"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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VINCENT WAS BAD AT FEELINGS. He was terrible at expressing them, telling people that he was all good when he really felt horrible most of the time. And maybe that was horribly sad. Maybe it was a problem of Vincent's. Maybe he should figure it out, but he was bad at that. Not that he minded, of course.
He'd gotten used to hiding the tight feeling in his chest when his nerves got the best of him, an expert at hiding away the way he'd scratch mercilessly at his wrist or pull at his hair hard enough to drag out clumps when he got angry or frustrated, sad even.
It was difficult being so hard at expressing his emotions when he was such an emotional person. When he cried so often, yelled at people anytime he got particularly pissed off or laughing when he was happy. Happy was a scarce feeling for Vincent now. Not that it had ever been highly present in his life, anyway.
But the hardest feeling to express for Vincent was attraction. The feeling of longing for another person to hold him or kiss him or anything they wanted to do with him. He was horrible at anything close to the feeling.
One of the first times he'd truly tried to attempt expressing it was when he was fourteen, cooped up at a school dance way before he even knew about the apocalypse. He had been alone most of the time, standing aside with a bored expression and a few girls asking him if he wanted to dance every now and again, to which he'd respond with a simple "fuck off" in French. It was a known fact he was gay around the school for he'd only gotten bullied for it every day of his life.
He'd been so unbelievably bored until a boy he didn't quite recognize had asked him to dance. As a sort of 'fuck it' moment, Vincent had agreed and set his spiked punch to the side, admittedly not too sober; Vincent had been a drunk since he was eleven anyway. The boys name was Jules and he was admittedly gorgeous. They'd danced haphazardly to the song "Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore" by REO Speedwagon and Vincent wouldn't lie and say he hadn't enjoyed it a bit.
Once it was finished, Vincent had made out with the boy behind the school and then tossed him aside just like everyone else. Except that had been the one time Vincent had felt somewhat bad for it, when he looked at the boys hurt expression as he walked away, touching his lips and probably only now realizing how fucked he was for making out with resident fag Vincent Leblanc. Anyone who'd done that was most always bullied for the off chance they'd developed AIDs from Vincent's lips.
It was bullshit, but it was Vincent's life. And he'd never complained. He'd fought a few people, but most of the time he'd take the beatings wholeheartedly. Bad at expressing his feelings meant bad at deciphering which was which most of the time. Most times, he'd mix up sadness with fuming anger.
