"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...
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SOME DAYS, VINCENT FELT MORE MESSED UP THAN HE REALLY EVER HAD BEEN BEFORE. Some days he'd grip the edge of an imaginary railing and look over the edge without such a care for the perception of falling. Vincent wasn't so scared of heights, anyway. He'd been walking on a tightrope his entire life. It was the inevitable death that came with slipping detrimentally that was odd.
Vincent had always wondered if death was comforting. If, for him, he'd feel that peace he'd read characters in books feeling whilst they die. Would he be as afraid as he was as of late? Would he cry? Would he be alone?
The last one felt plausible. Loneliness was a usual for Vincent. The inherently lonely state of his brain would likely never change. He would be stuck in it forever, in a neverending loop, feeling increasingly crazier everyday until it went dark.
Vincent felt like crying. Maybe he should, maybe he would, but he didn't like the build up one bit. The way his bottom lip would quiver just barely and his eyes would glaze over and his hands would shake and he'd inhale so sharply it hurt. It was all dramatic, yet so real and so infuriatingly upsetting to Vincent. He didn't want to cry anymore. He didn't want to be such a fucking pussy anymore. He didn't want the short end of the stick any longer. He didn't want his brain to hate him as much as it did, putting all these horrible thoughts into his brain and programming themselves deep and insistent, to a location Vincent couldn't even place.
But he couldn't help it. Crying came naturally to him. It felt good, relieving, comforting. It was exactly what Vincent's out was to the rest of the world. His own tears, salty and wet and his own, his own. All he wanted to do was curl up into a little ball and fucking lose it, scream so loud that it worried people who wouldn't actually bother to check up on him. Though he didn't want to cry. He didn't want something that was his own anymore. He was nothing but unreal, a replica, a fake if you will. He was a coward, plain and simple.
He was a coward and that was why he continuously shrunk back in his seat when Diego turned back to glare at him. Somehow, Diego had been under the impression that Vincent was the one who shot Five. Bullshit, yes, but Vincent didn't blame him for the assumption. Technically, it really was Vincent's fault anyway.
Vincent sighed heavily, looking away from the front and looking down where Five was, his head lying in Vincent's lap, the rest of his body curled up with both hands on his bleeding side, still unconscious. It felt too close, too much like if Five were to wake up to it he would be angry, and maybe even sock Vincent in the face.
Vincent would have made a crude joke about how close Fives face was to his crotch, but he couldn't even bring himself to say it. Who would laugh, anyway? Diego and Allison would have no reaction and Five would still be unconscious so what the fuck was the point?
