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Vincent Edgeworth was not a man of frantic urgency. With the smug curl of his lips, the class of his black suit, and the well-kept yet unique style of his hair, he could successfully mask most of his emotions.
So to say he wasn’t looking himself was an understatement.
When the hospital contacted him back saying he could visit him, he threw on the first coordinated outfit he could find and practically jammed his keys into his car. He could feel his nails dig into the wheel, leaving marks that would forever remind him of this day. He prayed a silent ‘thanks’ to whatever god was out there that the traffic wasn’t heavy that day, or he would have committed crimes even greater than the ones he already carried on his back.
Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.
Once his car was settled in the parking lot, he slammed the door closed with such great force he swore he saw the whole vehicle shake. But that didn’t matter to him-- his mind was preoccupied with other more pressing thoughts.
Vincent was never the best at sprinting-- he would’ve chosen chess for the four years of his time in RMU’s physical education classes if he could’ve. Still, he found ways to make do, taking the least physically taxing ones when possible. And yet today, for the first time in years, he found himself bolting towards the hospital doors, even if he could feel his lungs about to collapse on him.
He was always the more physically sound between the two of us.
Standing face to face with the glass doors, he takes a moment to get a proper look at his state. He had stray strands of hair sticking out in odd places, his jacket was sliding off his shoulder (and not in the fashionable way), beads of sweat were uncharacteristically decorating his normally pristine face. Yet the moment ended as soon as it began as he swings the right door open, resisting the urge to possibly break the hinges when he does.
Where is he.
His footsteps are heavy yet his heart even heavier. They echoed throughout the clean halls of the hospital lobby, the rhythm making his stomach turn in knots with every beat. He walks up to the receptionist’s counter and puts on the calmest face he could muster at the time.
“I’m here. Vincent Edgeworth. You said he was available for visiting?”
The receptionist looks up to face him, and the expression that crosses her face for a moment makes him think that maybe his facade wasn’t enough.
“Ah, yes.. What is your relation to the patient, again?”
“...Friend.”
She clicks her pen and jots his name on the visitor’s list. “He’s in room 352. Do you need dire-”
“No, thank you.”
Everything from then on was a blur. He doesn’t recall if he took the stairs or the elevator, but before he knew it, he was standing in front of the door to his room. Without a second thought, he turns the doorknob and pushes it open, and—
Nothing could have prepared him for this moment.
“Victor?”
Two heads turn to face him— the nurse tending to him stands upright, and they take his call as a sign to leave through the door behind him. When the creaking comes to a halt, Vincent’s eyes fixate on the figure lying in bed.
Victor props himself up and smiles, not at Vincent, but at the wall next to him.
“My dear Vincent!” His tone was cheery, matched with the big smile on his face. “You have the honor of being my first visitor. In fact, they only started allowing visits just a bit ago! You just can’t get enough of me, huh~”
Vincent’s eyes narrow at him. “You’re still as talkative as ever.”
“Ha!” Victor lets out a big laugh. “Would you have preferred I lost my mouth as well?”
“...No, not really.”
Victor's smile falters, but only for a moment so short that if Vincent had blinked, he would have missed it completely. He carries a chair from the corner of the room and places it by his bedside, taking a seat slowly.
“..How have you been?”
Victor’s mechanical hand reaches out, but he grabs the air beside Vincent. He opts to return his hand to his lap instead. “Ehh, alright. It’s quite boring here. Nothing to do, no one to talk to..”
“I see.”
Silence befalls the two of them. Vincent drags his eyes away from the floor, finally looking at Victor’s.
Or at least, the lack thereof.
Bandages covered half of his face, and he could only imagine what it must feel like on his end. They ruffled the ends of his bright red hair— those that were normally pressed flat were sticking out of the edge of the wrappings.
Vincent swallows down the lump in his throat. He grips the cloth of his pants and chews on the inside of his bottom lip. He always knew what to say— but not this time.
“So Myers is providing the prosthetics?”
Victor’s head refocuses to face him. “Yup. Again. You know, it’s nice that they’re at least offering..”
Vincent nods his head in response, and only after does he realize how futile the action was.
Silence again.
It pained Vincent to see him like this. It pained him so much it took everything to resist storming out the building just to personally deal with whoever did this to him. He wishes he even knew who did this to him. He tried to gather information on the day of the casualty, but even the hospital omitted details from him. He knew Victor wouldn’t be telling him either— at least, not anytime soon.
He had no one to blame but himself.
He wishes he was at least there when it happened. Maybe Victor wouldn’t be suffering alone. Maybe they could be lying in the same room together. And in the future, they’d reminisce about the things they went through—
—together.
His hands subconsciously reach out for Victor’s. He gently takes his left hand, clasping it between both of his. It was cold and smooth— so unlike the ones he had back in college. Victor was basically a portable heater for them both, but now only Vincent had any semblance of warmth left in his.
He hadn’t noticed earlier, but Victor was now wordlessly looking in his direction. He couldn’t tell what expression he was making exactly, but he brought his free hand up to feel for Vincent’s face. When he finds it, he cups his hand around his cheek, and the realization sinks in for Vincent.
Victor.. is still here.
Victor is still alive.
Victor is still okay.
Without proper thought, he gets up on his feet and throws his arms around him. Victor lets out a small yelp in response, but other than that he remains still and silent. Vincent nearly claws at his gown trying to get a proper grasp of him. Tears form at the corner of his eyes and fall down, staining the white pillows of Victor’s bed.
And at that moment, Vincent is at least glad Victor couldn’t see him.