scars and scales

patton's house

Patton's room was warm and comforting. The walls were painted a soft shade of blue and his lights weren't too bright or too dull either.

Virgil was sat on a beanbag, awkwardly shifting around trying to find a comfortable position. The others were sitting around Patton's TV, playing Mariokart together and arguing about who cheated and who won. Virgil would join in but he didn't know these people that well, except for Patton, obviously. He glanced around the room, trying to find something to focus on, something other than the three huddled around the game console. Virgil's eyes wandered for a little, before landing on the faint scars on his hands. They were visible, but not visible enough to be seen without any further inspection. He ran his fingers along them, they weren't scabbed or rough anymore, they were just slightly raised. Slowly, he slightly pulled back his sleeve before beginning to trace the scars on his wrist too. Unlike those on his hands, these were scabbed over and still red. They stood out against Virgil's fair skin, they reminded him of paint on a blank canvas. When he noticed the others getting up from their spots around the TV, Virgil quickly pulled his sleeve back up, covering the deep, maroon agony that painted his wrist.

"Virgil, would you perhaps like to play?"

Logan's voice was soft and delicate, yet stern enough to bring him some power.

"Sure?"

He took the control from Logan's hands and started to make his way over to the TV. Roman sat back down beside him.

"I am going to kick your fucking ass emo"

"Good luck" Virgil chuckled to himself

After hours and hours of playing and talking and just laying in silence, it was time for Virgil to go. He had gotten Roman and Logan's phone numbers and swore he would try to text them a hello when he wasn't "busy"

Virgil started his walk down the road and started to look through his notifications from the day. Most of them were people reposting the stuff he posted the night before

He couldn't get Roman out of his head for some reason. He couldn't stop thinking about what he would say if he saw Virgil's body, what he would say if he saw his frail legs, his scarred arms, his hips, and his spine. He thought about the face he would make, the way his voice would sound, the words he would use to describe him. It sent shivers down his spine. Thinking of being called sick and twisted, imagining being called deathly and making Roman do a double take of his angelic body, imagining Roman's hands around his wrists and waist, Roman seeing how slender he was. Why was he thinking about someone he barely knew like this? In such a violating way, not even in a perverted way. How dare he, how vile...