cat —"

An abrupt scraping sounded through the kitchen as Virgil's chair pushed back from the table, and Patton faltered. "Aren't you staying for breakfast?" he asked, gesturing toward his pan with batter-covered hands. "Virge?"

Virgil wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Pancakes are almost done."

Why did it matter if he stayed for breakfast?

"I made you some chocolate chip!"

Virgil had been coming to breakfast for, what, a few months? It's not like the others had missed him much during all those years when he wasn't invited. Skipping one day was far from the end of the world, and besides, Patton had probably just made too many pancakes to feed just himself and the others, he didn't want Virgil to stay, why would he —

No, shut up. That's not true. He shouldn't have been thinking things like that. They were intrusive, they were wrong... right?

Patton had been staring at Virgil for so long, a pancake almost caught fire on the stove. While he rushed to tip the charred mess away from the heat, Virgil made a beeline for the door, his thoughts flying in a thousand different directions. He'd almost made it to the hall, he was in the home stretch — but of course, he wound up colliding head-on with a figure that hovered in the doorway and nearly lost his footing in the mix up.

"Looks like someone's hurrying off to Panic's Labyrinth," Roman said. He grinned at himself like he couldn't believe he'd come up with such a clever slight so early in the morning.

"Good one," Virgil deadpanned, trying to ignore the buzzing that was steadily beginning to fill his head. "'Scuse me."

When Roman continued to block the doorway, Virgil exhaled impatiently and folded his arms. He considered standing straight to intimidate the other Side out of his way, but he didn't have it in him to stop slouching.

"Move it," he said flatly.

Roman squinted at him for a moment like he was trying to piece something together. The two stood there in some nonverbal stalemate for nearly a minute before Roman finally stepped aside. He opened his mouth, evidently ready to ask a question, but Virgil was already halfway down the hall.

"But it's pancake day!" he heard Roman call after him. He sped up.

This was stupid. This was beyond stupid. After all these months, Virgil had finally managed to kick those intrusive thoughts under the carpet, but it had taken so little to bring them back to the surface that it almost made him laugh. He shouldered open his door and let it snap shut behind him, then pressed his back against the wood, sliding heavily to the ground. Distantly, he noted his odd affinity for sitting in places that weren't meant to be chairs.

His head wouldn't stop buzzing. It clouded the space just behind his eyes, making the beating of his heart sound too loud in his ears and making his mouth feel dry.

There's nothing to freak out over, idiot, Virgil thought. disgruntled. It's freaking pancake day. Stop whining. He closed his eyes and let his head press against the smooth wood behind him, trying to clear his mind and failing just as miserably as he always did.

A soft clack from the other side of the door drew Virgil from his thoughts. He stood, turned the knob, and peered down; a plate sat innocently at his feet, three pancakes stacked on top. It may have been his eyes playing tricks on him, but Virgil could've sworn the chocolate chips in the one on top were arranged into a smiley face. He picked them up, eyed them, took a bite.

Guilt tugged at his stomach. He left the plate on the ground and went back to his room.