Chapter Text
Virgil squirmed in his seat and tried to ignore the burning pain that came with every movement.
Across the table, Remus cocked his head at a 90 degree angle as he chewed his raw steak thoughtfully. He seemed to be reluctant to speak, which wasn’t at all normal for such an… “honest” side.
Deceit scowled as he ate. He looked tired. Very tired.
Slowly picking up his fork, Virgil did his best not to show the violent stab of guilt he felt.
Dinner was never this quiet before.
Virgil wanted to ask what happened, why it was just the three of them, whether or not Deceit would let him stay, if they could just have the same agreement as before, but his throat felt swollen and thick, and he couldn’t say a word.
With a crack of finality, Remus slammed his fork into the table, startling the other two sides.
“Remus, you rat bastard,” Deceit hissed, “I just fucking fixed this table!”
The green-and-black side threw his hands in the air. “Well, then tell me why he’s here again! You said Virgil was never ever ever ever ever ever ever ev--”
Utilizing uncanny speed, Deceit stabbed Remus in the hand with his own fork. “I know what I said, you fucking dolt! He’s back now, so shut your slutty trap!” When he retracted his fork, no blood was left on it, and the lying side only rolled his eyes before shoving it back into his mashed potatoes.
Virgil winced. “I was just--”
“Doesn’t matter!” Deceit barked.
Remus locked eyes with Virgil, and simply shrugged, before resuming his messy eating with gusto.
Nervously, Virgil picked at his own dinner, wincing. Deceit’s mood seemed to have soured since their excursion earlier, and he didn’t know why. What had he done wrong now? Guilt and panic boiled up inside him, twisting his guts in knots.
Maybe Remus would help somehow. They had to be getting along while Virgil was…
Actually, how are they doing?
Patton sighed contentedly. Sometimes, he thought, there was nowhere better to be than between Roman and Logan, cuddled together and just… being, he supposed.
It was nice.
Not as nice as having them follow his every order and fulfilling his every request, but Patton had always been the sort to enjoy the simple things in life.
Attention was always something Patton craved. Maybe on the floor, in debates, Logan and Roman had control, but behind closed doors, they both gave him the reigns.
Dominance, according to Logan’s flash cards, was a power or status held over others, but Patton didn’t really think that covered it. Dominance, to him, was better described as just authority, the ability to say “roll over” and get a “yes, sir”, the privilege of teaching someone to pick up on all your cues and behave accordingly, the right to push and have someone move accordingly.
Patton liked dominance.
“Stand up, Lo.”
“Yes, sir.”
He liked having just about all the control, actually, liked the power and the rush of commanding not just one person, but two.
“What do you want, my little prince?”
“You, daddy--!”
Admittedly, he also would have really liked to have Virgil like that, but Virgil was always so shy, ducking out of the room when he walked in on them accidentally, stuttering out excuses, blushing red under his pale foundation as he backed up.
It was kind of sad, really, because Virgil obviously wanted to please, wanted to do whatever it took to have someone tell him that he’d done a good job.
Sometimes Patton wondered if at some point Virgil had another arrangement like Logan and Roman had with himself. If he did it right, then Virgil seemed so easy to command, to push around, and that was odd, because Virgil never reacted that way if Patton didn’t use his stern voice. Using his usual, fluffy tones would only result in huffing and sighing at the best, or hissing and glares at the worst.
But, if Patton lowered his pitch and spoke slower, like someone else he knew more than he’d like to admit, Virgil would duck his head a bit and cow to any demand.
It was interesting, he supposed, but that was always a talent Patton had, finding out what it took to make people want to listen. (Or at least, he couldn’t remember learning it, so it had to be a talent of some kind.)
Trial and error, Logan would say, of a social form.
More like charm and seduction, Roman would argue.
Patton didn’t really think it needed a name. He usually just called it his special talent and let that be it. Silly Logan and Roman, always making things so complicated, probably couldn’t accept that. Logan would over-examine it and Roman would talk it up, but Patton knew exactly what it was - people pleasing, and nothing more.
People pleasing wasn’t too hard, he just had to find out what people liked to hear and what they responded to.
Logan responded to gentle, direct prodding. Simple commands, devoid of any hidden meaning to dig up, cutting the poetics he always liked, to be as concise and blatant as possible. It left no room to argue, and no room to misbehave.
On the other hand, Roman liked to be praised. Talked up, showered with adoration and positivity until he was practically drunk on the idea of being loved. He followed affection like a moth to a flame, chased it like a carrot on a stick.
But Virgil was another story, and Patton hated it.
He hated not knowing what Virgil wanted. He tried to be soft and caring, gentle and supportive, but that only got him so far. And it was frustrating, because it obviously endeared Virgil to him, obviously melted him to the point he’d run away and joined them, opened up, and then…
Patton hit a wall.
Virgil had left them, and he’d left before Patton could figure out why he wasn’t responding the way he wanted.
It had worked, but then it was like he maxed out the points he could get with Virgil, and he had no idea why his tactic - his successful, working, perfect tactic - suddenly failed him. He didn’t know why he couldn’t keep Virgil, why Virgil only reacted to him, why his honed talent couldn’t get him what he wanted.
Maybe that was a bit spoiled to think, so he pushed it down, pretended he wasn’t as scared, not as worried as he actually was.
Hopefully, wherever he ended up, Virgil was okay, and would stay okay until Patton could get to him.
“You’re fucking Remus?!”
“I am!” The psychotic side cheered, looking very proud of himself.
Deceit, in contrast, wouldn’t look up from his plate. “I see no reason why that’s any of your business, Virgil.”
Virgil looked back and forth between the other two aspects, eyes wide and mouth open, stuttering on the words that wouldn’t line up in his mouth quite right.
Remus obliviously bounced in his seat. “Dee-dee told me you two had quite the adventures before you left, Vivi!” The sheer delight in his grin only contrasted Deceit’s grimace, but he seemed immune to the glaring. “You shouldn’t be surprised, you probably got him addicted, and I just picked up the sexy duty after you ducked, quack quack!”
With a sigh, Deceit pushed his plate away, immediately drawing the attention to himself.
Virgil tried not to think too much on the fact that he and Remus reacted the same way, because if he thought too long on how well Remus picked up on Deceit’s cues, his mind would wander to places it shouldn’t go during dinner.
Deceit neatly folded his hands together and rested them on the table, a perfect picture of poise and grace. “I don’t see how this sort of topic is appropriate for dinner talk,” he stated firmly, voice low and slow in the way that made Virgil’s pulse anything but, “While I can excuse Virgil’s lapse in rule-following, Remus, you have been here long enough to know what is expected of you.”
Wiggling excitedly in his seat, Remus giggled without a hint of sanity. “Sorry sorry sorry,” he sing-songed, “I’ve been a naughty boy again, Daddy!”
If he’d been eating or drinking anything, Virgil would have choked.
Slamming his hands down as he stood, Deceit fixed Remus with a heady glare, full of the promise of disipline and punishment.
“Virgil. Go upstairs.”
Without hesitation, Virgil scrambled to his feet, shocked more by Remus’ apparent lack of understanding. Didn’t he understand what it meant when Deceit was mad? Didn’t he realize how much trouble he was in for saying that? Didn’t he know how much Deceit hated that word?
The mental image of Remus’ grin buzzed in Virgil’s head as he scrambled up the stairs and back into his room.
Normally, the nostalgia of how it looked and felt when in the darker side of the mindscape would have hit him like a flood, made him regret ever leaving, but the scene at dinner kept replaying in his mind, keeping him on edge, forcing him to re-examine everything a thousand times over until understanding hit him harder than a punch to the gut.
Remus wasn’t scared to make Deceit angry.
He didn’t worry about being disciplined, in fact, he seemed to look forward to it, if his expression was anything to go off of.
The look of delight on his face wasn’t really obliviousness, Virgil realized, but satisfaction, a form of delight gotten out of misbehaving. What a brat, no wonder Deceit was so on edge, Remus was winding him up like always, and it made Virgil want to--
No.
No no no no no, Virgil firmly told his internal monologue, absolutely not.
There was no “saving” someone like Deceit. He didn’t need rescue in the first place and even if he did, he wouldn’t accept it. Better to push those freaky thoughts away and not think about it too much.
Besides, Deceit and him had a deal.
Kind of.
“You fucking brat,” Deceit hissed, forcing Remus’ head down against the table, “You little whore, you goddamn slut, you rotten little bitch!”
Remus sunk his fingernails into the wood, moans already tumbling freely from his open mouth as his hips were forced into the edge of the table over and over again without mercy. “Fuuuuck, Daddy--!”
“Damn it, Remus!” Deceit yanked his hair painfully in that way that always drove Remus mad, hissing. “I told you to stop calling me that, you nasty fucker!”
With a lop-sided grin, Remus arched his back to give the other dark side better access. “Sorry, Daddy~”