📺. — DO YOU ME STILL LOVE?
MULTICHAPTER FIC ! ꩜ [ hazbin hotel ] vincent whittman (vox) x reader 5/6 — PART ONE, PART TWO, PART THREE, PART FOUR, PART FIVE, PART SIX
now playing... ♫ | 05. BEEN HERE BEFORE, AND WE'LL BE HERE TOMORROW. wc: 3.2k+ -> second person pov; angst; alcohol use; drunk texts; exes to lovers; eventual smut
fire.
it’s all you could feel.
the flames weren’t just tentative licks of heat that curled like ivy around your body and mind, no—they were furnaces carved into every inch of flesh that it could find to blaze upon.
your head was no exception. in fact, the point of origin seemed to burn from there.
God, it made you want to die.
other than the free trial from hell throbbing behind your eyes and sending rivulets of sweat tracing down your limbs, you—still locked in an albeit sleepy haze—slowly become aware of the newfound Sahara replica inhabiting your tongue and just how dry your mouth feels. a deep-set ache in your muscles accompanies your present misery, almost like a little maraschino cherry on top of the very thoughtful gift basket packed and ribboned for you by the very devil himself.
huh. that’s funny. weren’t you just having drinks with him last night? you muse. an image of charlie’s father unwittingly flashes through your heat-riddled mind.
you let out a tired chuckle under your breath despite yourself, though the humour does very little to quell your pain. thoroughly sore, you settle your head back into your very comfortable pillow—only, you realise too late, it’s not a pillow at all, but rather, a chest.
a very solid, very familiar chest; one that held a heartbeat you had spent a year unlearning.
you feel your blood run cold.
with all the cautiousness of captured prey, you sit up, headache and all, only to discover with growing horror that you’re not wearing the same clothes as you did last night. you don’t even need to hold up the v-neck collar to your nose to know whose it was; the crisp scent of cedarwood you drowned in spoke volumes for itself.
you’re almost scared to look behind you.
training your aching eyes ahead, you scan the room, pointedly ignoring the sleeping body that still had an arm wrapped around your stomach like it was somewhere it still belonged. the room was recognisable, painfully so, and your suspicions are only confirmed once your gaze lands on the piece of branded, cream-coloured stationery lying upon the desk beneath the television.
how the…
the person next to you shifts, and you immediately freeze up, a prayer kickstarting in your head like you’d pulled the string to the voicebox of a child’s toy—please, please, please, please don’t let it be who you think it is—
“(name)...?” his voice is groggy.
it is exactly who you think it is.
the sheets rustle as you feel him turn over, barely awake as he runs a hand up and down your side with a touch that was probably meant to be comforting. instead, you feel your stomach churn; in confusion, in shock, in horror at yourself and what you had gotten into.
what had happened last night?
“s’ so early,” he continues to mumble sleepily against your waist, “go back t’ sleep, honey, y’ll get a headache.”
“...vincent?” you choke out.
“mmm?”
“what… what’s going on?”
his eyes flutter open at that, and he squints up at you—though you know damn well it doesn’t do shit for his bad eyesight. “wh…?” vincent blinks dazedly, before realisation and full consciousness hit him like a freight train, making him shoot up in bed. “oh, fuck.”
vincent’s arm swiftly recoils from your waist as you both stare at each other in silence, equal parts bewildered, though it's obvious that one of you held more memory of the night before. his lips are parted, and you’re sure that yours are, too. his hair sticks up in more directions than you can count, the white shirt he wears is a perfect fit that contrasts the looseness of the blue one on you, and he looks almost older than the last time you remember seeing him.
sober, anyway.
the thunderstruck quiet is broken by a small noise of pain that tumbles from your lips, and you clutch at your head, clenching your teeth together with almost as much pressure as the ache that stabs through your brain.
vincent curses under his breath as he throws the covers off of him and stalks to the desk, snatching a paper bag with a printed pharmacy logo and kicking the refrigerator door open for a bottle of gatorade and a bottle of water. he nudges it shut with his foot and pads back to you, all but shoving the evian bottle into your face after he’d screwed the cap open. “drink.”
“thanks,” you rasp, taking an immediate gulp.
he stops you when you’ve downed over half of the water.
“leave some room for the gatorade,” he mutters, refusing to meet your gaze as he holds out the second bottle. “and i can’t give you the painkillers until you eat a cracker.”
he’s right, you admit to yourself sourly, and you can do nothing but obey.
vincent refuses to look at you as you drink and as you eat, but he stays by your side all the while. it almost hurts, really—how his warmth lingers on your skin more than the heat that prickles beneath it.
once you’ve chewed and swallowed the last cracker, he wordlessly cracks the painkiller lid open, shaking it rigidly until several pills fall out. he lets you pick out a tablet yourself, and he stiffly stands back up to go to the bathroom as you get around to slipping the advil into your mouth.
it’s sweet on your tongue, though you know it would soon melt into bitterness if you let it stay any longer. down goes the pill with the rest of its sugar and what was left in your water bottle, and you hear the tap running on the other side of the wall.
you settle back into the sheets, crinkling the empty saltine cracker wrap as you squeeze it in your fist, digging through the fossils of your memory in an attempt to remember how you ended up here. in bed. with him.
oh, God. what would your friends say?
before you could spiral further, vincent emerges from the hallway, patting his face with a towel. his hair is wet, slicked back with what you assume would have been frantic fingers, and his glasses hang off the low calvin klein waistband peeking over the jeans he’d changed into. you both continue to look at each other in tense silence.
“i…” you mumble. “my phone?”
“it’s dead.” he says curtly. “it’s in the drawer of your nightstand along with the rest of your stuff.”
“where’s my bag?”
“in the closet.”
it becomes quiet again. vincent throws his astigmatic gaze to the floor, studying the carpet. restlessness crawling up your spine, you push yourself up on your elbows, scrutinising him from across the room. “vincent.”
he lets out a noncommittal grunt.
you hesitantly lick at the seam of your lips. “what am i doing here?”
vincent’s eyes snap back to you. both confusion and a lack of surprise is strewn ambivalently across his face, and the tick in his jaw becomes tighter. “you don’t remember?”
your heart drops. “remember what?”
“why am i even surprised,” he mutters under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “damn it.”
“vincent,” you say slowly, growing more anxious by the second. “what happened last night.”
“you texted me,” vincent concedes, throwing you an unreadable look—though the tiniest spark of emotion flickers in his eyes. “you were at a bar for angel dust’s birthday, and got yourself drunk enough to gain the guts and, frankly,” he laughs dryly, “the stupidity to text me.”
“i–” you protest.
he cuts you off, digging a thumb into the furrow of his brow. “and i picked you up. ‘course i did. i couldn’t say no.” vincent turns away from you, heatedly rummaging through his luggage in search of a comb. “besides, you were practically begging me to.”
that makes you sit up straighter. “excuse me? begging?”
vincent whirls back to look at you. “yes, (name), begging. you called me an idiot and you kept insulting me until you finally let up and started fucking crying for me to take you home.”
you blink at him in disbelief. “are you fucking with me?”
“i could ask you the same thing,” he fires back. whatever the gentleness he’d held you with in somnolence was gone, dissipated into nothing but a curl of smoke where an ember used to be. “and i have been asking. but you wouldn’t answer any of my questions last night.”
“i was drunk, vincent!” you retort, rising onto your knees on the bed as you glare at him, “you think you’d get the answers you want from someone who’s under the influence?”
“if i got an unwarranted, drunk, ‘i love you’ out of the blue, yeah, i think i damn well could have gotten an answer,” vincent snarls.
pain continues to stab through your head like brutus himself held the knife, but you don’t let up. “think you’re any better, jackass?” you glower, boiling with rage. “you can’t even say it sober!”
it’s obvious the rebuttal catches him off guard in the way that his recovery holds the slightest falter.
“weren’t you into that whole ‘actions speak louder than words’ bullshit more?” vincent demands, scoffing. he throws his hands up. “just playing off what you want, here, (name).”
“oh, don’t you pull that shit on me!” you fume, pushing off the bed and staggering over to him with a furious finger pointed to his face. your head and your knees protest their weakness, though you stubbornly ignore the pain. “by what i want? what i want? and you think that’s taking me to a hotel instead of my fucking apartment?”
vincent doesn’t shy away from the proximity. in fact, he leans close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin as he sneers, “well, shoot me for playing good samaritan and deciding not to break into your—if i may very fucking kindly remind you—shared apartment–”
“so breaking and entering is a bigger crime than kidnapping in your books, now, is it, whittman?” you interrupt mockingly, an irked smile twitching at the corners of your face. “gods, vincent, do you even hear yourself?”
his mouth opens like he’s about to fire another retort, though nothing but an disbelieving scoff leaves his lips. vincent’s hand shoots up into what little space was left between the two of you as he steps back, affronted, casting his slighted glare to the foyer. “we are not having this conversation.”
you force yourself back into his line of sight, echoing his scoff with a short, offended laugh of your own. “oh, we so are!” you retaliate, jabbing your finger into his chest. “you don’t get to run away from this, vince.”
vincent snatches your wrist, eyes gleaming with fury. “no, you know what, sweetheart?” —he seethes the endearment—“this time, i do.” he throws your hand down and points his own finger back at you. “i do get to run away from an argument when i know we aren’t on equal footing, and right now, we aren’t. this isn’t just like any of my other fucking power trips, (name).” his chest heaves as he struggles to contain his anger, hand dropping to his side. “this is about us.”
“there is no us!” you scream at him. your blood slams harder against your head at the outburst, and you almost regret raising your voice.
almost as much as you regret the look that flickers across his face.
almost.
“there is no ‘us’, vincent. there hasn’t been.” your eyes prickle with tears, though you can’t tell if it’s from the hangover or from the hurt that burns wildly through your chest. “not for a very long time. you made that exceedingly clear ten months ago.”
“...have i, now?” vincent’s voice cracks. he resumes the iron clench in his jaw.
“yeah.” you curl your hands into fists when you feel them shake. “you have.”
vincent turns his head to the side as he runs both hands down his face, index fingers pressing into the corners of his eyes. he goes quiet for a moment, and you can see the way his shoulders tremble as he attempts to regulate his breathing.
your head feels like it’s swimming in molten lava. you’re feverish; hot all over—figuratively and literally speaking. you’re almost convinced that if the dam of your willpower breaks enough to let tears fall over the precipice of your eyelashes, you would cry a newfound river of fire.
“okay.” vincent’s voice is lower now, controlled, though barely so. his usually smooth baritone holds the slightest tremor. “i’m going for a drive.”
“what?” you snap, and so do your nerves—high-strung and taut as a bowstring all over again. the throbbing in your head grows stronger. “vincent–”
“i said, i’m going for a drive,” he repeats, emphasising every word. his gaze is cold as he looks back at you. “i need some air.”
you let out a humourless laugh. “air, huh? is that what they’re calling ‘space’ these days?”
“maybe they are.” vincent turns to storm down the foyer to the closet, snatches his sports jacket from the coat hanger, and throws it over his shoulders with unbridled, barely restrained anger as he stalks back to where you were next to the desk. “maybe they are calling it that.” his words are rapid-fire, so are the gestures of his hands, “maybe they’ve somehow found air in space, you know, those NASA fuckers or whoever the fuck—”
“what? vincent, you’re not making any sense!” you exclaim hotly.
“i’m not making sense?” he echoes incredulously. “look who’s– wow, i really couldn’t fucking tell, (name)!” vincent yanks a drawer open, scrabbling for his wallet keys. “not making any sense,” he mutters under his breath before his voice rises again, sardonic, “yeah, well, neither are you, princess.”
more tears well in your eyes from the sheer volume of his voice. “oh, don’t you fucking call me that.”
“i’ll call you whatever i damn well please,” vincent snarls, clawing through his hair to push it out of his face. “not like you had any issue calling me last night.”
“that’s a completely different thing!” you retort angrily, “i don’t even remember a thing from last night, asshole!”
he snaps his furious eyes back to you. “well that’s just a huge fucking shame, now, isn’t it, (name)? what a goddamn shame.”
“God!” you exclaim in frustration, digging the heel of your palms into your rapidly brimming eyes. “i’m just as upset as you are, vincent. for goodness’ sake! don’t you know how unnerving it is to wake up with no memory of the night before, in some bed you don’t remember falling asleep in, wearing clothes that aren’t yours because they belong to your fucking ex—who, by the way, just so happens to be sleeping right next to you!?”
“some original experience that is,” vincent retorts sarcastically, shoving his glasses deep into the pocket of his jeans. “pop quiz, hotshot, you’re not the only one who’s gone through this shit.”
“that doesn’t make it any less fucked up!” your head feels like it’s about to burst. “you’re just— damn it.”
“see?” he gestures sharply at your sorry form. “this– this is why i don’t want to talk right now.”
you look up at him through pulsating, bloodshot eyes. “so you’re leaving.”
“for the time being!” vincent explodes. he catches himself, taking another deep breath before he slowly speaks again. “i just– i just need to take a drive, need some time, and then i’ll come right back. you get rid of that hangover first, and if you want, if you’re still here when i come back, then we can talk. deal?”
“checkout’s at twelve,” you remind him hoarsely, backtracking until your knees hit the edge of the bed, clutching your head in your hands. “even if i wanted to leave, i don’t even know where my clothes are.”
“fucking–!” he shouts in frustration, swiping the hotel phone off its switch hook and all but smashing the number 0 on the dial before he presses it up to his ear. it doesn’t take long for the other line to pick up. “yeah, hi, front desk?” vincent effortlessly shifts his voice to that smooth-talking-public-image cadence, though his hands still visibly shake with rage. “i’m calling from room 725. is melissa still on her shift? no? okay, well, i’d like to request to extend ou- my stay for one more night. is that possible?” he impatiently shifts from one foot to the other, and you grow drowsier as time passes. the advil was beginning to hit.
“really? oh, that’d be wonderful.” his voice practically overflows with relief. “is it also possible for u- me to keep the same room? great! thanks a lot. yeah, just charge it to the same card. yeah. mhm, that’s right. thanks again, uh, travis, right? yeah, thanks, travis. have a nice day,” he finishes, before slamming down the receiver and reverting back to his earlier mood as his eyes hurl daggers at you again. “there. happy?”
blearily, you raise your head, glaring up at him through wet eyelashes. “expecting a tree planted in your honour?”
“a fucking ‘thank you’ would be nice!” he snaps back angrily. “Christ, woman!”
“fine! thank you, really–” you raise your hands toward him in mock praise. “thanks a lot, asshole.”
“would an asshole do half the shit i’ve willingly done for you in the past ten hours?” vincent scoffs, blindly shoving the rest of his things—wallet, phone, keys—into his pockets with rage-shaken hands. “think again, honey. i’ve got a five-hundred-dollar dent in my credit card statement saying otherwise.”
“fuck, alright, fine!” you cry agitatedly, digging your fingers into your temples. “get out and get your stupid fucking space and just– God! shut up! i can’t think!”
“that's the problem, (name).” each repeated utter of your name gets sharper every time. “you haven't been thinking.” vincent is standing with his back to you, already slipping into his shoes, but his voice isn’t any less scathing as it would have been if he was facing you. “not since last night, and definitely not now.”
“you think i don't know that?” it hurts. everything hurts. your head, your heart, your body—it’s almost too much for you to process all at once.
“no.” he straightens up, turning to look at you again, cold eyes boring holes into your pulsating own. “you're smart enough to.”
for a moment, nothing but the sound of your pained, ragged breathing hangs in the room.
vincent clicks his tongue, already beginning to make his way down the foyer. “i’ll send someone up for the laundry. you go back to sleep and get rid of that hangover and that goddamn… attitude of yours.” you hear him yank the bathroom doors shut. “if you wake up hungry, just get room service or takeout, whatever the fuck, i don't care, it’s fine, it’s on me, just–”
his footsteps halt by the front door. he sighs heavily.
“i need some time.”
tears well up in your eyes, and you feel a sob catch in your throat.
don’t go.
the silence that follows the click of the latch is deafening.
꩜ a/n: surrrrrprise!! six chapters instead of five—that's right, an extra chapter! all for the sake of pacing and bringing justice to the tension; just so i could execute the proper ending this story deserves. and it also kind of just felt wrong to start and resolve the conflict all in one go. LOLLL YALL HAVENT SEEN THE LAST OF ME i will say though, there is a chance that the next chapter May Take A Wee Bit Longer so it might not be out by the usual scheduled monday ,, i promise i will do my best to make the wait worth it! also, so sorry i'm like 21 hours 40 minutes late hahah!! but hey it's still monday i'm technically still On Schedule but anyways, if you're still here reading, thank you :) i love u and i appreciate u so much. see you in the next one ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
will be cross-posted to ao3 soon!
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