Plenty of Treasures

strike me down (then make me feel alive)

pairing(s): eventual prinxiety and background logicality maybe (if you want it to be)

prompt(s): "we're roommates but we're falling for each other" and "drunkenly confessing feelings"

word count: 1,429

warnings: swearing/strong language, mention of alcohol, brief mention of loneliness, kissing, drunk consensual kissing (only brief), and maybe something else (tell me if I've forgotten anything)

notes: this was originally posted as a request reply on my tumblr (shakesqueer-writes)
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One minute, Roman had been sitting on his couch handing his best friend, Logan, a drink, and the next minute he's lying on the floor beside his roommate, tracing the swift curve of his nose with his index finger and giggling when he goes cross-eyed trying to follow it. It's cute. He's cute. Virgil is, irrefutably, verycute. But not even liquid courage can steal those private words from his mind. (Or, his heart, if he's feeling especially cheesy.)

From somewhere to his left, Logan, his best friend of twenty years, sings a low tune; the 'Rainforest Rap'. Something they'd constantly harmonise just to piss Virgil (and anyone else in the general vicinity other than Patton) off. But right now, with a mellow song playing in the background (not Logan) and a warm static tingling his skin, Roman watches Virgil snort and roll his eyes at the familiar melody. And, god, Roman loves him like this.

He loves him all the time, really, but seeing him so relaxed and loose just sends electric down Roman's spine. Not the kind of energy that shocks him, but the kind that has his body humming in delightful elation.

Each vertebrae, one down to thirty-three, tingles and vibrates with brilliant sparks of energy. Lightning would be more accurate. Not just because of the obvious constant shots of electric that replicate the movement of a lightning strike, but because this feeling is dangerous. In a way.

Virgil Butler, his lovely and yet, unbelievably infuriating roommate. And quite possibly the love of his life. But he's drunk, his brain isn't working properly.

The lightning that strikes twice. More than twice, actually. Every day, anytime Virgil crosses his mind, he's struck again. But whenever that happens, he's all-too-happy to rant and loudly convey his worries to his best friend, who, despite being a wonderful best friend, has threatened on multiple occasions to sledgehammer him to sleep if he continues to complain. 'Just talk to him.'

Because it's that easy, apparently.

Then, there's a slender thumb brushing over his forehead, attempting to flatten out one of his rare worry lines. Virgil frowns, though his eyes are still alight with glee. "You good? I lost you for a second there."

Roman, still attempting to tuck away his feelings, plasters on as genuine of a smile as he can. "You," he taps his roommate's pale nose softly, his heart jumping at the adorable scrunching of it soon after, "worry too much."

"I know," mumbles Virgil, eyes cast sideways at the brown carpet. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's sweet that you care so much."

Snapping upwards, that cold blue gaze locks on his own, cooling the heated brown of his eyes in an instant. So abrupt and unexpected that Roman forgets to breathe for a moment. Virgil seems to notice this, and he smiles, partially mischievous, partially fond. "I do. Care, I mean."

Warmth creeps over his skin like a second layer, like a fire that doesn't burn, and a smile involuntarily pulls at his lips. His eyes lower, desperate not to show just how deliriously happy is because he cares. This shouldn't be a surprise, and really, it's not, but Virgil Butler doesn't say things like that without a reason. He's never been good with words, he claims.