amour coriace ( five hargreeves! )

033

( voila )

chapter thirty-three !

VINCENT WAS THINKING OF GIVING UP CURSING. But, FUCK.

Vincent knew, in all actuality, that everyone dies. In the end, death is the only thing standing in anyone's way and that's the only plausible reason as to why it's so goddamn scary. It was the unknown, the idea of making others upset on your behalf. Vincent knew this, but that didn't make him any happier when he felt the cold dread in his stomach. He knew he was going to die here before he'd even fallen to his knees.

And when he'd fallen to his knees, he knew for sure. It didn't feel all too great.

Vincent knew how he must have looked then, on his knees with both hands— oddly heavy at his wrists and limp like never before— dragging up to touch his own face in what seemed like slow motion, letting out a tiny choked laugh when he felt more blood than anything; his face was practically soaked in it. His own blood, dripping from his eyes and his nose and his ears and maybe his mouth too. Vincent couldn't completely tell. But he was bleeding so much that he almost didn't feel it. Almost.

His hand slowly moved to the source of his outlandishly horrid pain, down to his stomach. He hadn't even noticed that he was hurt there. He pressed down lightly, and he knew the sound he let out was bad when he briefly heard Luther let out a breathless "I'm gonna throw up" through the ringing in his ears. He hadn't even noticed them moving down from the stage. He couldn't bring himself to look at any of the others.

He moved to look down at his stomach, almost frantically trying to pull up his shirt to see what the fuck had just happened, but his hands were quickly moved away, his wound hidden from him in favor of Five's trembling hands. Vincent looked up at Five slowly, grinning weakly at his horrified expression.

"Hey, buddy. What the fuck happened to me?" Vincent laughed out lightly before coughing harshly, falling back on his ass with the force of it, placing both hands on the cold ground underneath his body before spitting out a glob of blood beside him. He laughed more after that. Laughing made him feel better. On the inside Vincent was doing nothing more than freaking out.

Vincent grit his teeth a little, looking up at the ceiling slowly to hide his pained expression. He missed the incredible feeling of being filled with power. He felt like he could cry from it all, but the blood tears were good enough, he supposed. He felt Five's hand on his knee, felt Five leaning over him, barely heard Five ask him something through his blood-filled ears. Vincent looked at him slowly, and all he did was point at his ear weakly. Vincent's hands were shaking so much it felt like they'd rattle off his wrist. It would have been hilarious to him had he not been dying.

Dying. What a funny word. Dying. Dying. Dying. He was dying. All of that, just to die. Dying, dying, dying. Dying felt worse than Vincent could have ever imagined because dying hurts, at least when you're someone like Vincent.

Or maybe seeing Five Hargreeves on the verge of tears was what made it so bad. Watching through hooded eyes as the person that Vincent could very confidently say he was horribly in love with stiffened before him as the inevitable finally dawned on him. Vincent was going to die, and he should have seen it coming.

"—Vincent. Vincent! Guys—" That was Diego's voice, so very frantic. Vincent had made a friend just to hurt him, and isn't that funny? That's all he seemed to be good for. Diego knelt beside Vincent, his eyes wide. "What do we do?" He asked, flinching when Vincent laughed in his face, flinching harder when his laugh became a pained sob.