"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE END OF THE WORLD WAS IN EIGHT DAYS. Eight short days that would lead to turmoil, nothing but ash and bodies littering the dead ground. Perhaps Five and Vincent would not make their way to that point again. Perhaps they will perish with the rest of the world, never to see the light of day again. Vincent did not believe in a God, nor did he believe in a heaven. He supposed that once death overtook his body he'd see nothing but black. He supposed death is death. He would not see anyone again once his eyes closed and his heart stopped beating. He'd see dark for eternity, a fate worse than the idea of hell.
It was no lie that Vincent was afraid to die. Death was consistently plaguing his mind, running through his head wildly. He was horrified of it, horrified of the black that came with it. He was horrified of seeing nothing once he died, thinking nothing, unmoving forever and ever. He was horrified of the way he'd die. Painfully and slowly as he'd always thought. He was not looking forward to the feeling, but was still ready to die at any given moment.
It was an odd combination. Someone who wouldn't mind dying too much but was also entirely terrified of it. It didn't make much sense together, didn't create a clear picture like it would if he was a perfectly happy person who did not want to die. But dying was going to happen whether Vincent liked it or not. He did not know when or how, but he understood that one day his fear would come true. And he knew he would not worry so much about it, not be so scared of it once it actually occurred. Perhaps he'd be happier, lying 6 feet underneath the ground. If he even makes it that far, anyway. Maybe he will never be buried. Maybe he will never get a funeral. Perhaps everyone will forget he ever existed, find the idea of him foreign and unimportant as they surely already did.
Vincent did not like to think about it. Although, he had no way to rid himself of the thoughts. No way to make them go away, as much as he willed himself to do so. Five used to help him a bit, help him fall asleep when they were stuck in an apocalyptic eternity. Five had never known why Vincent had such trouble falling asleep, didn't understand why the boy would cover his ears and curl up into a ball like his brother Klaus would do when his demons would get too close.
Whenever that happened Five could not help but feel somewhat bad. He would sigh to himself, speak up and ask Vincent what's wrong. Vincent wouldn't respond, overtaken by shaky breaths and his own quivering body. Weak. Fuck, Vincent was so weak. Five did not think so. He would wait a few minutes for a response. Once he would not get anything Five would begin to talk, ramble on and on about whatever came to mind. He'd talk about his family, talk about Klaus and how much Vincent reminded him of him. He explained that Klaus would probably like Vincent, that they'd get along amazingly if they ever met. After an hour or so of Five talking, Vincent would finally be asleep. Five would not know until he heard the soft snores coming from the other boys mouth. Five would sigh, turning on his side and talk more to his mannequin Dolores, until he himself would fall asleep.
