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It’s been a couple hours now, and Gilbert’s arms still don’t hurt. Part of him wishes they did, that they had the decency to make his progress seem more tangible -- in the last two years he'd lived with Nightray, he'd gotten considerably stronger, used to associating pain with advancement. Yet despite having carried several boxes of considerable weight over a distance that he feels is nothing to scoff at, Gil’s arms don’t hurt in the slightest. It’s annoying.
A crash sounds behind him and he turns around, sees books scattered across the floor. His brother looks at him in a way that does not constitute an apology and Gil groans, sets the box he was carrying down, gets to work picking up what his little brother had dropped.
“God damn it, Vince,” he mutters, and Vincent laughs under his breath. Though Gil had insisted he do the moving on his own— the maids had offered, he didn’t want to trouble them and honestly, he liked the repetitiveness of the task— Vincent was even more insistent about helping him. He’d find it endearing, if Vincent weren’t fifteen and still small enough to bowl over in a stiff breeze and definitely well aware of this, making it the third time in the five trips they’d made that Gil is forced to stoop and pick up what Vincent failed to carry. On purpose, definitely, because when Gil glances up at him Vincent smirks like a cat who’s caught the canary. Gil makes the decision to not think about this comparison too hard.
“Brother’s a lot stronger than me,” Vincent says, and finally drops to his knees to clean up his own mess. “It still makes me sad to see him doing all this work on his own, though. I’d feel terrible to leave him by himself…”
The mess is cleaned up quickly, given that only a few books of Gil’s relatively sizable collection were dropped. That was one of the advantages of moving into Nightray— he’d never had much chance to do much reading on his own with Vessalius, given his daily duties, and he’d since discovered he was quite fond of it. About the only advantage, actually, with Vincent now clinging to his side, box in hand. He stands not an inch from his brother, their positions threatening collision.
“I know change is unpleasant… but, well, if nothing else, the room will be bigger.”
They round a corner. Gil scowls. “I don’t want a bigger room. I was perfectly content with things as they were.”
“But the room needed renovations… and brother’s an adult now, anyway. He’s even got women lining up to propose to him, doesn’t he?”
That is a subject Gil distinctly does not want to broach, so he doesn’t grace Vincent with an answer until they finally get to what is intended as his new room. It is certainly larger than his old one, with room enough for even a desk and shelves, unlike the child’s quarters he’d been living in previously. The bed was bigger to match, too, but this just made Gilbert more annoyed as they set down the boxes they had been carrying. Vincent’s had been books, but Gil carried the larger box containing personal possessions. Among those he had originally intended to pack his bedding, until Vincent pointed out that they wouldn’t fit on the new bed. Nightray has plenty of sheets to match any of their beds, sure, but Gil had gotten used to one particular set . He doesn’t want to have to get used to a new one.
Vincent sees him contemplating and laughs. “Still grieving those lost sheets?”
“I wish I were like you sometimes, able to fall asleep anywhere. I have to be dead tired to fall asleep anywhere that isn’t a bed.”
Gil actually falls asleep in places other than his bed quite often. He is frequently dead tired. Vincent definitely knows this, but doesn’t comment, to Gil’s relief. Instead he helps put away Gil’s things without comment or complaint, setting to work organizing his bookshelf without prompting. Though Gil’s tempted to watch him, make sure he doesn’t mess it up, he decides against it. Better to focus on his own task than get worked up over the possibility that Vincent will mess up an easy, inconsequential chore. Even if he gets it wrong, Gil sort of likes the process of putting away books.
“One more trip,” Gil sighs as the last thing he’d been carrying is finally stowed away. “Are you sure you won’t drop anything this time?”
“I won’t!”
It’s said so earnestly Gil almost believes it, even though he’d asked the same thing last time and got the same answer. He stands up from where he’d been crouching in front of a bedside table, stretches, lets his eyes drift to a window unobscured by curtains. It’s large, looking out to the garden, and he can see Elliot and Vanessa outside playing in the summer heat.
Vincent must have caught where he was staring. “Good thing our other brothers are out, hm?”
‘Other’ is pronounced with a fair bit of contempt, Gilbert thinks, but even that seems disingenuous. Their elder brothers probably hate Vincent even more than they hate him, for reasons Gil doesn’t understand, but Vincent acts like he hates them more for a joke than for the legitimate reasons he most certainly has. It sets Gil on edge even more than some of Vincent’s other eccentricities.
“Come on,” he mumbles and leaves the room, not having the check over his shoulder to know Vincent was trailing not a foot behind him.
The last things they need to carry over are some of Gil’s old clothes and the biggest box of books. Given that the former would probably be lighter and thus easier to carry, Gilbert takes the latter. Wordlessly Vincent takes the box that remains, and when the two leave Gil’s old room it is finally left completely empty. Somehow, the thought of that poor old room— walls stripped bare, mattress left open to the elements, windows without curtains and the dresser empty of contents— somehow, the thought of it makes Gil the slightest bit sad, having no one to need it anymore. He resolves to not enter it again.
No further items are dropped on their last trek to Gil’s last room, Vincent remaining quiet the entire time in a way that was either eerie or pleasant; Gil wasn’t entirely sure. The boxes are deposited— Gil’s beside a bookshelf, Vincent’s on the bed. For a moment Gil opens his mouth to ask Vincent to help him sort out his clothes— some were definitely too small for him, Vincent could drop them off to a maid he meant to give them to for her son— but he remembered his brother’s habits around fabric and dropped the subject.
“I’m not going to touch brother’s things without permission...”
Gil narrows his eyes, annoyed more at how his brother seems to read his mind when he can’t understand him at all than at what Vincent was actually saying.
“Brother’s special... I don’t break his things unless he wants me to.”
“You don’t have your scissors?” Gil asks, because he has to. There never was an occasion when Vincent had damaged any of Gil’s belongings, now that Gil took the time to recall it, but he couldn’t help but be wary around him. It was only natural.
Slowly Vincent reaches into the folds of his skirt, extracting a pair of scissors from between them. He makes a show of flaunting them to his brother, saying yes, these are the real deal, before conspicuously placing them on a cabinet behind him, lifting his open palms and showing them to his brother with a smile. “I’m unarmed.”
A joke, probably, but Vincent’s sense of humor always struck Gil as rather tasteless. “Just…” he really should’ve sorted out which clothes he intended to discard before all of this, but there’s no changing the past. “Spread it all out on the bed, I’ll be able to pick out which ones are too small.”
If nothing else, Gil isn’t in the habit of keeping a lot of clothes, at least not for someone who is ostensibly a noble. He mostly likes cycling through the same few modest outfits every day until they get worn out, at which point he’ll usually repair them himself. Since arriving at Nightray he’d only gotten rid of a few old clothes too small for him, but he’d hit a growth spurt recently. Anyway, moving meant he’d have to reorganize his clothes, so he might as well deal with what he has to discard.
Little time passes for Vincent to do as he’s told, even making some initial efforts to sort the clothes into piles by side. “Oh... a lot of these look like they’d fit me.”
Gil shrugs as he climbs onto the bed, grimacing as he touches the sheets. They’re a different fabric from his old ones, and though he’s certainly worn clothes of worse material with little grievance, something about the thought of sleeping with them sets him on edge. “Then they’re too small for me. Put them in the discard pile.”
“Where are they going?”
“A maid. For her son.”
“Did brother promise them?”
With that Gil glances over questioningly, though he doesn’t really intend to. Vincent laughs.
“Brother’s always thinking of the help, isn’t he...”
“I used to be them. It’s hard not to sympathize. They’re a lot more tolerable than Nightray proper, anyway.”
“It wasn’t an insult... I think it’s sweet.”
The clothes are sorted through within a few minutes, Vincent passing no further comment, much to Gil’s relief. Having further things to sort out in his own room, he asks Vincent to drop off the clothes with the maid in question, giving her name and where he’s most likely to find her. Vincent nods, gathers the clothes in his arms, and runs off.
“Vince.”
It’s dinner. Away from the rest of the family, as usual. Aside from their adoptive siblings’ general hostility, Vincent has a habit of being asleep while the rest of the family eats, and Gil usually finds something to busy himself with so he has an excuse to be away. It had been a couple weeks since Gil made the room move, and he’s still not comfortable sleeping there. His head hurts.
“Hm? Oh... if brother wants me to eat his peppers, I’d be happy to.”
Gil flushes a bit, uncomfortable with the verbal acknowledgement of a ritual he regularly participates in. He pushes his plate towards Vincent sitting across from him and crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not about that.” He’d been avoiding the topic for about a week, but it was starting to eat at his sleep even more than the uncomfortable bed sheets, so he decided to bite the bullet. “The maid I told you to drop those clothes off to…”
“I have no idea what brother is referring to.”
Immediately Gil sucks in air through his teeth, covers his eyes with his hands, exhales, slams one fist against the table hard enough that the plate he’d given to Vincent jumps. “Vincent,” he groans, “ why .”
A pause, Vincent looking to the side as a grin slowly crosses his face. “Well, I truly haven’t a clue what could’ve happened… but if I were to do such a thing… is it really that wrong for me to want some of Gil’s own…” he sighs, playing with his hair, closing his eyes. “You know, just to keep?”
The chair clatters to the ground behind him as Gil stands with enough force to knock it over. Vincent raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “A joke!” he assures. “I was joking, brother. I promise, nothing strange has been done with your clothes. I asked the maid- her son is eighteen , Gil, and already far too large for a young teenager’s clothes.”
Was that true? It could’ve been. Gil couldn’t remember ever actually asking the age of the maid’s son, just hearing that she had one. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well,” and Vincent laughs for some reason. “I do have them, yes. I was planning… it was supposed to be a surprise for the winter holiday…”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s just amateur, and only for this purpose. I’ve been studying quilting... If brother wants me to give them to the maid anyway, I will...”
“No, it’s fine, they’re probably—” Gil doesn’t know why he wanted to say tainted , doesn’t even know what he thinks Vincent could’ve done to them in the two weeks he’d have them to warrant that word. “Just keep them.”
Vincent smiles, nods, and they finish eating in silence.
The subject doesn’t come up again until a couple weeks later, when out of nowhere Vincent presents Gil with his progress on the quilt. He holds it out, grabbing it by the corner with one hand, and Gil reluctantly sets his book down to look at what he’s being shown.
“I’ve only just begun it. Time prior I spent practicing. Before I went too far, I wanted to ask brother if it felt alright.”
He’s only stitched a few squares together, not nearly large enough to take up the space of Gil’s bed, and while he obviously intended a pattern, Gil can’t figure out what it is. Gil runs his hands over the surface— he thinks Vincent must have remembered which shirts he was particularly inclined to wearing, because all of the fabric feels nice to the touch. Reluctantly he takes the swatch in hand, is surprised to find the back already pressed. When he pulls the edges of the piece apart, the stitching holds, not a single gap or give to be found.
“It’s nice,” he says, looking down at the unfinished blanket in hand. “You did this yourself?”
“I wouldn’t involve anyone else in it.”
“Huh.”
When he’d first heard about the project, Gil was almost tempted to stop Vincent. There were very few things Gil was better at than his younger brother— chores and handicrafts among them, Vincent apparently not having the patience for them. That Vincent may take sewing from him too crossed his mind, but Gil had set the thought aside. Ultimately, he doesn’t see it necessary for an older brother to be better at things than the younger. Gil is already long used to having other people be smarter than him, to the point he doesn’t really mind it anymore.
After a minute or so of inspecting the swatch Vincent had given him, Gil finally looked at his younger brother. In the time he took to test the sample he had spotted a couple mistakes where Vincent had run over the same piece too many times, made the seam a little too thin, but it really is impressive for someone’s first time. Their eyes meet, and Vincent spent half a second expressionless, as though analyzing Gil. Then he beams, smiled in a manner that actually went to the eyes, and Gil almost thought it was sweet.
“Then, is a higher loft OK?”
“I’d prefer it. I like heavy blankets.”
“That’s what I thought...”
Vincent asks him a few more questions about preferences, saying he was glad the secret got out since he’d rather make something perfect for Gil, taking the sample back and clutching it tight to his chest with both hands. The smile Vincent has never falters, and, being one of the only ones Gil had ever seen from him that wasn’t unsettling, Gil actually takes some relief from this. Soon the conversation ends, and Vincent dismisses himself, saying he has a conversation to have with their father. Gil doesn’t pry and simply watches as Vincent leaves.
Sleeping has gotten easier for Gil as the months begin to grow colder, moving out of summer into fall. Though his old resentment for his sheets remains, they no longer torment him. At this point his frustration is mostly a grudge, and sometimes he thinks about taking a page from Vincent’s book and cutting them all up for the hell of it. The thought is quickly dismissed as bizarrely cruel, and Gil chastises himself for letting his thoughts grow so morbid.
“Has training caused brother grief?”
It’s an unexpected question, one which arrives on another of their solitary dinners, and Gil isn’t sure how to answer it. “Why do you ask?”
“There’s been a sort of strange disposition about Gil lately. He doesn’t seem acclimated to things.”
Though Gil takes offense, he knows it’s true. Vincent is always much better at stomaching the sort of things they’re asked to do, doesn’t seem to mind the prospect of violence or the reality of blood. Once Gil had asked if Vincent ever regretted not being able to go to an actual school, which Vincent simply laughed at.
“I’m not sure I can do it. K- kill people, I mean.”
Vincent hums. “I wouldn’t worry about it…”
“It’s just… I can’t… I’m… I think I’m weak.”
“Gil can do it because he’s weak.”
Silence follows for the next couple minutes as Gil tries to think of an answer. He supposes it makes sense, that Vincent thinks he’s weak. There is not a single time he can remember being strong in front of him. The statement was strange, though. Gil thinks it must take a very strong person to kill someone else.
Eventually, Vincent interrupts his attempts to reply. “I meant to ask about something, actually…”
He gets up, runs off leaving an unfinished plate— Vincent was averse to vegetables, and Gil almost feels superior about this before remembering the hypocrisy of it. When Vincent gets back, he’ll give him an earful about table manners. Until then, Gil can hug his knees to his chest and think about how horribly everything he’s going to attempt in the next year is most definitely going to go.
Two or three minutes go by before Vincent’s return, at which point Gil had forgotten about chastising him and nearly forgotten he’d left in the first place. He only stops brooding with the sound of Vincent setting aside their plates and silverware, making space on the table to spread out the quilt.
“It’s not done…”
That much was obvious, given that there was neither back nor loft to it. The pattern was obvious now, though— an arrangement of angular crosses that Gil hadn’t seen before. On reflex he spends the next few minutes looking it over, testing the seams, checking how it’s pressed— Vincent had gotten significantly better over the course of making the quilt, and Gil could guess what order each part had been sewn together in.
“It’s good. Big enough, too. Are you gonna have enough fabric to finish this?”
“That’s been taken care of.”
“How long did you spend on it?”
Vincent shrugs, smirking. “I just do it in my free time.”
“If you can actually manage this, it’ll be great.” It doesn’t occur to Gil to comment on the ambiguity of Vincent’s statement. Instead he runs his hands over the front, marvelling a bit at how Vincent managed to cobble enough good fabric together so that it was still pleasant to the touch.
Obligations had occupied Gil, such that he hadn’t seen Vincent all day. His family thought the two were spending too much time together, which was fair— Vincent was clingy, far past the point of being annoying. The excuse to get away from him for a while was one that was well received, and so he’d taken to his duties without complaint.
Having finished his labor for the day, Gilbert heads back to his room, now comfortable with the full arrival of autumn. He intended to get some rest, though it was rare for him to nap or sleep early. It had been a good day, though, and Gil was feeling a bit hedonistic. Maybe he’ll punish himself tomorrow, but for now, a little indulgence won’t hurt.
As soon as he turns the corner he hears familiar jeering and immediately retraces his steps, hiding behind a wall. The sounds weren’t getting closer, which meant his older brothers hadn’t spotted him. Carefully he looks over the corner, trying to get a grasp of where they are and if he can avoid them. The two of them— Ernest and Claude, older than them by a decade— both gathered around something they’ve cornered to a wall. Vincent. Obviously.
Gil presses his back to the wall he was hiding behind. Going through the entire house to avoid them was an option, but unpleasant. He wasn’t sure if he could go to the adjacent hallway without attracting their attention. If he listened to what they were saying, maybe he could get an idea of where they intended to go. Something about that option seemed impossible, though. He wouldn’t be able to understand their words even if he wanted to— or so said his convictions.
Again he looked over the corner, thinking alright, let’s just dash over, they’re too caught up in whatever’s going on with Vincent— don’t look at him. He’s not making any noise, it’s not that hard to ignore him. Yet against his best efforts Gil still pauses to stare at his younger brother by blood and miraculously, probably accidentally, they make eye contact. Vincent probably couldn’t fight off a boy his own age, much less an adult. Gil sees him mouth something indecipherable and then he steps out into the hallway, yelling something he doesn’t understand even as he says it.
The fight ends quickly, if one can call it that. Vincent grabs his hand as soon as there’s an opening and pulls Gil away, running into Gil’s room and locking the door. Smartest option, definitely— Gil is bigger than Vincent, sure, but still doesn’t compare to an adult. Their elder brothers won’t follow them, probably, being the only people on Earth who don’t seem that interested in teasing Gil. He takes a few steps into the room as Vincent leans against the door, looking down. From where he stands Gil can barely see some blood run down his brother’s chin— their brothers must have busted his lip at some point during the scuffle.
Impulsively he approaches, though he does not reach a hand out. Vincent looks up, looks straight at him. His younger brother’s eyes narrow and he seems to snarl before covering his face with one hand, fumbling for the door handle with the other, and he runs off without another word to Gil.
Later that evening the two find each other again, Vincent showing not a shred of humility despite the beating he had so recently taken. The wound on his lip had already formed a scab, at least, and when asked Vincent said it didn’t hurt.
“I don’t get it. Why do they hate you so much?”
“Oh…” Vincent says, a little chuckle following the sound as though the question was itself funny. “That’s pretty easy. I said I’d kill them.”
It’s said so plainly that Gil doesn’t register it at first, thinking he misheard, thinking Vincent was joking.
“I said I hadn’t seen how human blood looks against my scissors, yet. I get bored of fabric, you know… anyone would. I wanted to hold them down, see how their skin would cut open beneath them, see if I could make them get everywhere if I managed to cut their bodies right…” he exhales contentedly. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
Odd eyes meet Gil’s expectantly, Vincent sighing like he’d come out of a nice dream, reaching a reluctant hand towards Gil. In a panic Gil slaps it away, takes a frightened step back. Vincent’s expression shows no recoil, no widening of eyes in shock. He smiles such as to expose his teeth.
“It’s getting late,” his little brother says. “I’m going to bed. Sweet dreams, brother.”
Since then, Vincent’s been clinging to Gil’s side even more closely than before. A distinct change in disposition followed, though not one Gil could place exactly. He’d try halfheartedly encouraging Vincent to try a hobby, to clean his room for once, to maybe eat more than half of any given meal or to get some sun. Vincent would brush him off, saying those things were tiring, that he was happy so long as he could stay with Gil.
The winter holiday was nearly upon them, only a couple weeks away. Elliot would be back from school then, and Gil would have someone to talk to that wasn’t his horrifying blood sibling, even if Elliot was only a child. Vincent’s present hadn’t even crossed his mind until his younger brother brought it up again.
“I’m nearly done,” he explains, carrying the fully assembled quilt in his arms. “Can you test the weight of it?”
Slowly Gilbert takes the blanket, letting it rest over his forearms, feeling how it bears down against him. It’s warm, and soft, and nice to look at, and as he checks over it yet again he can see the amount of effort Vincent must have put into it— even someone with experience would’ve taken weeks to make it. Though the gesture is reluctant, Gil’s a bit too earnestly grateful to hide a smile.
“You did a really good job, Vince.”
Vincent perks up immediately, beaming. “It’s not too thick or anything?”
“No, it’s— um, it’s perfect like this.” Gil hands the blanket back to him, and when Vincent grabs it their fingers don’t touch, but it’s close. “I’m glad to see you invested in something for once.”
“Oh.”
Vincent pauses as Gil lets the blanket fall from his hand, suddenly hesitant to gather it back up.
“Is that so…”
His younger brother smiles, looking down at the fabric in hand.
The winter holiday was upon them. Elliot had come back home from boarding school, and though most of his time was occupied by his blood siblings, he had made time to visit Gilbert as well. Gil hadn’t seen Vincent for most of the day— busy with tasks related to his own entrance into society, having turned fifteen. With not much to do outside and his chores all finished, Gil had taken to reading in the empty dining room while his adoptive siblings had some bonding time without him, taking comfort in the warm fireplace beside him.
It had been a good day, even with the usual conflicts with his adoptive siblings about how he was supposedly being a bad influence on Elliot. Everything they complained about— the sudden contempt for authority, the constant why-asking— seemed much more likely to be Vincent’s fault. Gil personally doesn’t care what values Elliot has; he’s just fond of his company.
The fireplace’s crackle as it dies is soothing, having lost its strength from when it was lit at the start of dinner. The whole family was supposed to be there, Gil and Vincent included, but Vincent must have slept through it. Not that Gilbert particularly cared— he ended up having to eat all of his vegetables, but he could stomach it. Darkness had fallen, the moon high in the sky, and Gil took a break from reading to look outside the window and contemplate.
“Gil…?”
He jumps at the sound of his blood brother’s voice, then feels quite ashamed of this. Maybe he didn’t mind Vincent being smarter than him, but being afraid of one’s little brother was a different matter entirely. “Ah— ah, Vincent— you’re… here.”
Chuckling softly, Vincent stumbles over to his elder brother, hands behind his back. “Brother! I’m happy to have come in time... I’ve missed Gil very much…”
There’s no way Vincent isn’t being conspicuous about whatever he’s hiding on purpose. He’s too smart for that. “What do you have?” Gilbert asks with a groan.
“Did brother forget his present?
“My…” Gil stops to think for a moment. “Oh, that! You, um—” and Gil suddenly realizes he forgot to get Vincent anything. “You really didn’t have to…”
“Yeah, I know.” Vincent grins, takes a few steps back from Gil as the elder brother stands up. “But obviously I’d do it, if it were for Gil’s sake…”
Vincent’s being coy. “Listen— I, I’m sorry for not getting you anything.”
“Don’t worry about it. If anything, I’m glad. I just wanted to see the look on brother’s face when I showed him.”
“Um—”
And just as Gil is about to stutter another heartless apology Vincent throws the bundle he had been hiding behind his back directly into the fire, staring at Gil the entire time as months of work begins to burn away. Reflexively Gil dives to retrieve it, try to salvage what he can, but Vincent stops him, grabs his wrist before he can stick it into the fire.
“Why—”
Gil can’t get anything out further as nausea collects in his stomach for some reason, because he doesn’t feel bad for Vincent, because Vincent did this, but he doesn’t understand why he would and it makes him sick and he can hear what Vincent had worked so hard for burn in front of him and he can’t do anything about it as Vincent leans forward, wraps his arms around his chest, laughs delightedly as he stares at Gil’s expression contorted in confused despair.
“See, now? I love Gil more than anyone. Just that look is more than enough.”