Work Text:
When Elvis opens the door to Vincent's apartment, tan paper bags situated in his sturdy arm and the other twisting the knob— his foot wedging the door open gently. Vincent is lounging on his chaise, one end of his phone pressing against his ear and the other at his chin, twisting towards his mouth as he speaks softly.
"Mom-" Vincent pleads, flexing the cord between his fist. "I don't want to talk to him. He— Christ sake— doesn't want to talk to me either. Mom! I didn't even use the lord's name is vain. It's his son. Not him! God, no. Don't— please— hand the phone to-" Well, he was speaking softly at first. Now, he sounds sad and irritated and deflated. A look he has never seen on Vincent before. "Hello, father."
Elvis slows until he's eventually stopped at the dividing line between Vincent's kitchen and den. He sets his groceries down on the counter and leans against one of the four columns that cages in the kitchen at the corners. He's not snooping or anything— his Ma taught him better than that— he's just a guest, whose admiring his host who is strikingly so pretty. Really, whatever Vincent is saying goes right past him. He has an awful, terminal case of tunnel vision when it comes to Vincent.
Vincent takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he gets frayed at his edges, before he turns to his womanly hysterics. ". . No. I don't drink, of course not, father." Vincent eyes catch Elvis finally and they light up in recognition. Then, he grins at his own irony— at his words they both know aren't faithful. Vincent drinks way more than Elvis himself, who usually only drinks when Vincent invites him to the bar, including when he stares at the dead sky of midnight, his poor troubled heart aching in his chest. Elvis feels a pang of sympathy before his mind contorts perversely. It's his familiarity with Vincent that conjures the image of him— knowing his past as son of a catholic clergyman- a reverend. His religion is something holy, something so easily defiled and it's filthy the way Elvis imagines Vincent on his knees, uncharacteristically but nonetheless in seductive passiveness, asking, begging for forgiveness. It's a power trip how, in this fantasy, Elvis can give Vincent the world, give him salvation and bliss.
He blinks as he notices Vincent's voice waver, his pitch faltering, those guarded walls of false invulnerability crumbling before his very eyes. God knows he's too pent up but Vincent tells him he's inhumanly selfless and his desires of the flesh dissolve with ease.
His weight falls forward as he moves to comfort Vincent, to ask if he's okay but Vincent shoots him a glare, with the eyes of a lioness and the guard of a gazelle, and fiercely mouths no.
"Well. . did you at least watch me on the box?" Vincent eyes dart anxiously, awaiting his answer as if his fate. Then, an exasperated sigh. "Of course not. Hm? No, father, I said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Must have been some static. I'm sure father— I work with electronics all day, I know what I'm talking about. I'm just. . would it kill you to just listen to me? Watch the damn television! No- I am not raising my voice! you did it first—"
Vincent's chest heaves with anguish and frustration, the kind that makes him tear his hair out until tears spill.
"I-m just— Would it kill you? Would it actually kill you! I don't ask you for much. Actually," he laughs, self-deprecating, frazzled as he's losing himself at the seams, sardonic. "-I don't ask you for anything. I don't need you- I never have. You know— I'll shine brighter than anything you've seen as you'll have no choice but to see me."
And Vincent then cuts the line, a distraught tremble to his lips and a mania in his eyes. "Brighter than fucking God." It's a murmur, it's a promise, and it's a threat. Elvis recognizes the way he's losing himself, in his mind, in his pain. If Elvis gives him the chance he'll unravel himself into messy, frayed ends.
"Is this why you didn't want me to meet your family?" Elvis asks and Vincent looks up and he's glad it seems to snap him from his thoughts. It was a very dangerous place for Vincent to be, threatening to undo the god given glory that was Vincent Whittman.
Vincent had once mentioned the type of man his father was— wildly different than his own Pa. His own father was adamant about Elvis joining the family business—"why, all your brothers have done so, my boy! Your mama gave you all pleasant faces— use 'em!" he had said, eventually giving in to his son, whom was so convinced he belonged beneath a spotlight— but he knew, from little tid bits here and there that he eased from Vincent, that Mr. Whittman was a rigid, authoritative man.
Elvis grew up as religious as any American did— Sunday mornings his Ma had each of their outfits ready and they all went to church. If they were real devoted, perhaps they would have been more strict about going to a good Catholic-Irish church but they weren't. As long as his Ma could see her good church friends and say her silent prayers for her sons and daughters, she was happy. If she was happy, then his Pa was just fine.
But that's not how Vincent grew up. He grew up with the fist of God hovering over him like a promise. He spent his youth repeating those cursed hymns, reading lines that damned him to hell. He was just a boy with those fists around his throat, with those lips telling him he was fundamentally wrong. God strangled him and he just. . didn't talk about it.
He's learned two vital things about Vincent— you don't mention God and you do not mention his queer habits. It's the quickest way to make him hostile.
"I don't want you meeting my family because you're a. ." He pauses, mouth shutting tight. Elvis knows what horrid word he's thinking of.
"-homosexual." He finishes quiet. Elvis doesn't mention how Vincent is just as queer as he is. He could but he knows how it hurts him, how it keeps him hurling over the bowl of his toilet, feverishly sweating as he cries so much he vomits.
"I can pretend to be your colleague." Elvis attempts. "It's not even a lie— we are coworkers!" Vincent raises his eyebrow, gives him a look and then turns— angry, upset, miserable and it makes Elvis feel sick. He wants to lift him into his arms, feather loving touches, gift soft kisses, whisper him sweet reassurances but when he's like this? Everything sets him off and so Elvis treads carefully, stepping onto the field of landmines.
"There is nothing subtle about you!" Vincent laughs, baring his teeth like a hurt hound. Elvis doesn't answer, doesn't give him his leverage nor ammunition. Usually, on a normal day he lets him rip into Elvis, mock him, tease him. He finds it first funny and then endearing. But this is not a normal day.
When Elvis gives him nothing, Vincent takes a breath before he throws something. Then, his gaze lands on the groceries. "What are those?" He asks Elvis, deceitfully innocent and with not a scheme behind it.
"Food. I came over because I thought I could make you dinner." Elvis explains slowly, deliberately choosing his words and tone as to not set him off. He watches his reaction carefully. Vincent is amazing at his job and that means perfecting his smile and fixing his words to mean whatever his audience wants it to mean. Unluckily for Vincent, Elvis wants nothing but the bare truth.
"You think I can't cook?" Vincent accuses, the hair on his nape bristling like a hissing cat. Elvis fights the urge to embrace him, hold him in strong arms and protect him. He knows it's unrealistic, he's aware he can't fight off the world for Vincent but that sharkish grin and the holy cadence of his voice make it worth attempting.
"I think you won't cook." Elvis says and it's probably the first lie he's told in age. Like each time he fibs, his stomach contorts with uncomfortable tension. Vincent cannot cook— at first he thought it was just humility (though, perhaps love made him a fool because when has Vincent ever been humble) but then multiple dinners so burnt it mimicked obsidian, Elvis had been convinced.
"Go take a nap, Vincent." Elvis says, an unfamiliar dominance to his voice. There's a lightless to his arms, he feels like his mind is disconnected from his body. "I won't feed into your arguments— into your damned self-destructive habits. I won't be a part of your plan to tear yourself apart."
Vincent looked infuriated. Oh, he looked so angry. "You're—" Vincent tried and Elvis squared his shoulders. He's so sick of it. He feels awful doing this- playing this part. He's not an authoritative person. Vincent knows it and Elvis knows such. But, Vincent always desired him to be crueler, to be meaner, to hit harder.
"Go to your stupid bedroom-" Elvis doesn't recognize his voice. It's never echoed off the walls like this. Not when his brothers would push and pull him around, tease him to tears, or when his sisters pinched and prodded him until his face flushed with embarrassment. He never yelled. "-and you're going to crawl into your bed and sleep off whatever attitude you have right now."
Vincent freezes, blinks once then twice. His lips purse into a thin line and his shoulders flex, seeing if he could take on Elvis. He can't and they both know and Elvis is prepared to pick Vincent up, throw him over his shoulder, and lock the door to the bedroom until he's forced into a slumber.
And so, eventually, he complies. Elvis fortunately does not have to force him in there, though he was dreadfully preparing for it. Elvis knows he's a strong man, he's big and healthy and sturdy and— but he can't tolerate hurting others. He hates how the one person he loves more than the moon and stars and sun wants to hurt by his hands.
Elvis searches through everything he knows about Vincent, trying to pinpoint some reason why Vincent wants it so bad and how he can help— how he can fix it. Because he can't do this— he can't hurt Vincent. His body, starting from his heart, would just start decaying from the inside out. But he also can't lose him either. He doesn't know what he would do with himself. Their love isn't tragic. They aren't star crossed lovers. Fuck— Vincent won't even call them lovers in the first place. But he'd miss Vincent, he'd cry, he'd feel empty.
In the end, he doesn't know what to do. So, like any sensible man— he does the dishes. Then, he stays there, desperate tears falling down the drain.
When Vincent awakes, his apartment is cold. Elvis probably has left, he assumes. He knows he's too harsh to keep company. He's just as cruel and vicious as his father. He doesn't know how his mother does it. How she stands that man. But if she can— then is there someone awaiting him? Probably not, he thinks, most people don't compare to his saint of a mother.
He ignores all the times he's called Elvis an angel or selfless or amazing. There is no hope for him and he is. . okay with that loneliness. Maybe not currently but he will be. Elvis will not survive a life with someone as broken as Vincent.
He stands up, shark socks slippery against his wooden floorboards. He takes a deep breath, it ragged against the chill air. His throat is sore from the thick falling of his feelings. He walks out of his room to his kitchen, grabs a glass and notices the full pitcher. He laughs bitterly to himself, barely audible beneath the dead of Night's shawl.
His throat is so dry he can hear the water rush down the walls of his esophagus like waves. He sets the glass down on his counter, he'll get to it later— which means never because usually Elvis cleans up after him. He just leaves everything a mess in his wake. And that includes Elvis and he assumes after his behavior today, he's gone and there will be no one to clean his mess. Elvis got angry at him. Elvis is incapable of it and it almost scared Vincent.
Perhaps he's still losing his mind after his conversation with his father— and how fury fills and leaves him empty at the memory.
He drifts around his apartment for a bit, room to room, until he eventually finds himself in his living room in front of a very stupid, foolish, idiotic Irishman. His vision goes blurry with wetness as he reaches for his hand, holding it, shaking it a bit. "Elvis." He calls, his voice wobbling and breaking. His breath shudders as Elvis opens his eyes and even if Vincent can't see them, he knows, he misses the blue.
"Vin?" The voice asks groggily, blinking away the sheets of snowy tiredness. "Are you okay?"
And for probably the first time, Vincent is vulnerable with the truth. ". . No." Now, Elvis can hear the hiccuping grief in his voice. "You're supposed to be gone."
"Am I?" Elvis asks, edging between the line of genuineness and knowing. "I couldn't leave you like that. Not when you're so upset or when I yelled at you like that. I'm sorry Vincent."
"You're a fool." Vincent says, wrapping his arms around himself to feel just a little less vulnerable. He wants Elvis' arms around him so fucking bad. He's never felt so safe before and he longs for it again. He just. . can't ask for it. His father taught him against greed. And his father has made him feel even more sinful as of late. "You're-"
"Stupid?" Elvis finishes for him and takes both of Vincent's hands, enveloping them in his warm freckled palms. "I am so incredibly stupid for you. And you turn me inside out in ways that shouldn't be possible."
"So leave." Vincent answers. As if it was easy. As if Elvis could do that with a rational mind and beating heart.
"I'd step in front of a bus before I do that." He kisses a knuckle. "Come here, please."
He pulls Vincent onto the couch beside him. "I can help you if I know what's upsetting you." He brings a hand to Vincent's knee, in the same manner that he knows calms his nerves when he's so anxious he's ill.
"There's no fixing me." Vincent responds briefly.
"Then, there's comforting you." Elvis tries and Vincent gives up- gives in.
"My father." Vincent starts, tears swelling up again. "He's always seen me as. . sinful. One of his most personal principles is humility. Humans are nothing compared to the greatness of God and should act like it. He believes Pride to be one of the most dangerous of the sins. Lucifer proved that, obviously. Homosexuality and Pride— he always equated them to the devil. And vanity— did you know some people say Lucifer was one of god's most beautiful angels? And he always believed I was his challenge from god— a test of his faith. Send him a child of the devil and see if you can make it pure. Send him a Cain and see if it can be changed into an Abel. He wants me to be a defanged lamb."
There a broken rumble to Vincent's voice, as he grips his hair and holds his chest. He shudders with a withdrawn sob, his frame trembling. "I- I used to do these little things as a child. I couldn't wear certain fabrics and hated the texture of certain foods. But we weren't rich— my father wouldn't allow it. I had to eat what was served to me or I would starve and- I just couldn't. I can't even put into words how sick those foods made me feel. I had all these things and sensations that I felt but. . there aren't words for. I just.. can't explain them. It was like I could just barely touch them, grasp them but at the same time they're intangible. And when my mother tried to ease an explanation out and I would try and fail- and I'd end up so frustrated I would. . well sob. My father thought I was just spoiled— that I was searching for attention. He thought it was pride and— it wasn't. I know pride— I know I love the attention but that's how I know it wasn't pride. Those things made me want to claw my skin off when I touched them— when I tasted them."
Everything feels so far away, even the pain as he threatens to rip his hair from their roots. He doesn't feel the salty wetness fall down his cheeks and onto his clothed knees. He doesn't feel the hand rubbing circles on his shoulder blades. There are not words that can compare to the level of hurt that has been inflicted upon Vincent.
"I just wanted him to see me and be proud of me. To— for once!— go around my rural fucking hometown proud that it's his son on the TV. But you know— fuck that. That's a sin. That's what his son does. Not him. I've always been too bright. I catch eyes too easily and that's just so fucking wrong now— isn't it, Elvis?"
Elvis' breathes in deeply, brow furrowed, and his hand retreats. "No. I can't imagine you anywhere but in front of the cameras. I don't care what your father says— America loves you! Your father is just one man whilst the world waits until you show up on their Television set. I'm glad you didn't listen to him, at least. I'd be really lonely without those eyes glaring at me."
"I'm. ." Vincent's voice fades off and it's clear he doesn't have a singular idea of what to say.
He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't accuse Elvis of calling his father an idiot or stupid. He just tugs on Elvis' sleeve, and falls into his arms. With moonlight slipping into the apartment, by the way of his slightly ajar curtains, like waning tides, Elvis rocks his companion until he sleeps, when the tears finally cease, and his breathing levels.
There, peace settles and sleep resumes. Vincent is okay when Elvis holds him, weighing him back down to the ground like an anchor. He knows he's lost without him and that makes him hold on just that much tighter.