Archive of Our Own ^beta

Could you write Roman angst / hurt/comfort that’s a human/college au? Roman wants to major in something related to the arts (theater, art, creative writing, etc). However he’s constantly reminded by his family that he should pick a major that will lead to a career that pays well. So he just settles for a major that will lead to a well paying job, but is clearly stressed out and sad by how his college life is going. So the other Sides step in a comfort him; they are determined t o help him follow his dreams and not go down a life path that he’s not happy with. – monkeythefander

Roman glances down at his phone as it buzzes again. His hands clench and unclench as he reaches for it. He looks at the text.

Mom: Doug said he's happy to help you when you do figure out what you want. Just a reminder of all the people that care about you <3

He flips the phone over and looks at the mountain of textbooks stacked at the edge of his desk, just barely on the edge with all the folders of homework and printed articles he has to somehow get through by the end of the week. He looks down at his hand, the callus on his finger flattened from how hard he's been pressing his pen to paper just to try and struggle through one more project, one more class. He swallows, mouth dry, and reaches for the water bottle only for it to be way too light—how long ago did he finish it?

With a grunt, he gets up and goes to the bathroom, jamming it under the water bottle filler and waiting until the light turns green. He slumps back down at the library desk and buries his head in his hands. He can't afford to be doing this right now, he knows it, he has to get back to work. He's got three deadlines looming over his head and the persistent growl of his stomach isn't doing him any favors.

The 'starving artist' cliche is really overblown, Roman. There's no glamor in it. I know it sounds like it's romantic and it'll all pay off in the end, but the truth is that's not how the world works. I'm not trying to crush your dreams, honey, I just want you to be prepared.

He'd stayed up all night making his art about that, and he's never going to show that particular piece to anyone because it will get back to his parents somehow and they'll want to know what inspired this, this seems really dark, Roman, are you alright? Is there anything we can do?

He wishes he'd never shown them some of his art to begin with. God, he's never going to get his mother's face out of his head when she'd looked at him over breakfast like he was a complete stranger and said I wish I'd known how to love you better when you were younger.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that at 9 in the morning?

He shakes himself. He can't be doing this right now. He has work to do. He grits his teeth and picks the pen up again and starts struggling through the pages and pages of homework. The characters on the screen fuzz and blur and he has to keep blinking, keep squinting, keep trying to parse them out through the fog in his brain that just doesn't want to. He's rarely felt more useless in his life than when he'd seen the word count for a paper and failed to do it until he was shaking with frustration at how hard it was to make the words go.

Any writer will tell you that writing isn't as simple as sitting in front of a keyboard and just letting the words fall out of you. It's called a discipline for a reason and it takes discipline to do. It takes practice, just like anything else, it takes work and it takes more than just someone glancing over it and thinking oh, nice, you wrote a story. It's never wow, the amount of time you must've taken to practice your craft to do something like this is admirable. It's never I really like how you've used this particular technique or this particular style to do what you wanted. It's only ever yeah, you've improved and they don't even have the vocabulary to specify how or what it is they think is better. Not when it comes to writing, and in Roman's case, certainly not when it comes to his writing.

Sure, some of his professors think he's good. But those ones were from his other classes that he actually wanted to work for. Now? Now he's lucky if he gets one word of decent praise in between all the other suggestions and criticisms for how his style isn't appropriate or he's missing key parts that mean the rest don't count for anything and—

And he blinks and realizes the reason that he's struggling to read so much is the tears now rolling down his cheeks.

He doesn't have time for this. He has studying to do. He has projects to finish. He has work that has to be done to be worthwhile and make sure that he's doing it right and he's impressing his class and he's also managing his life in a way that gets him a high-paying job right after graduation and he's making his family proud and—and—

And he's not forgetting that he has people who care about him.

He blinks again. He stares unseeing at the screen as a tear hits his computer. He thinks, if he were in another major, he might be able to do something with the fact that the first thought he has was I can't cry on my computer, I have too much work to do.

But this work doesn't care about his emotions or his feelings, so he sniffles, clutches his water bottle like it's a cuddle toy for one, two, three seconds, then he gets back to work.

"Alright," Virgil announces, plopping down on the edge of the sofa almost in Roman's lap, "what's wrong?"

"I'm not a ventriloquist, get off my lap!"

"I'm not on your lap, Princey, I'm next to it." He leans down and flicks the side of Roman's head. "Talk to us."

"'Us?'" Only then does he look up and see that yep, the rest of their friend group has gathered around, Logan sitting slowly on the other side of the sofa as Patton and Janus lean against the wall. "Oh. When did you guys get here?"

"About twenty seconds ago." Logan crosses one leg over the other. "But Virgil's right."

"Savor that."

"Dick." Virgil swats him. "Don't ignore us. You've been off for weeks, Princey, what's going on?"

Roman hunches his shoulders. He really doesn't have time for this. "I'm fine, guys. Just let me get back to work."

"Lie."

"Janus, I don't have time for you right now."

" Also a lie, but maybe a little less of one." Janus doesn't even have the decency to flinch when Roman glares at him—which part of him really wants to find offensive, he has a great death glare— "you're upset, sweetie, you have to let us help."

"Well, I don't have to do anything except pay taxes and die."

"Okay, he's still making bad Vine references, he can't be that far gone."

" Guys," he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, "really, I'm glad you're all here and concerned about me, but I really need to finish this, can we do this later?"

"When is later?"

"I don't know, like, after dinner?"

"Done," Logan says in that way where he knows Roman's gotten himself into a trap— shit, see, this is why Roman switching majors really sucks too, because Logan kicks his ass verbally enough outside of class, he doesn't need to give him an excuse to kick it inside too. "We'll set aside some time after dinner to discuss. Thank you for suggesting it, Roman."

Roman redirects his death glare to Logan's back as he walks out of the room, trying not to let his cheeks flush too obviously when the others are trying—or not trying at all, in Janus's case—to hide their smirks or snorts. Instead, he buries himself back in his work and makes the best effort he can to getting through the nonsense so he can be present for whatever interrogation he's about to receive afterwards.

He doesn't make that much progress, but that's not new. He saves what he's done, sends emails to the groups for what he can't, and resigns himself to being quiet during dinner so he can save his energy. Thankfully, none of his friends try to make him talk during dinner itself, they'll all distracted talking about some show or some game—honestly, he's pretty sure there's both games and shows in the franchise so he'd be correct either way—and not on the very sad and upset Roman poking halfheartedly at dining hall pasta and salad.

He has about three minutes after they get back to the dorm before they're all piling into his room and demanding he talk to them.

"I don't know what you guys want me to say."

"You can start with why you've looked like a kicked puppy for the last few weeks."

"I have not!"

"You have, kiddo," Patton adds, wincing a little at the description but not denying or disagreeing, "it's not your fault, but it's…you look like someone's told you Disney's never making another movie ever again."

"Okay, maybe not that bad," Virgil amends when Roman stares at them blankly, "but you've had your little princely pout on pretty much constantly."

"I do not—"

"Yeah, you do."

"Yes, you do."

"You do."

"You kinda do, kiddo."

"Wow, fuck you guys, you all suck." Roman rubs his temples. "I really don't know what you guys want from me."

"You've been upset." Logan reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. "We just want to know why."

"And what we can do to help," Virgil adds.

"I don't—I'm just stressed from work, okay? That's all. I'm trying to wrap my head around new stuff and it's taking me some time. You don't have to worry about it."

"Well, that ship has very much already sailed," Janus says, feigning a put-upon indifference that Roman sees right through because he won't stop fiddling with his gloves, "we're here, we're worried, so you may as well tell us."

"That's not how it works."

"That's very much how it works."

"Enough, you two." Logan's hand is still on his arm. Logan's hand better not stay on his arm for much longer because all the emotions he hasn't been able to get out of him are racing toward that one point of warmth like it's the only port in a storm and if he doesn't stop touching him now, there's going to be no more work that gets done this evening and he has a deadline to meet. "Roman, obviously we won't pressure you into sharing something you don't want to, but…we are worried."

"Why?"

"Because you seem so much less like you." Thank God that hand leaves. "You've been quiet and distant and we—well, I won't speak for everyone else, but I miss you."

A lump rises in his throat. He never thought he'd hear Logan say he missed him. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. I miss going on walks with you in the morning and talking about our readings, I miss studying in the library with you."

"I still study in the library."

"Yeah, but that's all you do right now, Princey." Virgil fiddles with his hoodie strings. "You don't come game with me or Janus, you don't watch movies or shows with us as much anymore, hell, Patton can't even get you to come to breakfast in the morning if it's not an hour before your class."

He sneaks a guilty look at all of them to see similar expressions on their faces. His chest twists. He's…he's been a bad friend, hasn't he?

"Don't," Patton says softly when he opens his mouth, "you don't have to apologize to us, we're not mad at you. We're just worried, like Janus and Logan said. We're your friends, Roman, we just want you to know we're here for you."

Right.

Right.

Roman swallows. He bows his head and mumbles something about being too overwhelmed with work and not knowing how to deal with it. Logan pats his shoulder and Patton promises to try waking up a little earlier to go and get breakfast with him and everything. Janus and Virgil manage to convince him to take the rest of the night off to watch the new episode of the show they're binging. He waits until the rest of them have vanished back to their rooms for the night to look longingly at his notebook.

He scribbles down a few lines and shoves it under his bed, cracking his laptop open again.

He should've known that eventually, they'd bring out the big guns. Or rather, big gun.

"Ro-bro!" Roman barely has time to move his computer out of the way before he has an armful—and lapful—of his brother, squirming to get closer. "It's been too long!"

" Ack— Re! Re, you're squishing me!"

"So? You're used to it." He wiggles his way even closer with a happy sounding hum. "Hey, there's my Roro. You've been dodging my calls, haven't you?"

"What? No, I didn't—when did you call?"

"I'm just fucking with you."

"Can you— ack— not fuck with my ability to breathe?"

Remus rolls his eyes fondly but does step back, letting Roman actually get himself together and stand up for a proper hug. Then he's right back to getting squished by a boa constrictor and…maybe he's grinning a bit into Remus's shoulder because yeah, he missed his brother too.

"I haven't seen you since you started this new bullshit," Remus mumbles in his ear, "why's it look like it aged you four years?"

"Asshole."

"You know I'm right, though." Remus pulls back, holding him by his shoulders and poking his cheek. "You look ragged, Roro. You been getting enough sleep?"

"You're worse than our parents."

"Fuck yeah, I'm worse. I can actually make you do shit still."

He flinches. It's small, but Remus notices everything, especially when it's about him, so of course Remus notices and he gets two seconds before Remus is stepping closer and bringing him into another hug—gentler this time, but still firm enough to let him know he's not running away from this conversation.

Shit.

"Now, what was that all about?"

"Nothing, Re, it's fine—"

"Bullshit." He squeezes him closer. "You're upset about something, Roro, so tell me what it is."

"I'm just stressed, okay? Switching majors is hard and I'm trying to play catch up. That's all it is."

Remus narrows his eyes. "So if I ask Janny if that's true, he'll agree with me?"

"Ask me what?"

Oh, great. He glances over his shoulder to see that everyone's apparently coming to say hi—that's not fair, they're Remus's friends too, but he'd be a fool to not put together why they're all here right now and it has everything to do with the concerned furrow between Remus's brows that isn't going away anytime soon.

"Did you guys seriously call him because you're still worried about me?"

"Yep."

"That's correct."

"We're still worried, kiddo, and we figured Remus might have an easier time getting you to tell us what's wrong."

Remus flicks his forehead and grins when Roman glares at him—what is with everyone suddenly being immune to his death glares? Has switching majors caused his death glare to weaken too?—and ruffles his hair. "C'mon, Roro, you can tell us. We'll only make fun of you if it's funny."

"No, we won't."

"Fine, only if you deserve it."

"We won't do that either."

Remus pouts. "You're no fun, Logan."

"I'm concerned about my friend," Logan says smoothly, "and I'm not in the habit of punishing the behavior I want to see."

"Ooh, kinky."

"Both of you shut the fuck up," Virgil grumbles, "we're here to support Roman, not whatever the hell that is."

"Great idea, Dark and Stormy! Roman, tell us what's wrong!"

"Oh, for crying out loud—I'm just stressed!"

"That much is clear."

"Shut up, Remus." As soon as he says it, he bites his tongue, reaching out for his brother before he can pull away—Remus wasn't, not even a little, in fact he's pretty sure he was stepping closer— "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"I know, Roro." Remus gives him another squeeze around the middle, the way he knows makes Roman relax because he fights dirty and Roman hasn't cried in days. "What's going on? I haven't seen you like this in ages."

Roman hangs his head. "Why is it so hard to believe that I'm just stressed? What part of my story doesn't make sense?"

"The part where you're admitting that it's a story and you haven't told us to fuck off about it yet."

Roman groans into his hands. "Why do you have to know me so well?"

"I'm your brother, that's my job. And they're your friends, so caring about you is their job."

"Which you haven't been letting us do, so…"

Roman doesn't say anything for a long moment. The lump in his throat keeps getting bigger and bigger. He clutches Remus's arms and Remus just lets him. He can hear Patton and Janus shuffling closer, trying to gauge if this is a sort of problem that a group hug can fix. He can hear Virgil and Logan mumbling something. He can feel Remus tightening his grip on him. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to crying—

"I'm just stressed," he croaks, "I'm…that's it, okay?"

There's a pause. Then Remus sighs. "Okay, Roro. I believe you."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He ruffles his head. "While I'm here, though, you wanna make good on that promise to show me your studio?"

His studio. The one he's technically not supposed to have anymore because that's for his old major and students in his new major don't get studio space. But academic bureaucracy moves slow and he hasn't had the heart to clear it out yet.

"Ooh, wait, can we come too?"

"I'd like to see it."

"Roman, is that okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, turning to grab his coat, "let's…let's go."

Remus just slings an arm over his shoulders for the entire walk across campus. Roman stares at the ground as he trudges over to the once-familiar building, pushing open the door and heading up the stairs. God, just the smell is enough to bring the tears back to the corners of his eyes, that half-dried paint and the weird heat from the kiln on the first floor, the paint thinner, the stuff from the woodworking shop and the forge…

He reaches into his pocket where the keys never left and opens the door to his studio. He has to hold himself against the door for a moment at the rush of being in the space again.

It's his. It's his, it's only ever been his. Not really, the room itself has probably housed over a hundred different students' works over the years, but right now? Right now this room is his and his alone. His manuscript sits in a messy pile on the corner of a desk filled with open sketchbooks and colors strewn about. The easel in the corner still has his composition work. The walls are still covered in his projects and concept ideas that have started to fade a little with the sun. The room smells of charcoal and paint and freshly-dried ink—not so fresh anymore—and there, in the corner, is his setup for sealing wax and the letters he'd been making before…before…

Before.

"Holy fucking shit, Roro," Remus breathes out and oh, yeah, everyone's here, "this place is fucking magical."

He steps aside and watches them through his lashes as they spill into the room, treating it like it's some sort of gallery and not Roman's mind frantically spinning its wheels at too many hours of the day. Logan and Janus are already deep in conversation about one of his earlier painting hanging on the wall. Patton is trying and failing to be subtle about poking at some of the clay figures on the windowsill. And Virgil is shamelessly reading the manuscript.

His heart flutters, just for a moment.

"That's it," he mumbles, "this is where the magic happens. Happened."

"No, no, no, you don't to downplay this." Remus turns around like he's a kid in a mad-science candy store. "This place is the shit."

"I'm glad you like it."

And for a split second, he thinks that might be it. That they'll wander around in his soul for a little, see what they want to, and then they'll leave and he'll lock the door behind them. But he forgets that Remus is Remus and knows everything.

"Why're you standing right there?"

"Huh?"

"You're standing right in front of where the door is like you don't want us to close it."

"Oh, I can close the door."

"Yeah, but you're still standing there. So what's behind the door, Ro-bro?"

He shuffles in place and apparently, that's all Remus needs to dart forward and shove him out of the way, yanking the door away from the wall and—

He knows what they're all staring at now. He'd done it in the dark, so he hadn't really been able to see what he was doing, but when the sun came up and he could, he couldn't bring himself to finish it or destroy it. Not when the curve of his own face was staring back at him as the rest of his body turning to dust, scattering in the wind to turn to cold, merciless coins clanking and clattering into a never-ending void.

It's a terrible painting. One his old professors might have been proud of. One his new professors won't ever see.

He didn't really want anyone to see it, but it's too late for that now.

"Oh, Roro," he hears Remus mumble, "you really didn't want to switch majors, did you?"

"It's not worth it," Patton says too, "going after something because it might get you a better-paying job later, not if you're miserable."

"You work so hard on your art, you deserve to be celebrated for it."

"How are you all getting this from one painting?"

"Because it's your painting, sweetie," Janus says, coming close enough to take Roman's shoulder, "and you're a very, very good artist."

"I'll fucking call our parents myself and tell them to fuck off," Remus growls, spinning and snatching Roman back up in a hug, "you don't deserve to be miserable. You deserve to be the person you want to be."

"Princey, I've been here for ten minutes and I feel like I understand you better than I have for years," Virgil says when Roman goes to protest, "you're fucking great at this and you've worked hard at it. Logan's right, if this is what you want? Fucking chase it."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," Patton whispers when Roman chokes on a sob, "come here, come here, that's it…"

It's group hug time on the floor, apparently, and Roman can't stop crying. Not when these people are standing in the middle of his soul, trying to hold him together, and not when he can't stop hearing the clink, clink, clink of metal hitting metal. He wants to stay here, in the light, in the warmth of it, not go back to cold papers and projects that feel so foreign to him.

"So do it."

"But—"

"No, if you want to do this, fucking do it. We'll talk to your professors, we'll fight the academic subcommittees if we have to. If you want this, Ro? We're in your corner."

He sniffles. "You…you mean it?"

"Of course we fucking mean it. We care about you."

And for the first time in a few months, Roman might actually believe it.