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I want my innocence back
And if you can't give it to me
I will cut you down
And I will run you through
Virgil's ears keep ringing.
It's actually quite annoying- he's never particularly suffered from tinnitus and he hopes he's not about to start now- but maybe it's penance. Maybe it's just what happens when you are a too short and too thin teenager ('stunted,' the nurse calls you, and you want to glare at her, but don't quite dare, not after what you've done) who's just gone and blown up your parents.
He's not going to be charged.
'Self defense,' the detective calls it, with an uneasy twist of her lips. Virgil stares at her blankly, face still smeared with soot and blood. Head injuries bleed a lot, he told her deadpan when she questioned it. Her face went white and she didn't ask again, just handed him a damp napkin. 'Terrible, really, what magic can be pushed to-' Her own magic pulses around her knuckles, an unsettling neon yellow. Virgil doesn't like it. It's too bright. It hurts their eyes.
The nurse is scared of them.
He's not actually sure how he knows that. She acts alright, tutting over his head injury, over the bruises in multiple stages of healing, over the state of his ribs and the smoke shrouding his lungs. It was quite a nasty explosion, really. He's not really sure what happened to the garage. It's...not there anymore.
Maybe it's the way her eyes skitter away from him, when she thinks he's not looking. Maybe it's the way her fingers tremble as she adjusts their IV pole and checks on their blood pressure readings. There's a guard outside Virgil's door. He's not sure who the man is supposed to protect.
His head is foggy and it aches abominably. He stares out the window, at the slice of bright blue sky and wispy white clouds he can see through the glass. It's very Hallmark. Does Virgil have to call themself a murderer now? If it was in 'self defense,' then does it make it okay? It's not like he believes in an afterlife.
Wretched brat- never been grateful- can't you do anything right?! Virgil flinches, but it's just the squeak of wheels in the hallway. It's fine. It's nothing.
He's fine. He's nothing.
He has a concussion.
"He threw me into the wall," he tells the doctor conversationally. "It hurt."
"It would," the doctor says back, clucking under his breath as he checks the bandage that tightens around Virgil's temple. "You're very lucky."
Was it lucky to watch my father's bones shatter in front of me? Virgil wants to ask. Was it lucky that I heard my mother scream behind me, before my magic just...reacted? Am I lucky they're dead? They don't say any of it. They don't want to watch someone else step back from them, as if they have something catching.
As if he is diseased.
He remembers his dad's blood spattering across the front of his shirt. His unzipped jeans. He doesn't know why he reacted so strongly. His childhood is a murky one, full of frustrating patches of fog and unexplained marks. Isn't everyone's?
'Everyone' doesn't explode their parents in a magical fit.
Virgil has to talk to a psychologist. He hates it. He is prescribed anti-anxiety medication. It makes him feel as if he could stand within a cloud and be one with it. They make noises about an antidepressant, but something about his age puts them off. For now.
The next day, he is shipped to a group home.
"You'll get a fresh start here," one of the counselors, an earnest-faced guy named Thomas who looks like he belongs there himself, explains. Virgil stares dully at him. Are they supposed to believe that? "I swear, you'll see. It's a great place."
It is not.
Virgil hates it. He hates everything. He hates that they keep focusing on his magic. They want him to control it. They want to leash it, to keep him contained. As if he is a danger to them. Not unless you're planning on shoving me into a wall and yanking my boxers off, he wants to snark at them, but he doesn't want them to know about his family, because they don't deserve to know about his family, because no one deserves to know about his family. No matter how many times Virgil wakes up with their names on his lips and a scream locked behind his teeth, breath whistling in and out of his lungs.
"Bullshit, isn't it?" Someone tells him, a few weeks in, sidling up to him. Virgil looks down. Janus. That's all he knows of them. Their name is Janus and they are nonbinary, too.
"Yes," Virgil agrees quietly. One of the few times they've spoken out loud. Janus grins, and the smile pulls at the birthmark on the side of their face.
"I wish you would put more effort into making friends," Thomas bemoans, during one of their many meetings. Virgil smiles blandly at him and stares at the wall, picking at their cuticles.
"Janus is my friend," Virgil says mildly. "Are you saying that one doesn't count? Are they too short to be a whole friend?"
"Virgil!" Thomas splutters, sounding appalled. Virgil tells Janus later that night, and Janus laughs so hard, they wheeze and have to hold onto the wall to stay upright.
"You know," Virgil says, in a contemplative sort of way. "I'm not sure he ever actually disagreed with me." Janus's grin is almost vicious.
He has bad days. Bad weeks. Bad months. He spends whole afternoons in a dissociative haze, rocking back and forth in the center of his bed, fingers wreathed in pale lavender. He chokes down his anti-anxiety medication some days and spits it out others. The sharp swell of anxiety is proof he's still here.
Monster, some of the other kids whisper behind Virgil's back. They whisper it about Janus, too. Virgil's never asked why Janus is there. Janus doesn't talk about it. Virgil doesn't either, but they'd known somehow anyway. Probably on the news somewhere. It is a big deal, Virgil supposes, to blow up your abusers.
They still have school. How's that for stupid? Virgil's life feels like it never started, but he still has to worry about chemical reactions and algebra and what the hell a dangling participle is. He still has to pretend he cares about his time while running the mile (he and Janus always walk the last half together, and Janus flipped the teacher off once behind their back). He doodles in the corners of every piece of paper he stumbles across, pencil strokes thin and hesitant.
"I want to run away," Janus announces one night, when they're both tucked into one bed after bed inspections.
"Now?" Virgil asks, doubtful and a little sleepy. He feels more than sees Janus's answering nod. "Okay," Virgil mumbles, and they peel themselves out of the blankets. His heart thumps against his ribs as he slips on his sneakers and grabs his backpack. Not like they have much, but they don't want to just leave it. If they leave it, they might as well give up now. Might as well admit they aren't making it past the front door.
It's hard to get over the outside fence, and Janus nearly gives up, but when they're both over, when Virgil's feet slap against the pavement, they laugh, breathless and shaky and too close to tears, and bolt down the sidewalk. Janus lags and Virgil grabs their hand, pulling them along. They don't stop until they reach an abandoned lot, choked with weeds and broken bottles.
"What now?" Virgil asks. Janus shrugs.
"See how long it takes for us to get caught?" Janus offers, and Virgil giggles. Light purple illuminates his face, the soft glow of his magic spilling over his skin and mingling with the answering banana glow of Janus's. It's pretty and pastel.
"Let's go then," Virgil tells them, because he's not willing to be snatched back to the group home yet, only a few blocks away, like their escape didn't mean anything. Janus nods firmly, face lit with determination.
They walk all night, trading stories of before, resting on benches and curbs, behind bushes and occasionally up a tree. Sometimes they hear police sirens, but they are far away and fade into the night's traffic. Virgil's exhausted, wavering, as the sun starts to come up, yellow and orange and pink and purple washing over the horizon.
"Do you think we could walk forever?" Virgil asks, their throat starting to hurt. Janus looks up at him, eyes solemn. They squeeze Virgil's hand, and their magic feels like a stuffed animal. Something soft and cozy. Something that doesn't hurt. He remembers his father's magic- prickly and sharp, barely there. He was always jealous of Virgil's, always angry that his child's magic blossomed and his didn't. It's stupid. It's not fair. Life isn't fair.
"I think we can do anything we want to," Janus answers, voice quiet and earnest. "...Together?" Janus's normally confident tone is hesitant. Virgil remembers their talks- Janus has never really had a friend before. Never really had family before.
Why can't you choose your family? Virgil thinks, and nods.
"Together," Virgil agrees. A breeze stirs his sweat-dampened hair as a car pulls up behind them, tires spraying gravel. They look over their shoulder to see Thomas unfolding himself from behind the steering wheel. Wisps of pink still flutter around Thomas's face, darting toward Virgil and Janus like fireflies. Cheater.
"You found us," Janus says, deadpan.
"I did," Thomas says. He looks exhausted. Despite that, there is a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Did you try to set the whole home up in a heaval?"
"No," Virgil says, honest. "We just..." He trails off.
"Come on," Thomas says, with a sigh. "I'll take you back." Tumbling in the back of the car, Virgil glances back, through the rear window, at the sunrise.
Soon, they promise themself, as Janus lays their head on Virgil's shoulder, apparently prepared to sleep the entire way. Soon.