Virgil picks at his skin. It's not something he's proud of, but it's not something he's been able to stop, either. What terrifies him most, though, is how Patton will respond when he discovers this carefully-guarded secret.
*
Pairing(s): Moxiety (Patton | Morality + Virgil | Anxiety)
Content Warning(s): making out, slightly sexual situations/implications (nothing explicit), partial nudity, skin-picking, dermatillomania, blood mention, injuries, panic/anxiety attack, swearing
*
They're kissing. How did they get here?
(His acceptance by the light sides. Becoming best friends with Patton, baking with Patton, watching movies with Patton, learning to knit with Patton, drawing with Patton, laughing with Patton, crying with Patton, crushing on Patton, pining over Patton, Patton Patton Patton , everything is Patton, Patton is...everything. A nd then, miracle of all miracles, Patton actually likes him back .
Kissing. They've kissed before, loads of times: over a snoring Remus' head as the sides form a dogpile and watch movies, in between folding clothes together, while p uttering around the kitchen making lunch, in passing as they do their respective jobs, over wine as they giggle and tipsily fool around a bit. So yeah, they've kissed lots, only never quite so intimate. Never quite so heated. Because Virgil...he can't let anyone in so far. He can't let anyone see .
He can't let anyone see the spots and scabs and scratches on his skin—not the battle scars of abuse, no, none of the other sides would ever do something like that to him—only for some reason he does it to himself.)
Virgil is moaning. When did he start moaning?
(Patton is so pretty . Just smiling with Patton would be enough. Just holding hands with him, just snuggling with him, just kissing him. More would be oh so nice, too, but...but then Patton would see , and he can't see.
But Virgil knows Patton isn't sex-averse, so of course he would want more too. And Patton would wait for Virgil to be ready, he would, he's kind and patient so of course he would wait past the end of the world, but is it really Virgil's right to make him wait? Especially when it's over something so ridiculously foolish.
He stands in front of the mirror in nothing but boxers. He stands and he stares at himself and his hands are itching and he blinks and they're picking off a scab on his left shoulder and goddammit, why can't he just stop ? Or, better—why can't he just get things over with and let Patton down like he knows he's going to? Best to do it quick, before either one falls even more in love than they already have.)
Patton is taking off Virgil's shirt. Why—
Patton is taking off Virgil's shirt.
Fuck. He can't do this. He can't he can't hecanthecanthecanthe—
Virgil's breath quickens even as Patton's ministrations on his skin slow, his widened eyes taking in Virgil's skin. Virgil's marred skin. Virgil's ruined skin. Virgil's shame.
Then Patton is backing up and off the bed, an odd look in his eyes, and Virgil is scrambling backwards, desperately falling hard to the floor and crawling into the furthest corner of the room. He's shaking shaking shaking and so is his breath and in fact he's not sure if he's even breathing at all anymore and god Patton's gonna hate him so much , that look in his eyes has to be disgust, he must be so disturbed by Virgil and how ugly he is both outside and in.
Virgil makes a pitiful attempt to cover his bare torso with his arms, but it's not much help. His arms are covered in scabs, too, ugly and scarred and impure just like the rest of his body, unfit to be touched by the softness that is Patton's fingertips, the goodness that is Patton.
"D—don't look at me," Virgil gasps out through clenched teeth and heaving lungs. He wants to curl in on himself, twist into a tiny ball and disappear, but then Patton will see his back too and he, he can't see Virgil's back too. "P-please."
"Oh, honey." Patton's voice is soothing. It's almost too sickly sweet. And oh, god, this is where he laughs at Virgil, isn't it?
No, no, Patton isn't that horrible, he wouldn't do that. No, this is the moment where he pities Virgil. Yeah. This is where he tells Virgil that he just can't be with someone so...so ugly? No, Patton wouldn't say that aloud either, even if he privately thinks it.
No, Patton's going to find a way to softly break it to Virgil that he just isn't attracted to that, that he just isn't attracted to Virgil, that Virgil obviously needs to work some stuff out on his own, that the two of them should go their separate ways. And fuck if that isn't worse than the laughter and the humiliation would be.
A soft blanket winds its way around Virgil's shoulders, startling him out of his thought spiral so abruptly that he almost starts right back down another.
Virgil looks up to see Patton kneeling in front of him, an arm's length away, careful not to touch his skin to Virgil's as he secures the weighted blanket around him.
Noticing Virgil's wary eyes on him, Patton smiles. "Hey, there you are." His eyes are gentle with...maybe it isn't pity, maybe it isn't disgust, maybe it's...could Virgil dare to think it's...understanding?
No. No. He can't get his hopes up like that. Even if it turns out that Patton really does understand, Virgil can't let himself hope for that. He has to prepare for the absolute worst. Then maybe the worst will hurt less when it inevitably comes.
Virgil stares up at Patton, mouth half-open as he wheezes for breath through his clogged throat. Stuck in the emotional duress of the moment, unable to process, his body reacts even as his mind freezes. Underneath the blanket his right hand instinctively crosses to his left side, going to scratch at his lower stomach.
Patton seems to notice the movement and, still careful not to touch Virgil's bare skin, presses a hand to the part of the blanket hanging around Virgil's lower torso and his hand. He carefully places a slight pressure on Virgil's hand, just enough to immobilize it and keep him from scratching, and yet not so much that the touch burns and bubbles and froths uncomfortably underneath his skin.
"Do you want something to hold?" Patton asks, holding up his other hand and offering one of his beanie babies.
Virgil's right hand darts out from under the blanket where it futilely yearns to tear apart his skin, and Patton's own hand quickly draws back to let him do so. Virgil accepts the purple plushie in his hands and begins to quietly squish and knead at it, relishing in the soft fabric texture and the crunch of the beans in its tummy. The light weight helps him focus and ground himself just a bit more as he juggles the thing in his hands.
"Would you like to run through your breathing exercises?" Patton says, looking earnestly into Virgil's eyes. The intensity in those wide brown eyes makes Virgil look away, down at the stuffed porcupine in his hands.
Virgil shakes his head mutely in response to Patton's question. He thinks he has himself under control now. Kinda. Enough to collect his belongings and flee to his room when Patton breaks up with him, at least. Enough to walk out of the door with dignity even as his self-worth is in tatters. Enough to hold himself somewhat steady until he can escape and shatter in private.
"Okay," Patton says, "okay. So how about you get dressed, and I'll go make us some tea, and then we can talk a little bit?"
Virgil swallows thickly, but he nods nevertheless. Best to get the talk and the breakup over as soon as possible. If Patton draws this out then he may not be collected enough to make it back to his room after all.
"We're not gonna talk about anything bad, I promise," Patton soothes as he stands up. He stretches, his blue polo riding up to expose his soft belly. A light smile dances across his face. God, Virgil's going to miss that smile being aimed towards him. He's going to miss that soft belly, the perfect pillow to lie across on movie nights. He's going to—he's not going to think about it, because then he's only going to break sooner.
"Now," Patton says, "I'll go make us that tea! You take as long as you need up here, and come on down to the kitchen when you're ready to talk, yeah?" He pauses. "...Or would you rather us talk in here?"
Virgil doesn't quite feel like he can speak yet, but he knows that he doesn't want the other sides to see his shame too, so he sticks his dominant hand out of the blanket to unsteadily sign 'here.' His hand jabs downwards once, twice, shaky and barely able to hold its shape.
"Okay then!" Patton says pleasantly. "Change of plans. I'll go down and make the tea, then I'll pop back up here when it's done and knock on the door. You just let me know whenever you're ready to let me back in, okay?"
Virgil knows it's irrational, but he feels so bad for just nodding at everything Patton says. He forces himself to croak an "'mmhkay" out from behind the block that seems to have descended into his throat. It sounds more like a grunt than it does an actual word, but Patton is the one to nod this time, so he must understand.
"All-righty!" Patton turns and heads over to the door. "I'll see you in a bit, sweetheart!"
The door closes, and Virgil is alone.
Well. Not alone, not really.
After all, Patton is just outside the door, and he's just going downstairs to the kitchen. Plus, the other sides are likely in their own rooms just a few walls away. Then of course there's the looming cloud of panicked thoughts that hovers around his head. He could never be alone when those whispered lies and cognitive distortions are there, some twisted version of company.
Virgil forces himself to stand up. Clumsy and shaking like a newborn deer, his legs almost collapse out from under him again, but he manages to throw himself against the bed before he topples back down onto the ground.
As he leans heavily against the side of the bed, he casts his eyes about, looking for his shirt. He begins to squish even harder at the beanie baby when he can't find it, until—wait, there. Slightly wadded up, at the corner of the bed, half-buried in some wrinkles in the comforter.
Virgil allows the weighted blanket to fall from his shoulders as he leans over to grasp his shirt in clammy hands. He grips it tightly and brings it to his chest, holding it in an awkward hug for a few moments before it occurs that he should probably be putting it back on and hiding his skin.
Slipping his arms through the sleeves, Virgil puts his familiar lilac shirt back on, grateful to have the soft fabric shield on his body once more. Still a bit cold, his arms cross over his torso and dip under the shirt to rub some warmth into him.
Virgil bites back a frustrated scream when, in rubbing his sides, one of his fingernails catches on a particularly bad scratch he'd made a day or two ago, back when he realized that he had to stop delaying the inevitable and ruin his and Patton's relationship. His side feels sticky, and when he retracts his hand the tip is tinted red.
Staring down at his bloodied hand, Virgil can't help but think back, back, back, to when he first began this weird...habit.
Which, he doesn't even remember the beginning, not really. Not when it was so long ago.
Virgil isn't exactly certain how long he's done what he has. A long time, surely—since before he joined the light sides, perhaps before the dark sides and the light sides even split in the first place. All he really knows is the moment that he actively realized what he was doing.
(He's in the shower, quiet, careful not to make a sound apart from the running water. Remus has been in a particular mood today, and Virgil's not keen to draw the other side's attention. Then he's turning off the faucet, shivering, blindly reaching out from behind the slimy shower curtain, groping around for his towel.
Wrapping the fuzzy black towel tightly around himself, Virgil steps out of the shower. His left hand, laying on his collarbone and holding up his towel, feels a small bump there on his chest, and he scratches absent-mindedly with his pointer finger .
Normally he would slide on his clothes as quickly as possible and make a break for his room, but he can hear Remus and Janus out in the hallway, screeching at each other and, well. Can't hurt to take a little extra time in the foggy realm of the bathroom.
Virgil has never much liked mirrors—they make the bags under his eyes much too apparent ( he should really try something to hide those ) —and seeing his own plain face glaring back at him isn't too appealing. But as he waits for the others to leave, or at the very least calm down, he finds his finger tracing frowny faces and stormclouds through the clouded surface.
And then through the lines he's drawn he spots small beads of red on his chest.)
A soft knock on the door interrupts Virgil's thoughts.
"Virge?" Patton's voice asks carefully through the wood. "I come bearing tea and treats!" He laughs quietly. "Just wanted to let you know, sweetheart. Let me in whenever you're ready, mmkay?"
Virgil nods before realizing that Patton can't see him. "O...okay," he calls out, voice wavering.
Looking around the room, Virgil spots his precious jacket where it lays discarded on the back of Patton's desk chair. He steels himself to stand up, and he walks over and grabs it with trembling hands, sliding it on. It's a familiar weight as it hangs against his skin.
Virgil draws the sleeves over his hands, clutching the cuffs tightly in lieu of scratching at the phantom itching breaking out everywhere across his body. There's always more of it the more he thinks about not scratching, and it's always harder to resist when he's actively thinking about it.
(He's in the living room this time, with the light sides. They're arguing and arguing and arguing and arguing and the conscious was supposed to be better than the subconscious he left behind, why isn't it? His right wrist itches, so his left arm slips under the sleeve of his black hoodie to scratch at it. Then, as the voices crescendo louder and louder and louder around him, he shrinks in on himself and finds that he doesn't want to stop.
He does it when everything is peaceful and calm, too. Once, after he's finally been accepted, he's in the living room again, this time sitting and reading on the couch, and Patton is ambling back and forth between there and the kitchen, and Logan is engrossed in some sort of documentary on his laptop, biting at his fingernails.
"Uh-uh!" he hears Patton say gently, and Virgil looks up to see Patton walking over to Logan, pulling the logical side's hand out of his own mouth. "You know that's a no-no, mister. No picking or biting at your nails." And hearing that, Virgil freezes mid-scratch, hand on the back of his neck, and wait. Is that kind of stuff bad for you? Is that kind of stuff not normal?
He takes in Patton and Logan's sleeveless arms, perhaps for the first time realizing just how clean and smooth their skin is, and oh, isn't that great . Of course Anxiety is the one who's fucked up. Of course Anxiety is the one doing not-normal things. Of course Anxiety is the one with scabs and scars and an urge to keep scratching, keep scratching, keep scratching .)
Virgil opens the door to Patton's room.
Patton is sitting on the floor in the hallway, back to the opposing wall and tray of tea and animal crackers lying off to the side. He looks up when the door swings open, and a smile stretches across his face. "Hey there," he croons, scrambling up onto his feet and picking up the tray. "Is it okay if I come in now?"
"Of—of course." Virgil fidgets with the zipper of his jacket as he stumbles over his words. "I mean, it...it's your room."
Patton breezes by Virgil into the bedroom, setting the tray of tea and snacks down on his desk before grabbing a mug—his favorite frog one, the one Virgil gave him, actually—and Virgil can't help but wonder if the mug will be going in the trash as their relationship does.
Virgil freezes in the doorway, hand on the doorknob. Should he close the door? Leave it open? Just freaking run for it?
Patton seems to notice his hesitation. "You can close the door if you want," he offers, "or leave it open if you'd rather. Whatever you want to do."
Nodding, Virgil slowly closes the door before he turns to fully face Patton once more. He stands just in front of the door, uncomfortable, looking about the room at anything but the moral side, trying to figure out where to stand or sit.
"Would you like to sit on the bed, honey?" Patton gestures at it.
Virgil is shaking his head almost violently almost before the question even registers in his mind.
"That's okay," Patton says. He carefully pads over to Virgil, tea in one hand, and presses the other lightly into the small of Virgil's back, gently guiding him to the desk chair. "Why don't you sit here? That way you can be closest to the snacks! And I'll just sit over on the bed."
Virgil allows Patton to seat him and push a mug into his hands. He adjusts his position so that he can lean forward onto the back of the chair, clutching the warm mug tightly with both hands. The tea burns his tongue when he sips at it, but the burning almost feels nice in comparison to the numbness beginning to settle over his body and mind, so he keeps drinking anyways as Patton gets himself comfortable in a mountain of blankets and stuffed animals.
"All right, then." Patton appears to have gotten himself settled on the bed. He looks Virgil in the eye for all of two seconds before Virgil is ducking his head, setting his gaze fixedly at the floorboards.
"Okay, I'm sure that I already know the answer to this question, but I want to double check just to be safe." Patton's voice is subdued, barely reaching Virgil's hearing where he huddles on the other side of the room. "Did one of the other sides do that to you?"
"Wh-what?" Virgil looks up, startled. "No, no! Of, of course not. They—they wouldn't—not even Remus—"
"I know, Virgil, I know," Patton reassures him. "I don't think they would do anything like that, either. I just wanted to make sure." He pauses, looking at Virgil's face like he's searching for something. Virgil wonders what. "So...you did it to yourself then?"
"I—" The words catch in Virgil's throat again. He nods wordlessly.
"I promise I'm not judging you for it, sweetheart," Patton says, his tone sincere yet serious. "And I don't—I'm no Logan, I'm not that smart, so I don't know the best way to deal with this, I don't even know if there's a name for it, but—"
"Dermatil—" Virgil's voice cracks. He clears his throat awkwardly. "It's called dermatillomania. It, um. It's just a fancy name for skin-picking, I guess? When it's, uh, compulsive. And you...you can't stop."
(He's holed up in his room, layered up in a long-sleeved shirt and then a sweater and then his jacket, and it's so hot underneath his blankets and the layers aren't even discouraging him from picking. His left hand is shoved up under his shirt, scratching at his back. His tired eyes are staring down at the tiny phone screen, where a Psychology Today article stares back up at him, blue and daunting, the white blocky letters accusing.)
"Oh." Patton chuckles lightly. "Der-ma-till-o-mania," he sounds out. "That's quite the mouthful, huh." He pauses, sipping lightly at his tea. "Is...is that why you've been so hesitant over getting intimate?"
"...Y-yeah," Virgil says. He takes a large gulp of tea to distract himself from what he knows Patton's next words will be. He's certain—oh so achingly certain—that Patton is about to end things between them, or at the least tell him that maybe they shouldn't get intimate after all. It's easier to pretend the burning in his eyes and the back of his throat is from too-hot tea.
"Hey."
Virgil looks up, because Patton's voice sounds louder now, and oh. He cranes his head up to see Patton standing directly in front of him. When did he get so close?
"Can I touch you?" Patton asks quietly. "Or—"
"No, no, yeah, you can," Virgil hastily rushes out. "I—uh. It's actually kinda. Kinda nice when you do." The hand that isn't holding his tea reaches up to scratch at his scalp, but its path is interrupted when Patton grasps it loosely in one of his own hands. "It, um. I'm not, like, contagious or anything, so."
Patton tugs Virgil's hand with his to rest on his chest, and he can feel the steadily-beating heart underneath Patton's skin. Patton's clean, unpicked skin.
"I won't stop touching you just because you have scabs," Patton reassures. "I'm still gonna ask before I do, of course, but I wouldn't stop holding your hand or kissing you or anything over this unless you asked me to. And I wouldn't...I wouldn't not want to do other things just because of this, either."
Patton brings his other hand up to Virgil's chin, tenderly tilting his head up and looking him in the eye, and Virgil is barely breathing as he gets lost in Patton's warm brown eyes.
"It doesn't matter whether you have dermatillomania or not, okay, honey?" Patton says. "Scabs, scratches, and scars are nothing to be ashamed of. Needing help is nothing to be afraid of."
Patton leans in close, slow and steady, and Virgil knows he can back out at any second. But he doesn't particularly want to. So he sits stock-still in the chair as Patton presses a soft kiss to his lips before backing up just a hair.
"Virgil. Sweetie. I still love you. I love you so, so much, and I'm so proud of you for trusting me with this." Patton's breath puffs out against the corner of Virgil's mouth as he speaks. "I'm not any less attracted to you because of this."
Well, shit. Virgil can't exactly blame the tea on the tears brimming in his eyes now.
"Oh, sweetheart," Patton breathes. Then he's taking the mug out of Virgil's trembling hand, setting it on the desk behind Virgil, and he's enclosing Virgil protectively in his arms.
And then Virgil is sobbing, and he's not sure that he can stop.
(He's curled up, alone in his bed. And the tears won't stop coming and his hands won't stop scratching because as much as he loves Patton, Patton will never love him like this. No one will. He can't possibly ask Patton out, can't possibly confess to him, because laying that secret bare eventually will lead to other secrets that he doesn't think he'll ever be ready to let go of.)
Virgil lets go.
At some point Patton gently manhandles him out of the swivel chair, and they end up sprawled on the bed, buried under a mountain of bedsheets. Virgil's hands clench and unclench at the front of Patton's collared shirt, and a voice in the back of his head wonders how Patton isn't annoyed by it, but it's better than taking his hands to his own skin, and Patton isn't commenting on it, so.
Eventually the tears slow down, and Patton lays the two of them properly out on the bed.
"I want to help you through this," Patton murmurs into Virgil's hair, swiping and blotting at some of the few remaining tears littered across Virgil's face. "If you'll have me, that is."
"I—of course I'd have you," Virgil says, too exhausted to sound as astounded as he feels. "I thought you'd be the one who wouldn't want me."
"Oh, no, sweetie, of course I want you," Patton promises. He begins to run his hand through Virgil's hair, and Virgil melts at the sensation. "You aren't lesser just because you struggle with something like this, just like how you aren't lesser for struggling with anxiety sometimes." He pauses for a moment, thinking, and the only sound is their breathing, slow and in time with each other.
"I have...an idea," Patton proposes.
"Mm?" Virgil sleepily tilts his head back to look at Patton's thoughtful face.
"When I'm with you, maybe I could hold your hand whenever I notice you starting to pick at yourself," Patton suggests. "And you can always seek me out if you're feeling the urge, and maybe I can distract you from it."
"Sure, sure, okay," Virgil mumbles. "But don't...don't expect it to work. Definitely not at first, at least. I've tried to stop before, but I always seem to keep doing it no matter what I try."
(He tries holding objects in his hands instead, but Roman yells at him for borrowing Mrs. Fluffybottom, and Logan looks at him oddly when he tries to ask to borrow one of his stim toys. He even tries borrowing gloves from Janus once, but it's too hot and his hands are too sweaty and the fabric chafes uncomfortably against his skin.)
"It's okay if it doesn't work at first, even if it doesn't work at all. But I'm happy to help you try," Patton hums. The rumble of the words in his chest comforts Virgil, and he relaxes even more.
"And if you're comfy with it, maybe we can ask Logan for some help," Patton continues. "He might be able to offer some advice. He used to bite at his fingernails a lot, you know, so he might have some suggestions on how to stop things like that."
"Okay," Virgil whispers. "Yeah, okay."
"And you know I'll always wait for you. We'll take everything at your pace. That's always your right in whatever relationships you're in, honey." Patton laughs quietly. "And when I say everything, I mean everything," Patton stresses. "Be it—be it touching, or stopping you from picking, or, um, bedroom activities, or whatever. Okay?"
Virgil nods, wondering in the back of his mind how it's possible for Patton to be so amazing. And maybe...maybe he's a little bit amazing himself. If...if Patton believes so, then...maybe. And even if not right now, maybe someday.
"This can get better," Patton promises. He pulls the covers more snugly over the two of them, settling them in for the apparent impromptu nap they seem to be falling towards. "This is okay. We'll be okay. You'll be okay."
And Virgil believes him.
He lays there in bed, and he knows things can't possibly be perfect, but if Patton believes things can be okay, that's enough for the moment. He lays there in Patton's arms, and he knows that at least he has his boyfriend by his side for whatever happens. He lays there, toeing the line between wakefulness and slumber, and maybe, just maybe, things will get better, like Patton says.
Virgil believes him.
*
Hey! You! Yes, you! If you have dermatillomania! Or other conditions like that! Guess what! You're still loved! *aggressively sends love your way* I see you and I love you, spots and all.
Question of the Day: Do you have a least favorite TS ship or dynamic? If so, what is it, and why?
Answer of the Day: I don't have any ships that I absolutely can't stomach, save for R3mR0m, which I will very rapidly scroll past on the odd occasion that it pops up on my Tumblr dash lol. I would have to say that, barring that one ship, my least favorite is probably Prinxiety. It's not that I hate it, or that I won't write it, because goodness knows I have and will continue to write and read it. It's just not a ship that I actively seek out when I'm looking to read new fics, y'know? :p