♖} Even though Vincent’s days were numbered, a painful fact that he was all too aware of, he intended to die with some semblance of his dignity still intact, as it were. And so, he wasted no time in twisting around once more, turning his back to her again. Though she wouldn’t understand it now, Vincent was far too proud of an individual to allow one of his servant’s last memories of him to be how he’d wasted away, grieving not for himself but for his darling Gilbert….
But still… compared to everything else, that seemed such a petty notion….
Vincent understood. He understood all of it—and he wouldn’t begrudge Gilbert the opportunity to detach, if that was what he needed. After all, once the ceremony was complete, Vincent would be no more—but an unfathomably heavy burden would bear down upon his precious Gilbert. If he needed several days alone, to forget how Vincent curled up so easily next to him, how he burrowed his face in the soft tartan of his brother’s nightclothes, then that was all well and good, and Vincent wouldn’t deprive him of it. After all, once he became Glen, there would be no room for emotions. Gilbert was learning how to cope; Vincent couldn’t deny him that.
Yet somehow, that loneliness justified how he’d slunk into Gilbert’s room last night, long after his brother had fallen asleep, and plucked one of his blouses from his dresser-drawer. The smell of cigarette smoke and gunpowder that was so undeniably Gil, along with a creative imagination, had been the only thing that had allowed Vincent to actually fall asleep for a few hours last night, once he was sufficiently twisted in the blankets, enough that he could convince himself that they were Gil’s arms, wrapped around him….
In the past, had Gilbert discovered that his little brother was coming down with something, he would have relented and allowed Vincent to sleep with him once more—if only because he knew that Vincent was routinely plagued with nightmares (which, incidentally, a fever always exacerbated), and he only calmed down upon hearing Gilbert’s voice, feeling his gentle touch. But now, Gilbert hardly had the time of day for him, brushing past him with an unreadable expression, handsome features distorted with worry. Of course, Vincent being Vincent, he held no grudge, and he maintained the outward exterior of the languid, genial person he pretended to be—but inside, that old, dull ache started to throb again, intensifying with each little reminder that the end was very, very near.
If it weren’t for the blanket that had been rather unceremoniously draped over him, Vincent would not have noticed Echo’s presence in the room; he was far too caught up in his own thoughts. His back was, once again, facing the door, knees drawn up to his chest—he hadn’t even heard her come in; he was too busy reminiscing. At the time he’d done it, sitting out in the freezing rain had seemed like such a poetic thing to do—or at least something drastic enough to get Gilbert’s attention. By the time Gil had found him, Vincent had let himself get so cold that he could hardly walk for not being able to feel his feet, and he was already sniffling and sneezing almost constantly.
At least he’d gotten to sleep with Gilbert that night; judging by how Gil had clung to him, holding him in a bone-crushingly tight embrace all night long, that had been the last time that he’d be allowed into Brother’s bed.
That word had such a horrid finality to it.
Vincent rolled over to look at his servant once more. “There’s one last thing I want you to get for me….”
