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Vincent is the last thing Leo sees before it all goes black.
It’s a fitting end, he supposes. A brave police officer shooting a career criminal? They should be giving Vincent a medal, should be praising him from the rooftops. Vincent should be pleased with a job well done, not grimly staring at the twitching body of his friend.
Leo expects a light at the end of the tunnel. He expects a staircase leading him straight to hell. He expects a wash of radiant light and the song of the heavens, or a burst of heat and pain. What he doesn’t expect is Vincent.
Vincent’s hand in his as they both lingered just a second too long during an exchange of tools. Vincent’s strong back clutched beneath his trembling hands, his legs around Vincent’s waist. Leo had taken care not to brush against him, to not take their budding friendship somewhere it didn’t belong. He sees them, back to back, crawling against that god awful tower. He sees Vincent playing (and losing) basketball with Alex.
Leo stops fighting it. If these are his last moments, he wants to bask in them. He remembers how he’d felt seeing Vincent for the first time, stripped naked in the lineup. He’d kept his eyes respectful, chaste. He wasn’t gay after all, despite the tug low in his gut.
He wasn’t gay, he didn’t think. He’d only ever felt that way around Vincent, and that calm way he teased Leo only served to exacerbate that. He managed to burrow his way into his brain, gnashing through years of restraint.
Leo wonders why his brain is fixated on Vincent. Didn’t they teach him something like that in school? He faintly remembers hearing Mrs. Robinson drone on and on about the French Revolution, the guillotine and some French guy winking after death. Nerve endings or something like that. Leo tries to hold onto the memory, but he’s fading fast and he never paid that much attention in school anyways.
It isn’t fucking fair, Leo thinks. It should’ve been Vincent and Leo against the world, fugitives on the run but free, together. Blindly, Leo reaches out for Vincent. He’s shocked to feel a strong hand interlace their fingers together.
Leo thinks this is what dying feels like. He decides he doesn’t mind.
He wakes up a few days later.
“You have a visitor, Caruso.” The guard at the door says, sipping a cup of coffee.
Leo grunts in response. He expects Linda. He expects the police chief. He expects Satan himself to appear before him before he expects Vincent.
“Get the fuck out of my hospital room, Moretti.” Leo says, oddly calm despite the storm brewing within him.
Vincent doesn’t heed him. He takes large, measured steps, acquiring a chair somewhere in the process. When he’s about six feet away from Leo, he pulls up the chair and sits. For a moment, they sit like that, not saying anything.
“The chief is willing to settle for a ten year sentence with the possibility for parole, contingent on good behavior.” Vincent says.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Vincent runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “Leo, please, work with me here. I’ve been working my ass to cut you some slack, but the charges you’re facing are pretty severe and—“
“How many laws did we break together, Vincent? How many people did we kill?” Leo asks, incensed. “It isn’t fucking fair. You deserve to be here, just as much as I do.”
“…I know I do.” Vincent says. His throat bobs as he gulps, and Leo’s drawn to his Adam’s apple, hates the way he wants to kiss it. “And I’ll deserve it even more when I finish what I started.”
Vincent takes slow, measured steps towards Leo. When he’s within arms reach, Leo’s breath hitches. They’re so close that all Leo would have to do is lift his mouth slightly to reach Vincent’s.
His wrist pops in two fluid motions before the handcuff connecting Leo to the bed releases him. Leo’s eyes widen, but before he can ask, Vincent hands him a bag.
“The coat and shoes are for you. I’ve parked the car by the fire exit. I’ve got a lot of things to apologize for, and I figured I’d start here.”
Leo’s never been dressed faster.