Vince tracked every minute shift in Tony’s face with the kind of hyper-focus that only years on the job—and maybe a sick obsession—could have honed. The tension bracketing Tony’s mouth, the flicker of something too sharp and raw in his eyes—it wasn’t just a story unfolding in front of Vince; it was a tragedy. One he’d written with his own hands. His words hung in the air like shards of glass, delicate and jagged, and Tony’s expression cut through them effortlessly, his emotions too visceral to contain. Hurt and fury collided there, so vivid Vince could almost feel it radiating off him, hot and cold in the same unbearable breath. Was he about to punch Vince? Break down? Vince couldn’t tell which would be worse. He clenched his jaw until it ached, his chest twisting tighter with every second that passed.
What Vince wanted—no, needed—was impossible. He wanted to grab Tony and pull him in, tangle his fingers in that wild mess of hair, and kiss him senseless, kiss him until there was no room left for the pain and anger in those dark eyes. He wanted to pour every ounce of whatever the fuck he was feeling into Tony’s mouth until they were both drowning in it, breathless and undone. The ache of knowing he couldn’t made him feel gutted, like someone had reached inside his chest and torn him open, leaving nothing but a hollow, useless mess behind. He couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t. The truth of it sat in his throat like lead, impossible to swallow and choking all at once.
When Tony stepped back, his body stiff like he was bracing for impact, Vince froze. His lungs seized, and the cold night air scraped his throat like razor blades. Tony’s steps were heavy, each one dragging him farther away, and it felt like the ground beneath Vince’s feet was splitting open, widening the distance until it became uncrossable. The thought of Tony walking away—just turning his back and leaving—sank claws into Vince’s chest, pulling sharp and deep until he thought he’d choke on the panic rising in his throat.
Then Tony turned, and the relief hit Vince like a gut punch. He exhaled hard, the breath rushing out of him in a visible puff that curled in the cold air, the kind of sound you made when you’d been holding it for too long without realizing. His chest expanded like it had been vacuum-sealed and suddenly released, his ribs struggling to accommodate the movement. But his breathing was all wrong—too fast, too shallow, like his body couldn’t figure out how to regulate itself anymore. Every inhale tasted bitter, sharp with the knowledge that Tony wasn’t gone, not yet—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t leave eventually. And when he did, Vince wasn’t sure there’d be anything left of him to pick up.
But then Tony’s face shifted again, sharper now, and Vince watched it with the kind of horrified fascination you feel when you know you’re about to crash but can’t stop yourself. The way Tony’s expression twisted—his brows pulling tight, his mouth hardening into a grim line—sent a jolt of something raw and cold straight through Vince’s chest. And then there it was: the disgust in Tony’s eyes, bitter and unfiltered, the kind of look that didn’t just cut—it carved, leaving deep grooves Vince didn’t know if he’d ever fill. He didn’t expect it, not this much venom, not directed at him. That anger was almost scary, and Vince hated himself for it. Hated that he even had to fight the urge to flinch when Tony looked at him like that.
But Vince’s years on the job had trained his body to stay steady, his face calm. He knew how to weather the storm—on the outside, at least. Inside, though? Inside, his chest felt like it was folding in on itself, like someone had shoved their hands into his ribcage and started squeezing. There was this tight, desperate knot in his stomach that only grew heavier with every second Tony’s expression stayed the same. All Vince wanted—all he fucking wanted—was for Tony to shove down his stupid pride, swallow his damn stubbornness, and just take the money. That was it. It wasn’t about pity or charity or whatever Tony thought this was. Vince just needed him to be okay. He needed Tony to stay warm this winter, to not freeze his ass off in threadbare scraps while Washington’s brutal cold tore through him like a blade. Was that so much to ask?
Tony didn’t move. He just stared at the money, his gaze hard, almost unreadable, for what felt like forever. Vince held his breath, though his chest burned from the effort. He kept his hand out, steady as stone, but inside, he was anything but still. Every flicker of emotion that crossed Tony’s face hit him like a new wound. The hurt was there, of course it was, barely masked by the tension in his jaw and the way his lips pressed into a thin line, like he was holding something back. Vince wanted to look away, wanted to stop seeing the pain that he’d put there, but he couldn’t. His eyes stayed locked on Tony, helpless and desperate. His free hand twitched at his side, fingers curling into a fist, then relaxing, over and over. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to drag him into his arms and just fix it. God, he wanted to fix this.
But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself—not with Tony, not with this kind of emotional mess crackling between them. If he reached for Tony now, it wouldn’t be to help him. It would be selfish. It would be something that would make everything worse.
When Tony finally reached out, Vince barely kept his breath from hitching audibly. Tony’s hand moved with precision, careful, like he was dismantling a bomb. Vince watched as Tony took the money, gentle but deliberate, plucking it from his hand like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful. And maybe it did, because he avoided Vince’s eyes completely, staring anywhere but at him. Their fingers didn’t even brush, and Vince knew that wasn’t an accident. That distance was intentional, a wall Tony was putting up brick by brick, and Vince couldn’t blame him for it. But fuck, it still stung like hell.
The moment the money left his hand, Vince sighed, the sound harsh and ragged, like it dragged his soul with it. His chest expanded and collapsed in one intense motion, like the air leaving him had hollowed out his bones, leaving nothing but the shell of a man behind. The relief of Tony taking the money was sharp, but it was laced with something else—frustration, rage, sorrow, all tangled up into a mess he couldn’t even begin to sort out.
And god, the way Tony avoided him, the deliberate lack of contact, made Vince’s insides twist with a fury so potent he thought he might snap. Not at Tony, though. Never at Tony. The anger was directed squarely at himself, at the unbearable weight of the situation he’d created. He stood there, his hand now empty, his heart now aching, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface. If he could’ve ripped his own hair out in that moment, he might have. Maybe the pain would’ve distracted him from the overwhelming urge to throw his arms around Tony and kiss him until the rest of the world stopped mattering. Maybe it would’ve distracted him from how desperately he wanted to undo everything he’d just done. But it wouldn’t change a damn thing, and Vince knew it.
When Tony finally met his eyes and said ‘thanks’—and judging by the sheer disgust carved into his expression, that word might as well have been dipped in acid—Vince felt his stomach plummet. The calmness in Tony’s voice wasn’t real. Vince knew that tone too well, had sat across from it countless times in cramped interrogation rooms, watching men with shackled wrists and barely controlled fury bite out their confessions through clenched teeth. It was a sound as sharp as the edge of a knife, laced with a tension so volatile Vince could practically feel it vibrating in the air between them. And that same tone, that same restrained, dangerous energy, laced Tony’s words now. Vince saw it in his shoulders, rigid with barely concealed anger, in the tightness of his jaw, the way his lips pressed together like they were holding something back.
It was the kind of tension Vince had always known meant trouble, the kind that signaled a man was standing at the brink, one step away from throwing himself—or someone else—into the fire. And Jesus Christ, it radiated off Tony in waves now, a barely contained fury that felt like it might crack the ground beneath their feet. Vince could see it all: the danger simmering in Tony’s eyes, the promise of what he might do if he finally let himself snap.
And fuck, if that didn’t make Tony look so goddamn good. Sexy, intoxicating, goddamned erotic. Vince’s pulse jumped, heat rising to his face, his chest, his entire body, like a fire had been lit under his skin. That tension, that edge of danger—it was the same thing that had drawn him to Tony from the start, the thing that made his blood hum in ways he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to analyze. Tony looked like he was ready to destroy something, and Vince’s mind betrayed him in the worst fucking way. He didn’t just see the anger in Tony’s jawline or the way his fist clenched tight. He felt it, imagined it, wondered what that strength would feel like if it were turned on him, not in anger but in something darker, something deeper.
His mind spiraled. He imagined Tony’s hands grabbing him roughly, pinning him against the wall, that fury channeled into the kind of raw, heated desire that left bruises and bite marks. He imagined the weight of Tony’s body pressing him down, the scratch of his stubble against Vince’s neck, the way his lips would claim him—no, fucking take him. It was dirty and wrong and so fucking hot that Vince had to swallow hard against the sudden dryness in his throat.
What the hell was wrong with him? Shame clawed at his chest, made him feel weak, disgusting. How could he be thinking this now, when Tony’s words were laced with hurt, when his disgust was palpable enough to choke on? But Vince couldn’t stop. That edge of danger, that promise of violence barely kept in check—it had always been Tony’s most intoxicating trait. It had hooked Vince from the start, made him crave the man even when he knew better, even when he tried to convince himself he could stay away.
But he couldn’t. Not when Tony looked like this, with his anger and his pain written all over him, every line of his body radiating a raw, unfiltered power that Vince wanted to grab hold of and never let go. His chest burned with shame, but it wasn’t enough to snuff out the heat that pooled in his gut, the ache that throbbed in places Vince had no business thinking about right now. God, what the fuck was wrong with him? How could he look at Tony—hurt, furious Tony—and still want him so badly he could hardly fucking breathe?
’Vince, don’t treat me like a pity-fuck, okay?’
The words hit Vince like a blade to the gut, sharp and precise, cutting deeper than he thought possible. Heat flared in his chest, a fiery, volatile mix of indignation and heartbreak that he couldn’t suppress if he tried. The accusation—no, the misunderstanding—was unbearable, igniting something raw in him. “Tony, you were never a goddamn pity—”
But Tony cut him off before he could finish, slamming a wall between them that Vince couldn’t break through, no matter how much he wanted to. His jaw snapped shut, teeth grinding as the echoes of his unfinished sentence hung heavy in the air. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs, each beat a violent reminder of the mess he’d made of this moment. His mind raced, tripping over itself, grasping for some way to explain, to fix it, but nothing came. Every thought dissolved into static, leaving him standing there, raw and vulnerable, his chest hollowed out by the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
When Tony mentioned the blocked number, shame hit Vince like a freight train, sharp and unrelenting. His gaze dropped instantly, fixing on an oil slick shimmering on the gravel as heat flooded his face. The swirling colors blurred as his skin burned red with guilt. He hadn’t thought about how it would feel for Tony—how abrupt, how cold, how cruel it must have seemed. He’d done it for the wrong reasons, trying to preserve his shaky commitment to fixing his marriage, to keep himself from relapsing into the addiction that was Tony. Because that’s what Tony was—an addiction. One more text, one more soft word, and Vince knew he would’ve caved. He’d have been back in Tony’s arms in seconds, ruining everything again.
Vince wrapped his arms around himself, the gesture instinctive, pathetic, protective—like the self-soothing he’d seen from timid abuse victims on his calls, those moments when they clung to themselves as if they might hold their broken pieces together. The thought made his stomach churn, shame rising thick in his throat. He wasn’t the victim here. Tony wasn’t hurting him; Tony was giving him exactly what he deserved, the sharp criticism he’d earned by running headlong into this disaster. This—this ache, this wreckage—was Vince’s doing, and now they were both sinking in the mess he’d made, too far gone to claw their way back to the surface.
Tony’s disgust wasn’t a knife—it was a serrated edge, cutting jagged and deep, twisting as it went. The look in his eyes, the way his mouth hardened around those words, gutted Vince in a way he hadn’t thought possible. The idea that Tony believed he pitied him turned Vince’s stomach, made bile rise in his throat. But could he blame him? Every move Vince had made pointed in that direction. He’d fucked Tony, run out on him, blocked him without explanation, shoved him into the friendzone, and now, here he was, holding out cash like a fucking transaction to make it all go away. Of course Tony would think that. Why wouldn’t he? From where Tony stood, that was all Vince had ever shown him. No tenderness, no real honesty, no proof that Vince cared about anything but his own guilt. And the worst part? Tony was right to think that. Vince had left him nothing else to go on.
But it wasn’t pity. God, it wasn’t fucking pity, and that made it even worse. How the hell was Tony supposed to know that Vince stayed awake some nights thinking about him? Thinking about whether his fridge had food, if his bills were piling up, if he even had heat when the temperature dropped below freezing. How was Tony supposed to know that Vince couldn’t get the image of his empty apartment out of his head—the bare walls, the too-large bed that looked lonelier than Vince had felt in years? How was Tony supposed to see that Vince didn’t pity him, but cared so fucking deeply it scared him? Vince clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms, furious with himself. He’d been too much of a coward to show Tony anything real, and now this was the price. His heart ached as he watched Tony’s anger, his pride, his pain—and Vince couldn’t fix it. He never could. He was a fucking idiot. A goddamn coward.
Tony turned and walked away, his steps heavy and deliberate, each one grinding against Vince's raw nerves. Vince’s lips still burned with the memory of the kiss, and the warmth of Tony’s hand on his jaw lingered like a ghost, taunting him as he watched the man retreat. Every crunch of gravel beneath Tony’s boots felt like a countdown, each step a reminder of everything Vince had fucked up tonight, everything he’d always fuck up. The air seemed sharper, colder, biting at his skin as if to punish him for letting it get to this point. When Tony slammed the car door, the sound cracked through the night like a gunshot, and Vince flinched, his stomach knotting as the noise echoed in his chest. The squeal of tires as Tony tore out of the parking lot left him rooted to the spot, gutted, the chill of the night sinking deeper into his bones.
He stood there, breath puffing into the air in uneven clouds, replaying everything in his mind like a broken reel he couldn’t turn off. The kiss—the way Tony’s lips had felt so fucking good, the way his hand had cradled Vince’s face with such tenderness—now felt like a cruel memory, something warm and fleeting swallowed whole by the icy, impenetrable wall Tony had thrown up between them. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t fucking love. Vince repeated it to himself like a mantra, desperate to drown out the hollow ache in his chest, but the words felt weak, insubstantial. Whatever this was, whatever name he was too scared to give it, Tony felt it too. He knew it. He’d seen it in the way Tony kissed him, in the way his expression had twisted with hurt and fury and something Vince couldn’t even begin to parse.
But none of that mattered. Not now. Not when Vince had dragged Tony into his mess only to leave him gutted and furious and goddamn broken. He’d walked into Tony’s life and shattered whatever fragile balance the man had managed to build for himself, and for what? To run away when it got too real? To make promises Vince didn’t even know if he could keep? Vince’s chest tightened, shame and self-loathing coiling tighter around his ribs until it was hard to breathe. Tony deserved better—better than Vince’s selfishness, better than this pathetic excuse for whatever the fuck they’d been trying to build. And Vince? He didn’t deserve Tony at all.
As Tony’s van disappeared down the dark stretch of road, Vince found himself frozen in place, staring after it like some part of him could still call it back. The night had grown colder, sharper, the chill cutting straight through the thin layers of his costume as if it had been waiting for this moment to pounce. He could feel the cold settling into his bones, heavy and inescapable, but it wasn’t just the air—it was the silence. The crushing, hollow silence left in Tony’s wake. Vince’s chest felt tight, his breath hitching as the last faint glimmer of taillights vanished entirely. Slowly, reality began to bleed back in, the harsh glow of the parking lot lights and the crunch of gravel under his boots grounding him, though it only made him feel worse.
He turned back toward the Rogue, his eyes landing on June, still sitting in the passenger seat, her head tilted toward the window. She wasn’t bouncing along to the music anymore, her posture more slouched, as if her energy had drained out somewhere between the first and second repeat of her playlist. The stereo’s faint hum drifted into the night, but even that seemed subdued. Vince exhaled shakily, running a hand over his face, his fingertips brushing his jaw where Tony’s hand had been not long ago. The memory stung, a raw, aching reminder of how much had unraveled in the span of a single conversation.
Each step back to the car felt like wading through quicksand, the weight of his own failure dragging him deeper with every crunch of gravel underfoot. By the time Vince reached the Rogue, his chest was an aching void, his breath catching and stuttering like a broken engine trying to turn over. He opened the door with hands that felt disconnected from the rest of him, sliding into the driver’s seat like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The heater’s warmth rushed over him, a false comfort against the cold that had already seeped into his bones, but it was enough to crack something inside him. He exhaled hard, the sound heavy and raw, sinking back into the seat as his hands dropped into his lap, useless and trembling.
“Daddy? What took so long?” June’s voice broke through the haze, soft and curious, her innocence cutting through Vince’s raw, fractured thoughts. He glanced at her, catching her wide-eyed gaze, and forced a smile that felt brittle, stretched thin over the ache inside him. It was almost unbearable, that effort to pretend, but what else could he give her? She didn’t deserve to see him like this, hollow and unraveling.
Before he could find the words, her brow furrowed, her head tilting slightly. “Is Toto okay?” The question hit him square in the chest, sharp and unexpected. Her concern was pure, untainted by suspicion, and somehow that made it worse. The weight of what she didn’t know pressed down on him, stealing the air from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but his voice caught, snagging on everything he couldn’t say. Explaining even a sliver of the truth felt impossible.
Then her eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp and focused in that way that always meant she’d noticed something. “Wait—what’s on your nose?” she asked, pointing decisively. Vince froze, his stomach plummeting as though the floor had dropped out beneath him. Panic flared, heat rising to his chest as he reached for the rearview mirror with trembling hands. And there it was—a streak of black paint, stark against his skin, dragging him straight back to Tony’s breath on his cheek, Tony’s lips too close, too soft. His heart hammered against his ribs, the memory pounding in time with it.
Without thinking, Vince wiped at the smudge with the sleeve of his robe. The paint transferred immediately, leaving a dark blotch on the fabric. He groaned, sharp and frustrated. “Son of a—” He cut himself off just in time, jaw snapping shut, the curse unfinished. Clenching his teeth, he hissed, “Just great,” under his breath, his words bitter and heavy.
June blinked at him, her expression shifting between confusion and concern. “What happened?” Her voice was light, but her gaze wasn’t—her eyes seemed to dig into him, looking for something he couldn’t afford to show. The weight of her attention pressed against his chest, and Vince felt the cracks inside him widen. No amount of wiping or lying could erase the truth of tonight, the damage he’d done—not to Tony, not to himself.
Vince forced out a chuckle, thin and unconvincing even to his own ears, as he reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. His reflection looked foreign, haunted, the black smudge now a faint streak. “It’s nothing, monkey,” he said, his voice strained but steady. “Just… I noticed something off with Toto’s van when we were talking. Had to pop the hood and fix it. Must’ve scratched my nose on something greasy.” The lie tasted bitter as it left his mouth, but the truth would have tasted worse.
June’s eyes widened slightly, her head tilting in that way that always meant she was piecing something together. “Is Toto’s car gonna make it home?” she asked, her tone teetering between curiosity and concern. The question landed like a weight on Vince’s chest, making his next breath feel too thick to take. He hesitated, the silence stretching as the image of Tony’s van filled his mind.
“Yeah,” Vince said finally, his voice quieter now, softer. “It’ll make it. He’ll be fine.” But the words felt hollow, like paper stretched too thin over the truth. He wasn’t sure if they were meant to reassure her or himself.
June studied him for a moment, her brow furrowing in that thoughtful way she got when she was trying to say something important but wasn’t sure how. “You look sad, Daddy,” she said, her voice quieter now, tentative. “Is it because…” Her words faltered, her teeth catching on her bottom lip as her gaze flickered toward the window. “Because Toto is…”
The pause lingered like a live wire, charged with everything she’d noticed but didn’t know how to say. Vince’s chest tightened painfully as his mind filled in the blanks—Tony’s thin, worn-out flannel that barely held off the cold, his scuffed boots, the blue jean patch on its left elbow, the defeated groan of his car as it pulled out of the lot. She’d seen all of it, had pieced it together in her own quiet, observant way, and Vince hated that she had to. He nodded, saving her from the effort of finishing her thought. “Yeah,” he said simply, his voice low and heavy. “That’s why.” It was only part of the truth, but it sat between them like a weight neither of them could lift.
She looked down at her lap, her small fingers twisting in the hem of her Leia dress. “He’s really sweet,” she murmured. “And good to us. He deserves… I dunno. Something better.” Her voice wavered slightly, and she glanced up at him with a somber expression. “I’m glad we can be his friends.”
The words hit Vince like a punch to the gut, sharp and unrelenting. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “Me too, monkey.” he managed, though his voice was rough around the edges, barely holding together. He couldn’t say anything else. The weight of her simple, heartfelt observation was too much. Reaching up, he flicked off the interior light, letting the shadows fill the cabin as he shifted the car into gear.
The drive home was short, but it stretched endlessly in Vince’s mind. June’s playlist shifted again, and when the opening notes of ‘Safe and Sound’ filtered through the speakers, Vince felt his stomach drop. He didn’t know if she’d picked it intentionally or if it was just an accident, but the haunting melody wrapped around him, the lyrics slicing into his chest like razors.
‘Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire.’
The song was devastating, each line dragging him deeper into the mess of his own mind. The words echoed the raw, unspoken ache he couldn’t voice, the weight of Tony’s pain and the memory of that kiss pressing down on him like a boulder he couldn’t move. June’s quiet commentary on their day faded into the background, her voice distant and blurred, overtaken by the haunting melody and Vince’s own spiraling thoughts. All he could think about was Tony—his face, his voice, the way Vince had destroyed him with nothing more than a handful of poorly chosen words. By the time they pulled into the driveway, the car was silent, the last notes of the song lingering like a ghost in the air.
’Hold on to this lullaby even when the music’s gone.’
The house swallowed them in its oppressive silence, the familiar creak of the door and the soft thump of Skeletor’s tail against the hardwood only underscoring how lifeless it all felt. Vince moved like a ghost, turning on lights and locking doors with a mechanical detachment, every movement stripped of meaning. The warmth of the house should’ve been a relief after the cold, but it only pressed heavier on his chest, suffocating in its stillness. When June disappeared upstairs into the bathroom in her room, her soft hum barely audible beneath the rush of water, Vince escaped to his own shower, closing the door as though it could block out the weight of the night. The second the water hit his skin, scorching and relentless, the dam broke, and he collapsed against the tiled wall, his chest heaving with silent sobs. The heat bit into him, raw and unforgiving, but he let it; he wanted it to sear away the ache in his chest, the shame coiled tight around his ribs, the unbearable knowledge that he’d destroyed something he never should’ve touched.
When Vince stepped out of the bathroom, the steam clinging to his skin felt like a second layer, heavier than the one he’d tried to scrub away. June was perched on the computer chair in her room, her small form barely filling the seat, her damp curls framing her face like a halo. The air smelled of her raspberry shampoo, the scent almost painfully sweet against the ache in his chest. She didn’t give him a chance to speak, just stood and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him with a quiet strength that brought him to the brink of breaking all over again. “It’s okay to be sad,” she murmured, her voice steady, calm. Too calm. “But Toto’s gonna be okay.”
The words shattered something in him. He pressed his hand gently to the back of her head, fingers sinking into her damp hair as he swallowed the lump in his throat. How the hell did she always know what to say? “I know, monkey,” he managed, his voice a rough, uneven thing that betrayed how far from okay he really was. He looked down at her, her earnest, open face, and the depth of her love hit him like a punch to the gut. It shouldn’t have to be this way—her love shouldn’t be the thing keeping him tethered to the world tonight, but it was. She was. The thought of her waking up to find him gone, searching for him and finding only the empty shell he’d left behind, was unbearable. He couldn’t do that to her. Not ever. Not even if he never saw—or held, or kissed, or laughed with—Tony again.
“I love you, Junie,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of it. He scratched his fingers gently through her curls, the gesture as much for his own comfort as hers. “You know that, right? You know how much, baby girl?” His words were low and thick with emotion, his chest tightening as he fought to keep himself together.
She looked up at him with a smile that was small but so achingly pure it nearly undid him. “I know, Daddy,” she said softly, her voice full of a quiet certainty that felt like it could light up the darkest parts of him. “I love you too.” Her love was relentless, unshakable, a force so powerful it both anchored him and ripped him apart. She was everything—his reason, his heart, the only thing standing between him and the dark void he felt himself slipping toward tonight.
Vince blinked hard, willing the tears threatening to spill to stay put, and scooped her up before they could betray him. “Alright, monkey,” he said, injecting as much playfulness into his tone as he could muster. He hoisted her into the air, eliciting a squeal of laughter before plopping her onto the bed with a flourish. “Time for sleep,” he teased, though the words felt foreign on his tongue. She giggled, her joy cutting through the heaviness in the room like a faint beam of light. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, tucking her in with a tenderness that felt almost sacred. But as he turned off the lights and pulled the door closed behind him, the mask crumbled. He slumped against the wall outside her room, the weight of the night crashing over him again, relentless and all-consuming, as if her love had held it back for just long enough to get him through her door.
As Vince pushed himself off the wall and trudged down the hallway toward his bedroom, the exhaustion hit him like a freight train, his legs heavy and his mind even heavier. Once inside, he didn’t bother with the light. The room was bathed in a faint, silvery glow from the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains, soft and cold against the stark white comforter on the bed. It made the space feel quiet in a way that wasn’t comforting but hollow, like stepping into the aftermath of something. Vince let out a sigh that sounded like it had been torn from somewhere deep, his chest heaving with the effort.
His fingers moved automatically, undoing the belt of the blue robe he’d worn all evening—Tony’s face, Tony’s goddamn lips, still seared into his memory like a brand. The fabric slid from his shoulders with a soft whisper, pooling around his feet as he stood there for a moment, his shadow stretching faintly across the floor in the moonlight. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and for a fleeting second, he thought about leaving the robe where it was, wrapping it around himself again and crawling into bed like he could shield himself from the night. But no. Instead, he stepped out of the puddle of fabric and let it lie there, forgotten.
That left him in nothing but his boxer briefs—the ones June had picked out for him last Christmas, laughing so hard when she handed them over that she’d barely gotten the words ’They’re meme boxers!’ out before dissolving into giggles. Spongebob stared back at him from the waistband, wearing that deadpan, ‘aight I’mma head out’ face, TV remote in hand. It was ridiculous, absurd—and yet, as he caught his reflection in the floor-length wall mirror, the sight almost made his throat close up. It was one of those stupid little things that somehow brought him comfort while simultaneously making him feel like a joke. He shook his head, muttering, “Fucking idiot,” under his breath, and crawled into bed, pulling the soft, plush comforter up over his shoulders.
It was warm—too warm—but Vince didn’t have the energy to kick it off. He flopped onto his stomach, sinking into the mattress like he was trying to disappear into it, his face pressed sideways into the pillow. The ridiculousness of the Spongebob boxers under the heavy comforter didn’t escape him, but it only added to the mess of emotions swirling in his chest.
The screen of Vince’s phone cast a faint, bluish glow over the dark room, the only light in the suffocating silence. He lay sprawled on his stomach, his head tilted to the side on a pillow that had grown uncomfortably warm beneath him. His jaw ached from being propped there for so long, but he didn’t bother to shift. He didn’t deserve to be comfortable. Not tonight. The tear tracks lining his face had dried over the last ten minutes, but his eyes still burned, still threatened to overflow again at any moment. The phone in his hand felt heavier than it should, as if all the weight of his guilt and failure had sunk into the device.
Tony’s name stared back at him from the top of the screen. The chat thread was painfully short, the last few messages stark reminders of what little there had been between them to begin with. Vince had unblocked the number an hour ago, an impulsive, masochistic decision he couldn’t bring himself to reverse. What the hell had Tony tried to send him after he’d shut him out? The thought made his stomach twist, but he couldn’t let himself imagine it for too long. It hurt too much. He hated himself for wanting to know, hated himself more for not having the courage to find out.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard, the small letters a blur through his bleary vision. He typed one-handed, the other arm pinned beneath his cheek. The words spilled out in fits and starts, too raw and unfiltered to stop once they started.
‘Tony, I don’t even know where to begin. I’m sorry feels like a fucking joke coming from me, but I am. I’m sorry for being such a goddamn mess, for dragging you into my bullshit when you deserve so much better. You’ve been more patient with me than I ever deserved, and I should’ve done things differently. I should’ve been better to you, for you. I don’t even know how to fix this, if I even can. Really, I don’t know if I even should.’
The blinking cursor mocked him, daring him to hit send. Vince stared at the words, his chest tightening, tears slipping down his face again despite his best effort to keep them at bay. He couldn’t send this. He couldn’t give Tony this much of himself—not like this. Vulnerable. Pathetic. If Tony thought he was weak now, what would he think of this? His thumb trembled as he hovered over the screen, the message glaring back at him like a raw wound. He watched the words disappear, letter by letter, until the screen was blank again. The emptiness stared back at him, reflecting the hollow ache in his chest.
His breathing hitched, shuddering as he let out a harsh, uneven sigh. Vince pressed his face into the pillow for a moment, the fabric muffling the sound of his frustration as his fingers clenched around the phone. He deserved this—the emptiness, the regret, the aching loneliness that came with knowing he’d burned one of the few good things in his life to ashes. His jaw throbbed where it pressed against the pillow’s edge, but he didn’t move. He welcomed the discomfort, let it sit with him as punishment for his cowardice.
But he couldn’t leave it like this. He couldn’t leave Tony hanging in the silence, no matter how much he wanted to run and never look back. It was late—11:31 PM—but he didn’t care. He’d already ruined Tony’s night; what was one more selfish decision? Vince’s fingers moved again, this time crafting something lighthearted, something so absurd it felt like it couldn’t possibly come from the same shattered man lying in the dark. It was a lie, every word of it, but maybe it could make Tony smile. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would make everything worse.
Vince’s thumb trembled as it hovered over the button, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. The room felt too still, too quiet, as if the universe itself were holding its breath, waiting for him to make a move. His jaw clenched, his body tensed like he was about to step off a cliff.
And then, with a sharp inhale and a pang of self-loathing, he hit send.
The message disappeared from the screen, replaced by a timestamp and the suffocating weight of anticipation.
Then he sent another one. And another one. Again and again and again.
Hey, Tony.
I just wanted to let you know that it was really good to see you. June really seemed to like you, too. She gushed about you the whole drive home.
But still, there's a question I've had on my mind from the moment we ran into you...
What are your thoughts on Kyle's Pikachu onesie?
I'm conflicted.
Vince stared at the blue-lit screen, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and throat, shallow and uneven, like his body wasn’t sure how to function under the weight of what he’d just done. The seconds felt like hours, each one a knife dragging slowly across his chest, and then it happened: that tiny, traitorous read receipt popped up beneath the message. ‘Seen at 11:33 PM.’ His heart stuttered, a jagged, painful beat, his pulse roaring in his ears like the crashing of waves. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t think. The room seemed to shrink around him, the glow of the screen the only thing tethering him to the present, though it offered no comfort—only proof that Tony had seen his words. Seen him.
He stared at the screen like it might burst into flames, the silence pressing down on him with unbearable weight. The seconds dragged on, cruel and merciless, and Vince watched the thread like a man watching his own execution. He willed the typing bubbles to appear, pleaded with the universe for just three little dots, but they didn’t come. The thread stayed empty, glaringly, suffocatingly empty. Vince’s thumb twitched, desperate to tap the screen, refresh it, do something to force the silence to end, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His chest tightened, each passing second a reminder that Tony wasn’t answering. Maybe he never would.
By the time three minutes had passed, the dam inside him shattered. Vince’s chest twisted, his breath breaking into jagged pieces, and the tears he thought he’d burned through hours ago began to rise again, hot and insistent. His vision blurred, the screen swimming before him, and he only realized he’d been biting his lip when the sharp sting of it broke through the haze. The metallic tang of blood bloomed on his tongue, sharp and bitter, and he let out a ragged, choked, “Fuck.” The word came out like a curse and a confession all at once, his voice low and trembling with the weight of it. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough to drown out the silence Tony had left him with.
Frustration surged like a fire through his chest, hot and uncontrollable. Before he could think better of it, Vince grabbed the phone and hurled it across the room, the motion sharp and desperate. The device flew through the moonlit air, the rubber case catching on the edge of the nightstand before it hit the hardwood floor with a heavy, final thunk. It tumbled once, twice, before coming to a stop, facedown and silent. Vince didn’t move to check it. He knew it wasn’t broken—he wasn’t that lucky. Instead, he dropped his face into the pillow, the muffled sobs ripping through him, shaking the bed as his body curled in on itself. It wasn’t just Tony’s silence; it was the absence of everything Vince had destroyed in his life—the warmth, the safety, the connection. And all he could do was cry into the void, as empty and hollow as the room around him.
His mind turned traitor, dragging him into places he swore he wouldn’t go. The tears came, bitter and scorching, as if trying to cleanse the need clawing at him, but they did nothing—nothing to dull the ache or quiet the cruel, relentless craving that Tony had left behind. It wasn’t just absence he felt; it was longing, raw and unfiltered, seeping into every nerve, every thought. The memory of Tony’s hand on his jaw consumed him, the weight of it grounding him in a way that felt too intimate, too necessary. He could still feel the warmth of Tony’s palm, the way his thumb had brushed the edge of his cheek with the kind of rough tenderness Vince hadn’t realized he was starving for. It haunted him now, that touch, the safety and desire wrapped up in it, and the void it left was cavernous, unbearable.
His breathing came in shallow, jagged bursts as the sobs quieted, replaced by something darker, something heavier. The ache in his chest twisted lower, spiraling down into places he didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore. The memory shifted, became more vivid—Tony’s fingers trailing down his neck, the calloused pads of his thumbs tracing his collarbone, the heat of his breath against Vince’s ear as his lips brushed too close. Vince’s body tensed, a shiver rolling through him, his skin too hot despite the chill in the air. He could imagine the strength in Tony’s grip, the weight of his body pressing him down, holding him in place, and it was devastating how much he wanted it. His hips moved against the mattress without permission, the sharp friction stealing the air from his lungs. He gasped, his throat raw, his body betraying him completely.
“Stop,” he rasped into the pillow, his voice hoarse and trembling, but the word tasted hollow, a lie he didn’t have the strength to believe. His fingers curled into the fabric beneath him, desperate for an anchor, for something real, but all he could feel was the heat pooling low in his stomach, spreading through him like wildfire. Shame twisted in his chest, hot and choking, but it wasn’t enough to extinguish the unbearable need. His body moved of its own accord, the ache in him building, sharpening, consuming everything else. He bit down on the edge of the pillow to muffle the low, guttural sound that escaped him, his breaths ragged and uneven.
The darkness of the room felt like it was closing in, wrapping around him as his mind gave in completely to the memory of Tony. Tony’s mouth on his, demanding and unrelenting. Tony’s hands gripping his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, harder. The phantom weight of Tony’s body pressed against his own was suffocating in the most exquisite way, filling the empty spaces Vince couldn’t bear to face. His breaths grew heavier, each one dragging him deeper into the spiral of lust and despair and craving until it was all he could feel. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d clenched it, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. Tony wasn’t there with him, but in his mind—god, in his mind—he was everywhere. On top of him, inside him, hard, hot cock rocking into him with slow, aching thrusts, plunging deeper, deeper, until Vince was filled so full, he was more Tony than he was himself.
Yet at the same time, as he rocked his cock hard against the memory foam mattress, leaking more with every twitch and throb, Vincent imagined Tony’s thick, hard thighs bracketing his waist as he devastated him with heavy thrusts; imagined breaking away from a hot, sloppy kiss just to watch his expression change as he bottomed out inside him. Vincent would fist his fingers in that warm, dark hair and breathlessly tell him how precious and beautiful he was until Tony lost all capacity to ever doubt his motives again — until he knew how much Vince valued him, how he thought about him every day, how he couldn’t go ten minutes without imagining the taste of his lips, the scent of his hair, the thick heat of his cock turning him into a drooling mess. Jesus fucking Christ the man was magic.
It was with two fingers pressed hard against his tongue that Vincent forced his hips against the mattress one last time — clinging to the image of driving himself into Tony’s tight, slick heat — and moaned high and reedy, cock pulsing hard and hot and wet as every muscle in his body went stiff as fresh bone. It must've lasted hours. It must've lasted fucking decades. It was the best he'd had since he came undone in Tony's tight, hot fist.
With a sharp, hard gasp, Vince finally, finally crumpled against the mattress, his body trembling with the remnants of pleasure that felt too close to pain, every jagged breath clawing its way up his throat. His fingers, slick and trembling, slipped from his lips with a wet sound that made his stomach churn, and he buried his face into the pillow as though he could smother himself beneath it. The sob that broke out of him was raw, guttural, a sound torn from the deepest part of him, one he couldn’t stifle no matter how hard he bit into the fabric. Tears streamed down his face, soaking into the fabric beneath him, and the aftershocks of pleasure wracking his body only made the devastation sharper, the shame heavier. He couldn’t stop the flood of emotions, couldn’t claw his way out of the wreckage his own mind had created. His stomach twisted with the sheer agony of it, his thoughts circling back to Tony like a wound he couldn’t stop pressing on.
Images of Tony invaded his mind, unbidden and relentless, flashing across his consciousness with searing, unforgiving clarity. Not just his hand, not just his lips—no, this time it was the way Tony caged him against the counter that first afternoon, his shirt stretching tight across broad shoulders, voice rough in his ear, murmuring things Vince couldn’t unhear even now. The way he’d reached out, hand settling on the small of Vince’s back just lightly enough to make his pulse jump. Or the way he’d smelled—shampoo and soap, and so distinctly Tony—when he’d leaned in close enough for Vince to feel the heat of him, the dangerous pull of his presence, the way the world had tilted on its axis like gravity had shifted to center entirely around him. Vince felt that heat now, curling low in his stomach, spreading through his chest like it was trying to fill the hollow ache Tony had left behind. Those memories burned like fresh coals, searing him with what he’d lost, what he’d destroyed.
“It’s not love,” he whispered into the pillow, the words muffled and thick with tears. “It’s not love, it’s not love, it’s not—” His voice cracked, and the next word came out in a strangled sob. “—fucking love.” He bit down on the edge of the pillow again, his teeth sinking into the fabric as his body shook with the force of his grief, as though trying to contain it might stop it from swallowing him whole.
But the lie rang hollow. Because the only other person who’d ever made him feel this way—the only other person whose absence had carved this kind of ache into his chest—was Stella. He’d felt this same raw, consuming pain for her once, back when he’d thought she was perfect, when he’d looked at her and believed that she was the answer to all the emptiness inside him. And if that hadn’t been love—if what he’d felt for her on their wedding day, in those fleeting moments of bliss when they’d been happy, hadn’t been love—then he had never loved anyone at all.
His throat constricted, tight and aching, as he tore at the thought like a man clawing at a locked door, desperate to force it shut before it could consume him. He wouldn’t name it. He couldn’t. Giving it a name would make it real, give it teeth, and he wasn’t sure he could survive being chewed apart by it. It wasn’t love—couldn’t be. Love wasn’t supposed to destroy you from the inside out, leaving you gasping in the dark, your chest cracked open like some grotesque exhibit. Love didn’t cling to your ribs like this, didn’t gnaw at your sanity, didn’t leave you feeling like a hollow, bleeding thing. No, whatever this was, it wasn’t love. But the denial felt paper-thin, unable to hold back the rising tide of truth pressing against it.
He rolled onto his back, the motion sluggish, his limbs heavy with exhaustion that refused to pull him under. The ceiling stared back at him, unmoving and indifferent, the faint shadows cast by the moonlight shifting as the hours dragged on. The silence in the room was oppressive, a void that amplified every thought, every aching breath, every humiliating beat of his heart. His chest still hurt, raw and bruised from the force of his sobs, and his breaths came shallow and slow, as if too much air might shatter what little was left of him. He didn’t expect sleep to come; he didn’t even try. He just lay there, staring into the nothingness, his body limp but his mind spinning, every nerve raw, every thought circling back to the same unbearable truth he refused to admit.
