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With a flick, light wavered to life, bathing the bathroom in a hospital-sick, dim glow, shadows scattered like spilled ink. The old bulb flickered, waning ever-so slightly like even it was struggling to keep itself alive.
Feet crossed the threshold first. Bare, uncertain, landing upon the frigid tiles. One first, then the second.
It ran shivers up his thin frame, and Vincent already craved the immediate relief of a nice steaming shower—heat was a pricey rarity, but with this new show, that would soon become the minimum.
No longer would Alastor have to fuss over the creaky sofa that dipped with their weight. No longer would they need to cram the same overflowing closet and add a divide. No longer would the man need to stick to simple New Orlean recipes because their kitchen didn't have room for more ingredients.
No longer would Alastor need to rely on his own money and finally let Vincent lead, take care of him. To get the best medicine and care in New York—no, the world—and maybe, just maybe, cure him.
That’s what Vincent told himself.
When he fully stepped inside, the mirror greeted him.
What stared back wasn't the same dashing, electric businessman he once was, but a corpse.
His coiffure, one of his proudest and most immaculate qualities, was a mess. Tousled, matted to his burning scalp, strands falling over eyes that bore like open wounds. Gray streaks now all-consuming, the hazel brown a mere suggestion. Turning his head, Vincent could see some falling out… Or torn off.
“Bite and there will be no more hair to fucking rip,” A voice growled above, grip searing on his head, pushing him down down down—
A gag escaped him.
Not again.
Hands reached for the cabinets, searching, trying to ignore the foul taste on his tongue (he could still feel the heavy weight, wrong and uncomfortable in every way stretching his—) that never seemed to go away until they brushed a box.
It was hair dye, black. The new instant kind. Vincent had bought it back when the first gray strand appeared, but Alastor insisted he liked his brunette hair. Said it reminded him of roasted cocoa beans that shimmered caramel in the morning light. Cute.
I'm sorry, he thought as he clawed it open, throwing the ruined package into the trash. He wouldn't want to see that they had been reduced to burnt, defiled ash.
After placing it down on the counter, the rest of the process flew past in a hurried blur—gloves, petroleum jelly, didn't bother with the brush—Vincent was a ghost through the motions. Focusing became hard as of recently.
Which was weird, because his mind was far too active to ever just… float.
He didn't know if he was doing it right, hands moving on autopilot, unsteady and urgent, desperate to get in the shower and wash away the phantom touch all over his face, shoulders, chest, hips—
The ink stained gloves soon joined the rubbish.
Vincent reached for his tie and suddenly felt uncomfortable watching the him in the mirror undress as well.
There was a special kind of humiliation, seeing the gnarly purple and blue splotches mar exposed skin. They were different from Alastor's—where his were passionate but tender, these were gruesome, brutal, angry. It was a physical brand of his mistake. His stupidity. His weakness.
Their ownership.
Mismatched eyes tore away, burning with hot shame. No. He negotiated first. This was nothing but his own doing so suck it up like a man.
Drips of water rolled down the shower head when he twisted the knob. He twisted and untwisted it again. One fell on his head, falling down a pathetic strand.
Just when Vincent thought he was gonna scream, water finally crashed down on him after the sixth attempt—a freezing thousand needles that has him recoiling, seeping into already frigid bones, and he felt more fucking stupid than before.
The water bled charcoal ink, cascading down pale skin like sludge, his chest, spine, thighs. And Vincent tiredly knocked his forehead against the cold tile wall, watching the black swirl into the drain in a vortex of regret.
What would Alastor think, if he saw the bruises? Found out what he'd done? Realized how much of a cocksucking doormat he was, kneeling down for other men? He'd probably laugh. Tell him he's pathetic. That he was overreacting over a little quid pro quo between enthusiastic adults.
Vincent sure was, when he placed his hand over Kurt's on his tense shoulder and whispered hot in his ear to keep this off the books.
When he crawled under the desk.
When he walked out after with a hard-on of his own and kept coming back—
“I never let anyone go that far, my dear.”
“But… what if they do?”
Alastor smiled. “They would no longer have hands to do so.”
Vincent slammed the wall.
Weak. He was so fucking weak.
He could never be equal to Alastor. Even if he said otherwise, it wouldn't change the fact. Vincent could put on a brave face, smile right, but still end up between their legs like clockwork, beneath, because he's too scared. And Alastor would rather die than be trapped with a coward.
Saltiness hit his tongue, and Vincent didn't have to feel his cheeks to know it was tears. Congratulations.
There was truly no end to his audacity.
Useless, stupid, whore, slut, fag—
The man crumpled, shockwaves raking through him as a hand slapped over his mouth, phantom touch crawling his skin, eyes screwing shut. Tears flowed no matter how hard he hit his head, scratched his arms, screamed till his throat hurt and felt like static.
Vincent just wanted it to stop.
Stop stop stop—
But even if he begged, it wouldn't.
And it never will.