"maybe we can head to the apocalypse again as a little vacation. you know what they say... paradise!"
"i cannot express to you how little i would like to do that."
"stingy fucker."
IN WHICH vincent leblanc, resident french asshole and externally...
011 ( and if you fool yourself, you will make him happy )
chapter eleven !
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LOVE IS SELFISH. Some could willfully disagree, but the proof was everywhere. In teenage couples around any town kissing until their lips went numb and married adults holding one anothers' hand while lying beside each other in bed. They were selfish. When they'd argue and cry, they were selfish. When their love for one another would turn sour from anger.
Love didn't last forever. That was clear. Love, despite being so increasingly popular, was something that scared Vincent just as much as death. Maybe even more, if possible. The idea of dedicating his life to someone in particular wasn't worrying. What did worry him was the idea of that someone falling out of love. That someone one day no longer looking at him the same, with that total love in their eyes that would most definitely make Vincent swoon.
And he wouldn't lie and say he didn't want to be loved so shamelessly it hurt. Because he did. He wanted someone to look at him and feel their heart constrict in their chest just at the mere sight of him standing before them.
He knew he'd love that feeling more than anything else in the world. But he also knew it would scare the shit out of him. He wasn't sure what he'd do if someone suddenly hated him when they'd sworn to adore him forever. Perhaps he'd cry. Or perhaps, he'd just stop feeling the ability to love altogether.
He didn't know which he found worse. Sure, he cried often, but it had always been for idiotic reasons that held no true purpose. Crying for something as heavy as the loss of love would be torture.
Although, Vincent had never had to feel it. For he'd never been in love before, and at this point he was sure he never would be. He was unlovable and everyone around him knew it.
His parents would tell him often, and his friends all knew as well. They'd look at him with a sort of sympathy after he came back from making out with a boy he barely even knew the name of, stare at him with such a pity that frustrated Vincent to no end.
And Vincent was positive he didn't need love anyway. All love was was a feeling of your heart squeezing and a pleasant heat overtaking your body. Vincent was sure he could get that from just dying.
He was sure once his eyes would begin to close for eternity and his body would shut down, he'd feel something close to love. Maybe a pleasant feeling that he wants to grasp onto forever. But he's not even sure yet.
And when he looked at Five Hargreeves, he felt himself withholding those similar feelings of love and death and all things alike. Although, he wasn't in love. Not yet, at least.
All Vincent understood was that what he felt for Five was different than anything he'd ever felt before. It was a scary thought. One that bit at his skin like frost and made chills go up his spine. He hated it.
