Work Text:
Roman knows it as soon as he steps through the door. Something is off, something is wrong, and it’s evident in the stillness of the house and the stillness of his fiancé, who is as silent as the moon, cutting it’s ray into the living room. Virgil is sitting at the kitchen table, not a single light on, staring at the cup he holds in his hand.
“Virgil?” He asks to the quiet room. Virgil doesn’to achnowkedge him, simply staring off into the distance, cup swirling aimlessly. “Virgil, darling?” He tried again, and this time he gets a reaction, though not the one he would have like. Virgil’s cup come down hard, slamming into the table loud enough that Roman jumps.
“Shut up.” Virgil whispers, not looking at Roman. “No pet names, no sweet words, nothing. Just shut up.”
Roman starts to move closer, but decides against it, choosing instead to hover awkwardly in the kitchen. He knows, he knows, he knows, echoes through his head like a symphony of suffering, a reminder of his bad decisions. But maybe he doesn’to know, maybe it’s something else? Did he forget an anniversary, a birth date? God, he hopes so.
“Virgil, what’s the matter?” He starts, hoping to feign innocence. Virgil huffs, a halfway point between a laugh a groan, and sets down the cup he’d previously held.
“I was suspicious, you know.” He began, still not looking at Roman. “But I’m always suspicious. I’m always the one that’s untrusting of others, the paranoid one. Is that what drove you away?” Now he turns, and the eyes that meet Roman’s are near unrecognizable. The cool grey that Roman has once filled with the lights of love and hope are slate grey and shining only with hatred, like the cold edge of a knife. “Is that what drove you into his arms?”
He knows. No longer is the damning phrase a river rushing through his mind, pounding his follies into his temples, but a single whisper, the smoke of an extinguished candle. He knows is spelled out in the curl of Virgil’s fists, the tousle of his hair, the redness in his eyes. He knows.
There’s no use acting now. Lies and regret have gotten him this far, now he must face what he’s done. “Virgil, please, I can explain,” he starts, and the look on Virgil’s face is nearly enough to quiet him, but he presses on. “I assure you, it was a mistake, and I regret It, I truly regret-“
Now Virgil laughs, a sharp, harsh thing, devoid of humor.
“You regret it? You regret it!” He exclaims, faux-humor instilled in his voice. “Roman, mistakes happen once. When you make a mistake, you feel shame, and sorrow, and you try your damndest to never repeat it. When you regret something, it claws at you, digs its fangs into you and doesn’t let go. You didn’t make a mistake, Roman.” Any pretense of humor has dropped from his voice by now. He stares not at Roman, but into him, past the smiles and charm and strait into his heart. “You made a choice. A lot of them, actually. Leaving. Driving. Finding him. Taking off your clothes, taking off your ring, those were all choices Roman.” A sneer pulls Virgil’s lips back, exposing his teeth. “Choices you made over, and over, and over. Seven times, to be exact.”
“How- how did you know?” Roman asks quietly.
This pulls a genuine laugh from Virgil’s throat, small, hardly a chuckle. “it wasn’t hard, dear. Your downfall was my suspicion, because no matter how often I told myself it was okay, that you loved me, that little voice kept telling me the opposite. So I looked at your phone. See, that was regret, Roman, before and after. Because before, I felt like I was betraying you, invading your privacy like this. I knew once my suspicions were laid to rest I would come clean, apologize, tell you I’d never do it again. But then I found his texts, his contact, with the little blue heart next to the name. I found the flirting, and the sweet talking, and” he pauses, disgust written clearly on his face. “The pictures.”
“Darling, I’m sorry-“ Roman starts, but Virgil cuts him off, slamming his hands against the table. His eyes are filled with fire and lightning, smooth icy waters morphed into a monsoon.
“No!” He shouts. “you don’t get to say anything after what you did! You get to sit back and listen, because you brought this on yourself. So shut up, Roman. Because I’m not done yet.”
He seats himself back on his chair, but anger still radiated off him in waves. “I felt betrayed. That’s what came first, not hurt, or sadness, but betrayal. I trusted my heart, my soul, my everything to you, and you stuck it in your back pocket while you wooed another man. So you know what I did? Can you guess? I went and met the guy.”
Horror creeps into Roman’s gut, and it must show in his face, because Virgil scoffs. “Relax. I just talked to him. Nice guy, actually, he nearly started crying when I explained everything to him. See, another great example of regret. That poor man, he got caught up in your web, and he blamed himself for being wrapped up in your lies. He apologized to me like it was his fault, and not yours. Like you weren’t the one pulling both of our heartstrings like we were puppets. And now, well, now we come to this. Me, coming home, waiting for you. Half of me hoping for an explanation, half of me hoping you never show up. But here we are, Roman.” He turns to look pointedly at Roman. “Now tell me, sweetheart, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Roman swallows the lump that’s been growing in his throat. What is here to say? Virgil’s spelled it out so clearly, leaving no room for suspicions or lies, no way to pull himself out of the bed he’d made and lied in. Usually the words flowed from his mouth so eloquently, clear and smooth with a cadence like reflective crystals. But now the crystals have grown in his throat like weeds, his own charms digging themselves into him, cutting off his breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I- it was just, I just- I don’t even know why I did it, but I, I- I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” Virgil says, a statement, not a question. He grips his cup once again, and throws back the rest of his drink. “So that’s it, huh? Sorry. Sorry for leaving me alone at night, wondering why work has kept you so long? Or maybe, sorry for making me doubt myself? Sorry for the photos you sent, sneaking off into the bathroom while I wait in the living room, movie paused. No, I got it, sorry for the clubs you sent to, until you finally settled on him, blue eyed and sweet?” Virgil stands up from his chair, setting a hand down on the table firmly. “Are you sorry for breaking my heart?”
There’s no sarcasm, no venom lacing the words. It’s a question that expects an answer. The air hangs between them, as if it too quivers in anticipation of Roman’s answer.
“Yes.” Roman answers quietly. Virgil hangs his head, and steps away from the table. Roman doesn’t turn to watch him go, only moving when he hears the soft click of their- of his apartment door shutting.
On the table, in the empty space where Virgil’s hand once sat, is a ring of silver and amethyst, glittering softly in the cold moonlight.