Plenty of Treasures

strike me down (then make me feel alive)

But he doesn't need to be good with words. The already-made coffee, tea, or dinner when he gets home from work; his lovely smile, in any form; the random texts at every hour of things that remind Virgil of him; movie marathons and book recommendations; everything he does to remind Roman that, yes, he does in fact know of his loud roommate's existence and is actually quite happy about it, strikes Roman again and again. Filling him with so much electricity, so much warmth, that he forgets the rain pelting the pavement around him.

Loving Virgil has made him humble. Humbler than he was, anyway.

Having the pleasure of simply knowing such a beautiful person, never mind getting to love them, is something he's learned to never take for granted. And although his head sometimes forgets, his heart never can.

Calloused fingers stroke along his jawline, smoothing memories of strummed melodies behind closed bedroom doors into his sweet honey skin, and he doesn't even have the strength to reach up and take that pale hand in his own. He just wants to feel his fingers caress his cheek, dip into the dimple emphasising the joy in his expression, and then land at the soft point of his chin. His lungs tremble as he breathes, reminding him that, although he's almost never been so comfortable around someone before, his body immediately recognises him both as a threat and as a target for affection. Though, 'target' makes it sound much more aggressive than it is.

He wants to speak. But what can he say that won't ruin this? Ruin whatever drunken affectionate position they've gotten themselves into? Because he doesn't want to move; he doesn't want this to stop. And it kind of looks like Virgil is preparing to say something too, but he falters and deflates before he manages to. So, will he be the one to break this special kind of quiet? The quiet that isn't really quiet, with voices chattering and instruments playing, but making the kind of noise that falls apart when you look at that one person. That one person that keeps your world turning.

Should he tell him? Maybe it's the alcohol, but this seems like a situation 'friends' wouldn't find themselves in. Would that be too intimate for such a public area? 'Public' being a strong term for four friends drinking together.

There's so much he could say. So much he kind of wants to say. But, instead, his intoxicated brain grants him this gem: "You're really pretty."

Virgil, clearly surprised by the sudden compliment, jolts back a millimetre before snickering and shuffling closer. "Yeah?" His tone is playful, but the flushed grin on his face is sincere, and the hand resting against the side of his neck presses firmer, as if assuring Roman that it's still there. "You're pretty too. Way prettier than me."

"Not possible."

"Sure," he mutters, the smile on his face widening.

Roman's arms finally regain some strength, so he can lift his hand to cover Virgil's, lacing their fingers together. The movement is slow, cautious, but Virgil happily reciprocates, squeezing his hand afterwards. "I mean it. You're lovely."

A sound, something halfway between a laugh and a deep exhale, slips through Virgil's lips and allows Roman to catch the scent of cider and cinnamon. His eyes flutter slightly, perhaps unintentionally, as he gazes up through his thick lashes into a dark wood of burnt umber trees, his smile now bashful as it curls smaller, yet more genuine. "You're drunk."

"And? Doesn't change how lovely you are."

Virgil snorts. "I mean, you wouldn't say it were you sober."

Roman's brain sends out a red alert, warning him of the possible repercussions of saying exactly what he wants to say. The heartbreak. The rejection. The resentment. Virgil leaving. Regretting his first real love. But every other inch of his body is itching, clawing even, at him to just say it. 'Please, god, just say it. We can't take the loneliness anymore.'

And so, he says, "I think it every day. I just don't say it because I'm scared."

Visibly, Virgil swallows, his pupils dilating and pulsing to the beat of his heartbeat. Or maybe that's Roman's heartbeat. Probably.

"I know we're drunk right now, but we can talk about this tomorrow too, so, like..." he pauses, thumb brushing over a freckle on his left cheek, "I really like you. And you've been sending signals? Maybe. If not, then that's cool. But I still think it's better to just tell you that I... yeah. Like you. A lot."

Roman doesn't know how to reply to that. To everything he's wanted to hear for the longest time, he has no smooth or quick-witted response, only dumb silence. But he's always been better at showing affection, anyway.

He leans forward, pressing the softest of kisses to Virgil's lips before pulling away. Though, he doesn't get far, as the hand on the side of his neck slides to the back and tugs him forward, sending one last lightning strike down his spine before the storm clears, and the sun arrives to warm and relax him again.

Sunny opportunities lie ahead of him and his beautiful storm. And he plans on taking advantage of every single one of them.