Work Text:
Charles has only had one drink but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are halfway closed. He’s in an alcohol-induced haze.
Looks dead.
Dangling on the cusp of feeling alive and feeling like vomiting.
Clinging
to the sofa
but more than that—
Clinging to the way Vincent
glows.
There’s something about him that makes Charles unable to focus on anything else. He’s godly, he thinks, not noticing the emptiness in his eyes or the nothingness in his smile. The way he talks, the way he moves, the way he is. He’s the life of the party, only he isn’t alive, and Charles doesn’t notice this. Does anybody notice?
Vincent is the center of Charles’ world.
Charles looks at him and thinks: ethereal, untouched, pure.
Doesn’t notice the bruises or darkening bags beneath his eyes.
Vincent isn’t stupid.
He knows it in the way Charles’ gaze meets his,
knows it in the way he touches him
as if revering God.
Someday he’ll realize his emptiness and see.
Charles will look at him and think: inhuman, used, sinful.
He’ll notice that he is filthy and unworthy, and undeserving of his worship.
But just for a little while longer, Vincent wants to let Charles believe.
Before he ends it. Before he falls.
He wants to be the hollow center of his ruptured world.