i know you don't care, but can you listen? @texecutioner.
the marquis groans audibly, tipping his head until it connects with the back of his cream couch; the colour of which somehow untouched by the insouciant nature of excessive and animated gesturing with a wine glass in hand. vincent cannot deny that he'd been enjoying a drink in surplus as of late, aristocratic boredom quelling his restless fingers and he finds that he itches to return to the more favourable side of his title, in spite of its often lack in refinement and glamour. vincent spent his days with access to whatever mad thing he wanted, and yet it did not even begin to satiate him; prestige was only pleasurable if he continued to earn it, getting his hands dirty every now and then to remind himself why he really did deserve to be in the position he is. his apartment was cold and vacant and without the company of those who really understood him. not that anyone really did.
❛ i can, as long as you do not expect me to recall any of this at a later moment. ❜ vincent says obnoxiously, but his expression is illuminated somewhat by rare good spirits; warmed with the pleasant tepidity of ample glasses of red wine that puts an atypical rouge in his otherwise ghostly cheeks. he smiles, a first sign that he had any humour in him whatsoever. perhaps the extension of this vague compassion was the intricate knowing of an unpleasant home, the relief his own father's death brought him once he received that call. he remembers drinking and crying. sobbing even. that formidable feeling of pure liberation flooded him and vincent didn't know what to do with it. ❛ and as long as we can drink through it. ❜
