soundtrack: door of our home - goldmund

prompt: 227. starved for affection

.come with nothings

/

and if you're hurting

i will replace the noise

with silence instead

/

In so many ways, Gilbert is just like a child, and an uppity one at that. It's practically a ritual by now – Gilbert will come to his brother twenty minutes before the opening of the ballroom doors, before the halls are awash with dozens of silk dresses and the thick swell of noise upon noise, with that telltale blue ribbon in hand and a look on his face that gives away every bit of abashed pride he tries so hard to swallow down. Vincent will then smile and give a hushed word of greeting before taking the ribbon from that elegant hand – the one with the cigarette burn on his palm, for Vincent knows of Gilbert's mad habits – and stifle a chuckle when Gilbert huffs in frustration, making up some excuse as to why he can't do the smallest of tasks without assistance. It's actually quite funny, that; of all the dangerous, violent things Gilbert has been taught to do over these past few years, he can't so much as tie his hair back without causing a fuss. It's wonderful.

Vincent's fingers work through Gilbert's soft curls, letting them slip over his knuckles with each languid pass of his hands, and briefly wonders if it's even his place to feel anything so soft, anything so lovely. Then again, Gilbert is and always will be his, even if his brother steadfastly reminds him that he is everything but without even having to say a word. It's all in the tightening of his shoulders and the downcast of his eyes as Vincent takes a single step closer, fingertips grazing his scalp as he combs through his hair and gathers it in his hand to gently pull back. Gilbert hisses quietly when Vincent finds a tangle, and he can't help but breathe out a hushed rebuke that isn't so much a scolding as it is a term of endearment. He hears his brother give some huffy, mumbled retort, and it feels just like home.

"So soft," he idly murmurs as he reaches for the ribbon in Gilbert's hand. Gilbert, as usual, says nothing. Vincent supposes that's just fine; he's always grateful for more silence to fill in with praises of his brother's beauty. He could do it for the rest of his life, however short that may hopefully be. "Perhaps you could grow it out longer. Let it fall down your back so prettily, or drape it over your shoulder…"

Gilbert puffs out a quiet laugh, shifting from foot to foot. He does that when he's antsy. "I would look a right fool, wouldn't I."

"No. You would look beautiful." You always do.

The clean line of Gilbert's jaw tightens, but he makes no clear objections. More silence – Vincent fills it the only way he knows how to anymore, the only way he wants to. "It would be much easier to tie back like this, even…ah, and then you wouldn't blush and curse when you couldn't do it yourself and have to come to me for help." Smiling fondly, Vincent winds the ribbon carefully around Gilbert's hair, stray curls springing free in spite of his tries to keep them contained in his hand. "That's not to say that I don't enjoy it when you do come to me for help, though. When you come to me at all…"

Gilbert appears of the mind to respond, judging by the measured intake of breath warranting potential speech – likely even more measured speech, because isn't Gilbert always so careful when speaking to his brother – but he simply bows his head a fraction before resting his palms atop the table, slumped and heavy as if suddenly exhausted from the sheer weight of dealing with this night, with this manor, with Vincent.

Vincent wouldn't blame him.

Finishing off the task with a neat little bow, Vincent tucks a lock of black hair behind Gilbert's ear and surveys his work with a quiet, sleepy smile. He loves it when Gilbert lets him do this, sweeping up those sultry waves so that the graceful arc of his neck is exposed to the eye. Vincent wants to touch it, wants to press his lips to his brother's pulse and relish the fact that after everything they've been through, whether Gilbert remembers any of it or not, he's still alive.

Alternatively, even after Gilbert's heart has been swept away by that vanished master of his, he's still alive with Vincent in this moment, away from prying eyes or hungry women or anyone that so feverishly wishes to tear him away from him. Vincent can't help but wonder what will happen if the Vessalius boy does in fact fall from the heavens and back into his brother's arms, but that's an agony for another time.

"Very nice," Vincent whispers, not making any effort to step away from Gilbert, not while he has him so close. "Brother will have to fend off the women with both arms, looking like this."

"That's no novel occurrence, is it?" is Gilbert's bitter reply. His eyes meet Vincent's in the mirror, lidded and heavy with dreaded boredom. "But I suppose if it keeps them away from you…"

"I don't mind their attentions nearly as much as you do," Vincent replies, but not without a sweet curl of a smile. So fond. He's so very fond of Gilbert in these moments, when he's uptight and tense and desperately needing to be touched. Gilbert would never admit it, not with his stubborn streak, but Vincent can feel it resonating from the tight line of his shoulders and the white flush of his knuckles as he grips the edge of the table, the thin arch of his brow knitted in the faintest trace of an agitation that Vincent, for once, thinks doesn't stem completely from him. A warm swell of sympathy pools in his core at the thought, tinged with a longing that only Gilbert can ever seem to rouse, and Vincent steps closer, resting the point of his chin atop his brother's strong shoulder. "But that's not why you're upset tonight, is it," he says softly.

Surprisingly, Gilbert stays put, his bright gaze bogged down with a nameless sort of grief that makes Vincent's stomach twist uncomfortably. "I'm not…upset."

"Gil."

"I'm not."

But the small waver in his voice tells Vincent otherwise. He truly does know Gilbert inside-out – now if only Gilbert himself would come to accept that. Sighing, Vincent presses himself closer to his brother's back, arms snaking around a firm chest to simply hold him. Gilbert stiffens for a moment before he goes slack and pliant, head bowing low. Why won't you look at me?

"It's not like you to actually let me hold you like this," Vincent murmurs, nuzzling the dip between Gilbert's shoulder blades. "Not that I'm complaining, of course...I've always thought your rarities were just as lovely as your habits…"

"Vince, I'm so tired."

Oh, and there's every bit of perverse sadness dripping from Gilbert's lips now, his voice sounding less like its usual dark velvet and more like fractured glass. That pains Vincent, truly it does, and he briefly contemplates how much lighter of a heart Gilbert will have once this is all over – once Vincent himself is all over.

That, at least, puts his mind at ease a little.

"Then we'll retire to bed early tonight, hm?" Vincent idly presses his lips to Gilbert's cheek, just a brush of a kiss but warm all the same. Gilbert is never too tired to stiffen at Vincent's affections, but at least he's not running away. At least he will never run away, no matter how much Gilbert surely wants to. For this, Vincent presses another light kiss to the curve of his neck, right below his earlobe. "Perhaps you could sleep in my bed, too…it's so much softer than yours, after all. So soft and warm…wouldn't you like that, Gil?"

Gilbert turns his head but a fraction. He's tensing up again. "Vince, that's - "

"You don't have to say it." Vincent admits a laugh that barely rises above a whispered huff. "I knew you would say no, but it doesn't hurt to ask." Especially when you need it so much. I know you do.

"Well, then," Vincent says pleasantly as he turns Gilbert around to face him. His brother's eyes are touched with a drained sort of sorrow that no one but Vincent understands, unlike the powdered-faced women and high-collared men that could never wrap their minds around one as troubled and hazy as Gilbert's. And if his beloved master were ever to return, he would not understand either. Vincent has the most bitter of faiths in that. With this in mind, he strokes absently under Gilbert's chin with the back of a gloved finger, smiling dreamily at him. "Shall we attend the ruckus out there? We can't keep them waiting."

"Why not?" Gilbert asks, the thin arches of his brows upturned and sad; it's such a childish expression that Vincent, were he to look at it long enough, thinks he could very well cry. "I don't care about those people. They're all mindless, all of them. They all just…saunter about like peacocks in pearls and cufflinks. It's horrendous."

There's that edge to his voice again. Vincent's heart beats a bit faster at its return, welcoming it. Instead of speaking, he reaches for Gilbert again and cups his cheek for a brief, quiet moment, anticipating and then relishing that crucial half-second in which Gilbert leans into the touch without thinking before bowing his head and turning away. Yes, the poor dear simply needs to be touched, to be loved. And who better to do that than Vincent, while he is still tangible and here?

"Then take comfort in the fact that you are nothing of the sort," Vincent murmurs, the pad of his thumb stroking just beneath Gilbert's left eye. "Think of other things tonight…like how nice it will be to sleep once it's all done with, yes? Even if not in my bed…"

Gilbert seems to consider responding, but chooses instead to purse his lips and tilt his gaze down to the floor as Vincent drops his hand away from that smooth, pale cheek in favor of lightly touching the man's forearm. It's the tiniest gesture of closeness and yet one that Gilbert needs all the same, regardless of how much Vincent knows he inwardly ignores it in favor of his pride.

"Let's just…get it over with," Gilbert mumbles, turning on his heel and leading the way out of the quiet parlor and into the hall, where the first curls of noise are beginning to seep from under the cracks of the grand ballroom doors. Vincent watches Gilbert's shoulders shift beneath the sleek fabric of his shirt as he reaches behind his head and begins fiddling and fussing with the ribbon keeping his hair back, deep blue against rich black. He's already frustrated with it, and grumbles something about how he looks foolish like this, and it's just going to fall out anyway, Christ.

Vincent doesn't think he's ever loved him more.