Virgil is floating in null when his consciousness returns to him. He can't see, but he can feel fluid silk beneath his fingers and coldness on his nose. All he can remember is static and darkness. He can't get further than that, because it hurts to think about, the way that a fresh bruise hurts to touch. He can't go back. So, he swims forward, his mind moving towards the light that must be the surface as he comes up for air. He takes a deep, gasping breath, and he opens his eyes.

The sky is yellow.

Virgil slowly sits up, his head swims and his stomach bubbles as he grounds himself. It feels like he's weightless, and he's without gravity to orient him. Everything is supposed to hurt, he thinks. His body is supposed to protest and ache, but it doesn't. It simply moves groggily as it awakens from its slumber, which only further dizzies him as his brain hurries to catch up. He nurses his head by cradling it in his hands until the world stops spinning. Then, he blinks away delirium and gets to his feet.

He's surrounded by cliffs, stone spears and giants that stand tall around him, sheltering him from what's beyond. They melt into a field of sand at the base, a white bedsheet which extends below Virgil's feet and into the ocean to his right. The sea is crystal and shimmering, and sounds like it's whispering to him. The acid in his stomach neutralizes as the calm begins to settle in. It's safe here.

He sees a figure sitting on the beach in the distance, with their arms wrapped around their knees and their toes being lapped at by sea foam. Staring off into the horizon. Virgil begins to move towards them, and he leaves no footprints in the sand.

As he approaches, the figure becomes more clear. Unruly curly hair and round glasses that reflect the yellow light and look like angel halos. He hears Virgil approaching, and looks over at him.  It takes Virgil a moment to recognize him.

"You're awake," says the man. "I'm sorry I didn't wait beside you, kiddo. But I didn't want to frighten you."

The man is his father, albeit a much younger version of himself. At least, way younger than Virgil has ever seen him. The two of them could almost be the same age. His father's face is bright and youthful, void of the worry and greying of his adult years. His cheeks are full and healthy, as they could have only been before the dimples hallowed out to consume a third of his face. His body is rounded and soft and the sickness is nowhere to be found.

"Dad," Virgil says, kneeling down beside him by the waterfront.

His father looks at him. His smile is warm, but sad. It's small and distant. With his hands still bound around his legs, he reminds Virgil of his best friend, and how the two of them would sit curled up like that on the slides at the playground way after dark and talk for hours. His father was a part of those memories too, but he was the one who came out once it was more than late enough, and brought them back home for bed.

"I've missed you, Virgil," says his father. Even his voice sounds younger. He hesitantly reaches out to Virgil, setting his hand on his shoulder. The feeling is surprisingly heavy, like a warm weight against him. But it is comforting, and the years of longing to feel it rise up in Virgil's throat. Patton's eyes roam his face. "You're all grown up, aren't you?" His voice is only a whisper.

Virgil wants to tell him how much he's missed him too. He wants to tell him of the nights he's spent lying awake, talking to the ceiling in the hopes that his father was listening. He wants to ask if he ever heard him. He wants to share with him how he makes his coffee with hot chocolate mix, because that's how his father used to and now he can never manage to drink it any other way. He wants to explain how, for years, he's tried to fill the hole inside him with all the memories that his father left behind, but that it's never been enough, because how could it be? But, Virgil can only find the will in himself to manage a nod, and Patton draws his hand away again.

"You should put your feet in the water, it's lovely," Patton says, wiggling his toes in the froth from the waves for emphasis.

Virgil pulls off his shoes and sets them beside him before easing his feet into the clay and allowing the murmuring water to wash over them. The water is soft and cool, and it tickles a bit as it licks at his ankles. Virgil looks out over the turquoise ocean and into the daffodil sky, which is awash with daylight even though there is no sun in sight. In fact, there are stars. Constellations mapped out faintly across a flaxen canvas, white flowers weaved into blonde hair.

"Where are we?" Virgil asks. He has so many questions, some probably more important than this, but this is the only one that he's able to configure into word shapes at the moment.

Patton looks around thoughtfully. "I'm not sure, exactly. But this place does remind me of the beaches in Barcelona."

"Barcelona?" Virgil remembers going there. It was warm and sandy, and he can remember both of his fathers smiling there. But of course, the sky was blue in Barcelona.

"Yeah, you were just a boy then." Patton smiles a little at the memory. His eyes wash over the beach to his left, as if expecting a younger version of Virgil to run by. "I'm kinda surprised you remembered."

Virgil doesn't remember much of it. Only glimpses. The flash of a sunset, the wift of a spice, the feel of a warm wind on the back of his neck. Although, far back in the recesses of his mind, he must remember this beach, too, as Virgil has the feeling that he's the one who brought them here.

"Why are we here... together?"

Patton looks towards him, and hesitates. He doesn't know what to say. "I think it's so you didn't have to do it alone."

"Do what alone?"

His father sighs a little, and stands. He brushes the sand from his pants, before holding out a hand to Virgil. "Maybe we should take a bit of a walk, kiddo."