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It's weird to hear his real name from Jerome's mouth, and weirder still that he thinks "Jerome" but says "Eugene." But then again, there's nothing about this that isn't a bit odd in some way, this little arrangement of theirs.
Jerome reeks of liquor--vodka and scotch, one ingested at home, one at the club--and he's even less help than usual when it comes to getting him into bed. Vincent's seen Jerome drunk hundreds of times by this point--possibly more than he's seen him sober, Vincent thinks with a grimace as Jerome blows a particularly alcoholic breath into his face--but something about tonight makes it different. It's not just that this is a celebration. They've done that before, the day Vincent got the call from Gattaca telling him to report the next morning for his first day, and for the most recent promotion, and even for the first time Vincent stood in front of his old janitorial supervisor and didn't get so much as a flicker of recognition from the older man. This feels different because now there's a feeling that what they've worked for together might actually be happening.
"No more drinking for you the rest of the week," Vincent says with a grunt, shifting Jerome's legs fully onto the bed so that the dead weight of them won't drag him off onto the floor. He's learned that lesson already, remembers hearing the thud from the other room and wondering what would happen to him if Jerome was stupid enough to hit his head and kill himself like an idiot.
"Try to stop me," Jerome says with another breathy little laugh. His face is flushed and his eyes--though surrounded by dark shadows--are even brighter than usual. Much as Vincent hates to admit it, Jerome was right--his eyes are prettier.
"Don't be such a dick," Vincent mutters, removing Jerome's shoes and dropping them onto the shelf underneath the nightstand.
Jerome smirks, drunken, sarcastic grin stretched wide. "I prefer to think of myself as more of a bastard. Though, being of spectacular genetic makeup and pre-planned, unlike yourself, I suppose the term doesn't really apply." After a moment, the smile fades, and he fixes Vincent with a gaze remarkably steady for one so drunk. "I am proud of you, Vincent."
Again, Vincent shrugs it off, just a proclamation brought on by excessive celebration. "Right. Thanks, Eugene."
But Jerome isn't having that this time. He lifts himself up off the pillows, leaning back and supporting himself with his elbows, and now his blue eyes seem to bore into Vincent in a way they haven't since just after he'd woken two and a half inches taller than he'd been the morning before. He reaches out for a third time and grabs Vincent by the tie, demanding, entitled--the way they all seem to be, so used to taking what they want, as if the world had been built for them instead of the other way around. He pulls Vincent down, harder than before, until Vincent's actually forced onto the bed to keep from falling directly on top of him, and not once does that gaze waver. "Call me Jerome."
Vincent tries to remove the hand twisted tightly in his tie, but the other man isn't loosening his grip. Instead, Vincent settles for a quiet snort and a roll of the eyes. How many nights has he dealt with Jerome's drunken antics? Yet never once, in all this time since the night they'd made their way up to gaze upon Gattaca together, has Jerome wanted to be called by his own name. "Why?"
"Because I want to hear you say my name," Jerome says, sitting up fully, and something in his tone makes Vincent shiver. "My name."
It's only one word, and one Vincent's said thousands of times before, but for so long now, it's always been said to give him identity, to give him a skin to fit into and a place to hide. He's chanted it to himself, back in the days before it became reflex, scribbled it in cursive with his right hand on hundreds of documents, and typed it into the system at Gattaca countless times.
So why does it feel so odd to say right now? It's almost as if saying the name will give it back to its original owner, bestow some meaning or essence that isn't usually there. There's power in a name, just like there's power in the associated identity, potential in the genetic blueprint. Perhaps it's that, that makes Vincent pause and not want to play along. But he's long since become accustomed to humoring his roommate, his partner in numerous felonies, if only to get some peace. "All right. Jerome."
"Vincent," Jerome whispers softly, and then he lets go of Vincent's tie, trailing his long, narrow fingers down Vincent's chest as he pulls his hand away. "I've lent you everything, haven't I? Everything I am, everything that makes me me in the eyes of the world?"
Vincent has no answer. It's true, of course it is, but Jerome's getting at something that seems to stem from someplace deep within him, perhaps finally able to surface with the aid of the alcohol or the sense of celebration, something as deep as the secret that Jerome's accident had been no accident at all. There are times, an increasing number of them since Vincent's dream of heading up to Titan has moved further into the realm of possibilities, when Vincent gets this feeling that Jerome has been thinking over some very serious matters. Matters, perhaps, that have something to do with what they are to each other, what they'll be when Vincent finally attains his ultimate dream, and what they are apart. But he knows better than to ask, knows that Jerome will only respond with a bit of wit or a quick barb to distract him with the sting. "Yes," he finally says, voice catching somehow on that one word.
Jerome shakes his head minutely, the heat of his hand penetrating Vincent's clothing and warming his skin just enough to be noticeable. "Actually, I don't believe that's quite true. Not everything after all."
The question of what's missing isn't even fully formed into words in Vincent's brain before Jerome's leaning in to him, closer than he usually lets himself be, closer than even a moment ago, with the tie as leverage. This isn't the Jerome he's used to, the one with the quick wit and disarming comments and dry humor. There's often a bit of intensity to that one, but this is different. Different, and alarming, and frighteningly provocative. Vincent can still smell the alcohol on him, the mint of the mouthwash used not long ago, the last of the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, but he's close enough that the cologne he wears on the rare occasions they go out is noticeable as well. It's warm and woody with just a hit of spice, and the scent of it reminds Vincent of seeing Jerome with that peculiar morning-after smirk, once all hired company has left the premises.
"There are still things I can...share," Jerome whispers, fingers trailing slowly down Vincent's chest, suggestive and promising. "Things I can lend you use of."
Vincent shivers underneath the touch, but makes no attempt to move away. He's mesmerized by the blue of Jerome's eyes, the depth and brightness of them that's so often dulled by alcohol. Before he can answer (and honestly, he has no idea what his answer might be, not in the slightest), Jerome closes the little bit of distance between them and kisses him. It's not forceful, not like the tie-pulling; just the barest touch of his lips to Vincent's own, and then he's leaning back into the pillows, smiling softly, eyes half-closed. "Something to dwell upon."
With legs that shake almost as badly as his voice, Vincent stands. "Go to sleep," he repeats, switching off the light. He heads for the door, but it's several moments before he can bring himself to step out of the bedroom and tear himself away from staring at Jerome's form on the bed.
Sleep is a long time in coming that evening, and it has little to do with knowing he'll be headed for Titan before the month ends.