"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...
( karma police, i've given all i can, it's not enough )
chapter twenty-eight!
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VINCENT COMPLETELY, UTTERLY, AND UNEQUIVOCALLY HAD LEARNED TO STOP GIVING A SINGLE FUCK. Everything around him was either going to shit or going suspiciously well, and Vincent had figured if he just stopped caring altogether none of it would hurt so bad in the end. He was right, of course, but Vincent was known for caring too much and suddenly not giving a shit was going to be difficult. He'd try anyway.
Vincent had this voice in his head, one that constantly told him all the nice things he had were going to blow up in his face; perhaps even literally. Vincent had a bad habit of listening to that voice, giving in to everything it ruined for him with open arms, smiling when it ended up killing him a little more everytime.
His conscience would choke him and his thoughts would grow toxic, and Vincent would learn that, really, there was never any use in trying to make it stop. He'd learn that letting it consume him entirely was, truly, his only singular option. Vincent would let his darkness eat him from the inside out, and he wouldn't even care.
Except, in all truth, he would care.
Vincent had always clawed his way out of bad situations and diverted himself away from the terrible hopelessness his brain plunged him into every now and again with a joy that was unmatched, unmatched yet so fabricated, string by string. Vincent was but a puppet, and he hoped to God he would never meet the puppeteer.
Vincent felt things getting better for him, but he couldn't possibly ignore the coexisting sense of dread. That was always as it had been. Things would go okay for Vincent and he'd be something similar to happy, and then something horrific would happen and again he'd fall back to the starting line. It was a never ending cycle, and Vincent hated that he felt that way again.
Five's admission of feelings was shocking and fantastic, yet so horrible at the same time. Vincent was scared more than anything; scared that this would do nothing more than throw them into yet another frenzy, down a never-ending rabbit hole. This would never bloom into something more simply because it couldn't, no matter how desperately Vincent wanted it to. Maybe the reason it wouldn't was due to just how much Vincent wanted it to.
Vincent's mind- although always already plagued by never ending thoughts of the teleporting asshole of an elderly man- was more stuck on Five than ever. It was odd, to have the feeling of someone's lips memorized on your own. Maybe Vincent was obsessive, but he could almost feel Five's face underneath his fingertips when he closed his eyes. Every ridge and imperfection and scar that Vincent had taken to forcibly remembering with all his might was right there, and this time it was the closest to being all his than it had ever been before. That was scary, the prospect of being so near to everything he'd ever wanted, yet knowing that really it was so out of reach still.
