"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...
( gone running, the trails gone cold, you've been acting quite strangely, since ten years old, and when you were eleven they said "you ought to pray to high heaven you don't get caught" )
chapter thirty !
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KNIVES ARE A SPECIAL THING. They fit nicely in the palm of a hand. They have a handle most times, easy to wrap fingers around, easy to control. They kill and they hurt but they protect all the same. They're unpredictable in the hands of some, sometimes, oftentimes. They're poison in glinting metal, and they sting like a snake.
Vincent thought that he was a bit like a knife.
He was a special thing, depending on who you asked. He didn't have a handle and he didn't fit in a hand, but he too was easy to control. He killed and he hurt and he protected. He was unpredictable sometimes, oftentimes. He was poison in a teenage boy's body, and he stung like the sun after a long day.
Vincent was the bright knife. Vincent was the beaming sun. Vincent was going to do a bad thing.
Vincent was the sun, bright and sometimes painful and refreshing and loud. That beneath a frigid dawn, a boy with a smile that was slowly fading. A sun that was burning out. A knife that was dulling. A world that was ending.
Five was his Icarus, if he wanted to get gay about it.
Five was his Icarus, curious and a bad listener and an asshole more than anything. He had flown too close and now he was stuck. Stuck with a dying sun. A melting wing. A weeping ocean. A world ending.
Five was his Icarus, but he was also the moon.
He was cold and glowing and envious and reflective of the sun he loved so much. In the cold limelight of a flooding sea, a pretty thing with an aching need to protect everyone but himself. He was a lulling creator. A manifestation. An object of affection, for some.
The sun and his Icarus seemed more fitting though. The sun kills Icarus in the old tale, doesn't it? Or maybe Icarus killed the sun. Maybe they killed each other.
Vincent hated knives. He thought they were too obvious for an attack, too difficult to navigate, too dangerous.
Vincent hated himself, too. And wasn't that funny?
Knives and Vincent; the best of friends, birds of the same feather, fruit stolen from the same tree. Sharp and distinctive and illegal in some states- ha!- and definitely frowned upon when released into public. It was uncanny.
It made Vincent want to cry a little.
He had the butcher knife in his hand. It laid there and it didn't fit. It was too big, chunky and wonky and all wrong. It was achingly sharp. That made Vincent want to laugh. He looked up and flipped off the ceiling aggressively. He was angry. Angry at the Commission, at Five, at the Hargreeves, at himself.
